I Was Wrong About Native Americans
Part 1 ("Yellowstone" references inside!)
The first time I met a Native American was in a screenwriting group in the early ’90s. Marcy Graywing (not her real name, but she had an oh-so-cool last name) was older than me, married, had kids and was proudly Christian. It wasn’t that I couldn’t relate to her because of those things—it was because I had internalized the idea that all Native Americans hated white people.
This notion had been drilled into my psyche by every TV show and movie I’d seen, even today with the popular series Yellowstone. Okay, okay—I understand dramatic license and the need for conflict in storytelling, but boy did Taylor Sheridan exaggerate.
They don’t hate us. At least my new Native American friend doesn’t hate white people.
I met “Dottie” and “Hank” (not their real names) through a Jewish organization called The Chabad. The Chabad welcomes all “homeless” Jews, and anyone genuinely interested in the religion. Dottie and Hank love Judaism. They were raised Christian in their tribal community but became fascinated by the Torah and joined our local Chabad.
I was intrigued for two reasons:
1. They love Judaism—in this climate! (Hank proudly wears a turquoise Magen David —Jewish star— bolero to Torah study every Saturday.)
2. Other than the LA screenwriter, I’d never had the opportunity to personally connect with a Native American.
Here was my chance to find out if Yellowstone was for real.
I had SO many questions and purposely sat next to Dottie at a Torah study class a few months ago, edging out an old guy with a cane who was about to sit down.
I eased into conversation with the usual question—
“You working? Retired?”
Dottie mentioned that she was a medical massage therapist for the Muckleshoot tribe for 25 years, and in her retirement she gives two-hour massages to friends.
I instantly started rubbing my neck as a hint.
After reading that week’s parsha (portion) and discussing the importance of being kind to strangers, I subtly mentioned that I have hypermobility, scoliosis, osteoporosis, degenerative disc disease, and arthritis.
Dottie said I should make an appointment with her. I acted surprised.
“Really? Okay.”
We’re not allowed to use our phones on the Sabbath, so I had to devise a scheme to access her number.
“Dave has my info,” she said, referring to another member.
“Oh, we’re friends on Facebook. I’ll message him.”
I felt sneaky—like I could apply for a job at the FBI.
She squeezed my shoulder and said, “Yeah. You’re tight.”
“I’ve been out of alignment for months. I feel like a Picasso painting. You’re my savior—oops. I probably shouldn’t say that at a Rabbi’s house.”
She chuckled, which was a relief. I didn’t know if this Native American would be serious like Angela Blue Thunder, that overzealous business consultant from Yellowstone.
Phone number obtained, I immediately texted Dottie and made an appointment.
I was SO excited to be invited into her home on the rez (short for reservation but spelled with a “z”). I reminded myself not to make the joke, “What does a Jewish Princess make for dinner? Reservations.” I didn’t want to offend. I thought about the Seinfeld episode I guest-starred in—Jerry makes all kinds of Native American faux pas. It’s funny, but even so, I felt nervous about getting to know Dottie, and even writing this essay.
As I drove toward the town of Enumclaw, I glanced at Google Maps and panicked. I was officially on Muckleshoot land. Was I allowed? Did I need a placard hanging from my mirror that read “Guest Pass for Pale Face”? I looked in my rearview mirror expecting a tribal police car to tail me. A man with long braids would pull me over and ask what business I had on the reservation—emphasizing the full word because I’m colorless and shouldn’t dare say “rez.”
Here’s how the conversation would go:
“Why are you driving here?”
“Uh, I’m headed to Dottie’s house. Maybe you know her. She’s Native American too.”
“You think we all know each other?”
“Dottie was a medical masseuse with Muckleshoot.”
“Oh sure.”
He’d arrest me and take me to Mo Brings Plenty (Chief Rainwater’s Head of Security) for retribution.
No one tailed me. I made it to Dottie and Hank’s house in Enumclaw, which was NOT on the rez.
A carved wooden Jewish star was staked into their front lawn, a tribal flag hung from a tree, and a Trump banner was roped to their fence. Their next-door neighbor displayed a Harris/Walz sign, and the house on the opposite side had Mariners and Seahawks bunting draped over the porch railing.
I thought, Now THIS is an American neighborhood.
Dottie and Hank were warm and welcoming. Their home was comfortable and inviting. Artisan Jewish stars, family photos and tribal art were hung on the walls.
Dottie had transformed a bedroom into a mini spa and proudly told me she painted it herself. I felt like I’d walked into a Hawaiian sunset. The orange, yellow, and purple hues were thoughtfully blended and resembled evening clouds. I was tempted to say, “Ya know hunky actor, Jason Momoa, is a native Hawaiian with a dash of Pawnee,” but thought I should wait at least five minutes before making Native American celebrity references.
Undressed and under blankets with my face planted in the donut-shaped table appendage, Dottie dug into my skin. I wanted to dig into her mind—learn essential facts from a real Native American.
But first, I was curious about her neighborhood.
“Okay, Dottie. Are your neighbors bothered more by the Jewish star or the Trump sign?”
“Neither. We help each other out all the time. They loaned us their mower when ours was busted. During the last storm, their power went out, and they stored their meat in our freezer. We have a generator.”
“We have one to!” I was excited that we both had generators but wondered if I sounded desperate.
Ten minutes into the massage, I was relaxed enough to ask —
“Ever see Yellowstone?” I mumbled the name of the TV show, embarrassed. It would be akin to someone saying to me, “Ever watch Seinfeld? He’s Jewish too.”
She caught it and giggled.
“No. Never saw it. Is it good?”
“We binged,” I said, then explained the conflict between ranch owner, John Dutton and Broken Rock Indian Tribe Chief Thomas Rainwater.
Dottie pressed on a knot in my back. I exhaled and finally asked the question every white person wants to know.
“So do you hate us, or what?”
She casually answered, “Some Native Americans are still angry. Others, not so much. I’m good.”
Then she added, “Guess what? We’re slowly buying back the land. Muckleshoot recently purchased over 96,000 acres of forest.”1
“That’s fantastic.”
She worked on my stiff neck—probably rigid from driving through tribal land. I was surprised Beth Dutton didn’t throw a dead eagle at my windshield.
“What was that strip mall I passed? All those new buildings?”
“Oh, that’s the Muckleshoot urgent care, police precinct, grocery store. It’s all subsidized.”
“Wait, so they’re just for the tribal community?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool. It’s like a kibbutz.”
“It is.”
“How does one get to be in the community? Is there a real REAL ID? ANAC—Authentic Native American card?”
Dottie explained that you have to undergo extensive testing to prove Native heritage.
“I guess Harvard didn’t get the memo when they hired Elizabeth Warren.”
Dottie grumbled at the injustice.
Then I had a big “aha.” “Wait, that means your ancestry is from here—America.”
“Mostly.”
“That’s amazing. Most of us are from other parts of the world.”
Dottie warned me to take a deep breath and kneaded my hip. “Really tight pelvis.”
“Yeah. If were to start a tribe, I’d be the leader of the Psoas. We’re a boney people who need hip replacements.”
Stay tuned for Part 2.
Next week Dottie reveals the dark side of one local tribe and the wildly bizarre fact that kids think Native Americans still live in Teepees!
Meanwhile, a few native celebs in government, books and music…
I have questions for you!
Have you ever met a real live Native American?
What’s your ancestry?
Have you seen Yellowstone? If not, you might be a Native American.
There's a sad story about Jimi Hendrix's Native American heritage. When he was asked how he wanted the artwork to look for his 3rd album Axis: Bold as Love, he said he wanted it to celebrate his "Indian" heritage. The artist painted a typical Hindu style scene, misinterpreting what he meant by "Indian". By the time the mistake was revealed, all the covers were printed and it was too late to do anything about it.
1. Four, including my brother’s adopted son and not counting the lady who sold us delicious fry bread at the edge of a rez in Arizona. I’ve also met five Chabad rabbis, and played a Lubavitcher in the background of a movie. TMI?
2. Ashkenaz, with some S’fard mixed in.
3. Nope. Dances With Wolves was enough Costner western for me.
Oh, and I’ve been reading some of the Rebbe’s letters.