Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“And yes, the dreams of David Rogers have also been murdered. What were his dreams? He dreamed of being an English teacher. He dreamed of marrying. He dreamed of having children, of watching them grow into capable young adults. He dreamed of a nice house, two cars in the garage, and a dog named Fido. He had the same dreams as you and I, folks, the same dreams, and the Indian Killer has taken them away. And who is this Indian Killer?

“He’s a coward, obviously. But he’s more than that, much more. I want to tell you a story, folks. It’s about Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, two of the first missionaries who ever brought God’s word to the Indians. You see, the Whitmans worked with some of the tribes over in the eastern part of the state. Tribes like the Yakama and the Spokane, the Palouse and the Cayuse. But it all seemed to be such a hopeless task. The Indians were Godless people. They were savages, folks. Let’s not deny it. Let’s not pretend to be politically correct. Oh, sure, a few enlightened Indians did convert to Christianity and lived full lives, but their fellow tribal members often butchered them. Most of the Indians refused to listen to the Whitmans. They refused to attend church. In fact, in a combined effort to save the Indians from themselves, the Whitmans and the U.S. Army sent Indian children away from their parents to attend missionary boarding school.

“Now, I know this could sound like a cruel act, but we must remember that the Whitmans were good people with a good purpose. Yet, even though Indian children were given the benefit of a wonderful religious education, they refused to learn. This is a fact, folks. The Indian children would often turn their desks away from the Whitmans and face the back of the room. The Indian children refused to speak English. They refused to give up their superstitions. They continued to practice their primitive religions. What were the Whitmans to do?

“Well, if you remember your history, you will recall that many Indians died of smallpox epidemics in the early days of this country. Smallpox was new to the Indians and they didn’t have any natural immunity. That’s a tragic fact, folks. But many revisionist historians would have you believe that we gave smallpox to the Indians on purpose. Many liberals would have you believe that we used smallpox as a weapon against the Indians. What trash! That’s like saying I’m guilty of assault if you catch a cold after shaking my hand. Am I right or am I right?

“But, back to the point: the Whitmans knew about the Indians’ terrible ordeal with smallpox. They knew about the Indians’ mortal fear of smallpox. For Indian children, smallpox was like the bogeyman. Now, I don’t fully agree with the Whitmans’ next move, but they were desperate. All of their efforts to help the Indians had been foiled time and time again. What the Whitmans did was this: they built a box from scrap wood and painted it black. Now this box was about the size of a hat box. Not too big, not too small. The Whitmans set this box in front of a class full of Indian children and told them it was filled with smallpox. The Whitmans told the Indian children the box would be opened if they refused to pay attention to their lessons.

“Yes, I know it was a hard thing for the Whitmans to do. They must have been tortured by their decision to use the box in that manner. But it provided much-needed discipline. The Indian children began to learn. They paid attention. If we only had such discipline today, we might not be graduating kids who cannot read, count to ten, or dissect a frog. Of course, the Indian children were not terribly bright, but the Whitmans persevered. Soon, the Indian children had learned enough valuable lessons to go back to their tepees and try to teach their parents, too. This is where the trouble started. The Indian parents were shocked by their children’s knowledge. The Indian children were growing beyond their parents, and their parents couldn’t stand it. They rose up against the Whitmans and slaughtered them. Marcus Whitman was tied to a tree and burned alive. Narcissa Whitman was raped by hundreds of Indian warriors before she died of fright.

“It’s all true, folks, you can look it up. Now, what does this all mean? I know you want to know, and you know that I have the answers. You see, those Indians refused to be helped, even when evidence of their children’s progress was placed in front of them. Those Indians responded in the only way they knew how to respond: with violence. And now it’s happening again. Despite all that we have done to help the Indians, they have refused to recognize it. They have refused to recognize how well we have educated them, how well have we fed them, how well we have treated them. To this day, they have responded to our positive efforts in the only way they know: violence.

“This Indian Killer is merely the distillation of their rage. He is pure evil, pure violence, pure rage. He has come to kill us because we have tried to help him. He has come to kill us because his children have moved beyond him. He has come to burn us at the stake. He has come to violate our women. When the Indians attacked the Whitmans, that missionary couple refused to fight back because they were pacifists. They died as honorably as they lived. But no matter how honorable they were, they died horrible deaths. We cannot allow this to continue. We must defend ourselves, our families, our homes. We must arm ourselves and repel further attacks on our great country. I regret to say that many white people stood back and did nothing when Marcus and Narcissa Whitman died. Ten years from now, when people ask you what you did when the Indian Killer was attacking, what will you say? A hundred years from now, when your grandchildren read about the Indian Killer, what will the history books say about you?”

AARON FLOPPED ON THE living room couch and screamed loudly.

“What the hell was that about?” asked Sean, trying to study at the desk in the living room. In the secondhand recliner, Barry sat and read the latest Tom Clancy novel.

“Let’s go fuck somebody up,” said Aaron.

His roommates ignored him. He got up from the couch and turned the radio up to a painful volume.

“I’m trying to study,” said Sean, whose soft, serious face contrasted sharply with his muscular body.

“It’s Truck time,” said Aaron as he tuned the radio to KWIZ. Sean pretended not to hear Aaron, but Barry threw his paperback across the room. Truck spoke. That was how David Rogers’s brother and roommates learned about the latest murder. Less than twenty minutes after they heard the news, Aaron and Barry were in downtown Seattle beating an old Indian named Lester, while Sean sat in the back seat of Aaron’s Toyota 4Runner and watched it happen. The old man wrapped his arms around his head and lay on the ground while Barry kicked him. The three white boys hadn’t even bothered to wear their ski masks this time. But Aaron’s face was so contorted with rage he looked like a different person.

“Get up, you fucking squaw!” shouted Aaron. He had a bloody nose from a wild haymaker. Lester, who had won quite a few bar fights in his youth, had managed to land that first punch. After that, Aaron kicked Lester in the groin so hard that he lifted the old Indian out of his shoes. With all the fight kicked out of him, Lester had just fallen to the ground and covered up, hoping they would not send him to the hospital. Living on the streets, he had been beaten quite a few times. It was part of the territory. The cops would be along eventually to break it up. Sometimes a few bystanders jumped into the action and stopped it. With this Indian Killer thing happening, Lester was surprised that this was the first bunch of white guys to jump him. He was also surprised that he had somehow lost his shoes.