As long as grass grows or water runs

The title of this review is a reference to a message sent by President Andrew Jackson to the Choctaws and Chickasaw Indians in the 1830s indicating that, as a friend, he planned to move their people to the Trans-Mississippi West, to “land of their own, which they shall possess as long as grass grows or water runs.”

In 1953, House Concurrent Resolution 108 declared it to be the sense of Congress that it should be policy of the United States government to abolish federal supervision over American Indian tribes as soon as possible and to subject the Indians to the same laws, privileges and responsibilities as other U.S. citizens. This included an end to reservations and tribal sovereignty integrating Native Americans into mainstream American society.

Andrew Jackson’s message was quite contrary to his actions such as encouraging white settlers on Indian land, abolishing the Cherokee government and seizing its lands, and deploying the army to evict the Creek Indians, so that noble-sounding message was never maintained in real life. Still, the House Resolution of 1953 was a shocking reversal of treaties between the Indian nations and the US Government.

In The Night Watchman, Louise Erdrich traces the news of this proposed House Resolution on the Native Americans Turtle Mountain Reservation in South Dakota. The Chippewa Council there is led by Thomas Wazhashk, who earns a living as a night watchman at the jewel bearing plant. In his remaining waking hours, he writes letters to the state and federal legislators and to the local papers.

In the newspapers, the author of the proposal had constructed a cloud of lofty words around this bill — emancipation, freedom, equality, success – that disguised its truth: termination. Missing only the prefix. The ex.

Some readers might wonder why the Indians need reservations and government funding, and Erdrich answers these questions at multiple points in the book. The broken treaties. The Indians who fought for America in wars. The land they were dumped on that is untillable and far from any jobs.

“[Americans] are still using the land”

“Still sing the hell out of it,” said Thomas. “But trying to pretend they didn’t sign a contract to pay the rent.”

In that same jewel bearing plant works 19-year-old Patrice Paranteau, called Pixie by everyone, who is one of Erdrich’s most charming characters. Patrice supports her mother, her younger brother, and sometimes her drunken, occasionally violent father. Erdrich, as always, captures the many complications of life in reservation poverty.

Someday, a watch. Patrice longed for an accurate way to keep time. Because time did not exist at her house. Or rather, it was the keeping of time as in school or work time that did not exist. There was a small brown alarm clock on the stool beside her bed, but it lost five minutes on the hour. She had to compensate when setting it and if she once forgot to wind it, all was lost. Her job was also dependent on getting a ride to work. Her family did not have an old car to try fixing. Or even a shaggy horse to ride. It was miles down to the highway where the bus passed twice a day. If she didn’t get a ride, it was thirteen miles of gravel road. She couldn’t get sick. If she got sick, there was no telephone to let anybody know. She would get fired. Life would go back to zero.

Patrice’s sister Vera is lost in Minneapolis, and Patrice and her mother are worried about her. Both have had dreams of Vera with a baby, and Patrice determines to head out of the reservation to find them — a daunting trip for someone who has never been off the rez, and who has little money.

Many Indian women have gone missing so the reader’s fears for Patrice are founded in reality, and so is Erdrich’s novel. Patrice, though inexperienced and unavoidably naive, is far from a victim: she is tiny, but physically and mentally tough. She is faced with grim situations in Minneapolis — native women kidnapped, sold into prostitution, addicted to alcohol and drugs. There are no simplistic white knights or saviours, but Patrice is not alone: she has the tribe behind her, and some help from Wood Mountain, a high school friend with a little more city savvy.

This may all sound rather grim, but Erdrich wonderfully captures the dark, resigned humour of the Indians (without which, how could they ever have survived?)

“You know any Mormons?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They haven’t got to you. They’ll come around yet. It’s in their religion to change Indians into whites.”
“I thought that was a government job.”
“It’s in their holy book. The more we pray, the lighter we get.”
“I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
“Not that kind of lighter. They think if you follow their ways your skin will bleach out. They call it lightsome and gladsome.”
“They’ll have some work to do on your tough old hide.”
“Yours too.”

There are Indian-loving white men who are captivated by their visions of a demure Indian maiden, and Erdrich gently points out their fallacies as well.

Barnes had seen her fade back into the leaves. She was barefoot. He found that charming.

(In fact, Pixie is barefoot not because of some glorious interaction with nature, but because she removed her only pair of shoes to prevent them getting damaged by the rain and mud.)

The author is sympathetic but clearsighted about Barnes, the white high school teacher and coach. Despite his kindly intentions he finds the Indians completely puzzling. Their reluctance to make eye contact bothers him, and their communications baffle him.

Barnes nodded and smiled as he spoke, trying to catch the mother’s eye. Frustratingly, she shifted her gaze or looked past at him.

This situation was very different from the pictures on the fruit crates and he hoped he was doing all right. It was as though he had entered another time, a time he hadn’t known existed, an uncomfortable time where Indians were not at all like white people.

The sense of the supernatural in Patrice’s dreams is tied to the land around them and the people who have already passed, and is somehow made quite normal and understandable in Erdrich’s telling.

This exquisite novel by Louise Erdrich well deserved the Pulitzer that was awarded in 2021.

[For another take on this book, see Lisa’s review]

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