A month after I was given an award called “An Indian Living Treasure”,  by the Governor of the state of South Dakota,   I was asked to speak at the Naturalization Ceremony for 25 new Americans at the US District Court in  downtown Rapid City.  Apparently feeling smug about my new status,  and thinking that dead writers are often “treasures”, but living ones seldom are,   I reluctantly accepted the invitation. 
            As I entered the room,  the potential citizens were seated in jury-like seats in front of me looking like this whole impending drama was   an ordeal,  scary and uncomfortable.  They were from places like China, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Mexico,  Russia.   Names like Gonzalez and Grimley,   Silvana and Vladimir were on the applicant sheet.
         I was introduced  by Judge D. as a Crow Creek Sioux Poet, Novelist and Scholar.    The judge said it was her 'great privilege' and that I had been born at Fort Thompson, South Dakota.
           I looked about apprehensively,    I said a few words to them in my tribal language to welcome them:  “Nape ciyuzapi do.  Mitakuyapi,   owasin cante wasteya”.    (I come before you and  shake hands  with a good heart.)
          Then,   what next?
         I was sure they had never read a word of the six or eight books I had written,
       Lining the walls were black and white photos of white male judges who had presided there since 1860.
         I shuffled my notes.    To begin,   I distributed an indigenous map and said “this is what America looked like before it was America. “
       The applicants put the map on their laps and studied it as though they would be given a post-test.
      “ Surely you know,”   I went on,    “ that there are indigenous peoples all over the world,  and up there (pointing) near what is the Canadian border is the Sioux Nation,  called there Dakota, Nakota, Lakota,  Yes.   They are called on this map Santee,  Yankton, Teton.    That indicates the three dialects of our language,”  I explained.
                 I named the nine Indian Reservations in the state,  slowly and carefully.
              “ They make up The  Seven Council Fires of the Sioux Nation.”
            “You know, too, perhaps”,    I went on,     “that a true democracy like ours here in the U. S.  is troubled by the presence of native peoples.”
        The twenty-five potential citizens stared.    They seemed genuinely puzzled.
         Should I mention 30 years of warfare right here where we stand,  the theft of 7 million acres of treaty land,   genocide,  poverty? 
          They looked at me and again at the map. 
           What?  What?    We want to be citizens.
        “It's because”,  I said apologetically,   “ tribes are organized by blood,  by clans, tiospayes,, bands,   not one man-one vote, not individualism,  not equality,  not colonization.
         You know,    former President George Bush has said,   “As Americans,  we are not united by blood…we are not united by religion or geography.  We are united because we are dedicated to freedom.”
           Silence.
           “Obama says it,  too.”
          “But,    American Indians have reason to think carefully about that statement…yes,   very carefully,” I managed,  as the twenty-five began to frown.
            How did I get here? Standing in front of  25 supplicants to America and a hundred of their relatives in seats behind us.
             I plunged on.
        “Now,   you have probably been taught about the civil war,  slavery,  about America's brave fight for independence from England,  a brave and founding epoch,  a landmark for America's marvelous beginning.   Yes?    But you have been taught very little about the cruelty of land theft,  the breaking of treaties,  the cruelty of colonization.”
         “Is that so?”   
          I looked about the room,  the stricken judge,  the little stubby  man from the Order of Elks holding 25 small flags,  the Daughters of the American Revolution representative, who was all of a sudden examining her shoes.    The pre-citizens sat politely.
       I said some more things,  about history,   About the Congressional Act of 1924 that made the Sioux citizens of the U. S.
           “My father….he was a full blooded Santee Sioux….he was in the Army in World War 1 before he was a citizen,”   I told them.  “ Thousands of Indians have fought for this country….this land.”
         I didn't mention that my grandson has been in Faluja,  Iraq,  in the Marines for a nearly a year.     
          I talked about the traits of a Democracy,  the Constitution and then said,  “you know,  in the beginning,  citizenship was just for white males who owned property.  Women could not vote.   Blacks could not vote.  Indians were exempt from the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.
          Now,  though….yes…..we've come a long way.”
         My mouth was dry,  and I felt desperate.
       “ Um-m…..well,  maybe I can tell you a funny little story about the Crazy Horse Monument….you've all been there,    surely,    at the mountain…”   my voice trailed off as though I had asked a question.
        “Everybody goes there….to the monument.”
        An elderly white woman in a long unbuttoned tweed coat,   nodded.    So,  I smiled.
                              ……they say this……
                                “Keyapi:  on the mountain,  Crazy Horse is pointing
                                  to a place 'over there,  where my dead lie buried',
                                 in response to the white man sculptor's question:
                                'where are your homelands.”     Just then,  the
                                 white man made a mistake.   He set the dynamite
                                 under the pointing finger of Crazy Horse and,
                                 accidentally,  he blew the finger  clean off.  Now,
                                in response to the question,  Crazy Horse simply
                                lifts his chin and points with his lips.”

           The twenty-five looked  at me as though I had lost my mind.  
           The judge,  fiddling with her pen,   paled.   The chubby little man from the Order of Elks stood gamely by,   clutching his 25 small American flags ready for distribution,  waiting for me either to implode or  cry.   One by one,   sixth graders from  Riverside School were introduced and they each read their poems entitled “what America means to me.”     Finally,  four elderly white men billed as  “A Shining Democracy Barbershop Quartet”,    marched to the front of the courtroom and sang “God Bless America”.
            Mercifully,  the honor guard retired the flags.

                Later,     the Altrusa Club ladies served refreshments in an anti-room.  One of the coffee servers said,   “I think I didn't get it.   About Crazy Horse….    was he nodding because he didn't want to point?”
             A pale skinny girl with lanky blond hair came over to me with her coffee cup in her hand, introduced herself as the granddaughter of the long deceased  sculptor of the Crazy Horse Monument,  and asked without a smile,   “What did Crazy Horse have to do with ….with…..this?”
        A young man wearing a jacket stamped with the logo US ARMY shook my hand and said,   “I really liked your speech.   I'm from the Philippines,  you know.    I think what you said was very interesting.”    He put on his cap and left without speaking to anyone else,  clutching his citizenship papers.
           One of the sixth graders,  chomping a cookie.   smiled up at me,
         “You did good,”  he said.
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