The Spine of the Land a Truly Graphic Novel

 The Spine of the Land by Jason Krawcyzk with artwork by A. Shay Hahn

The Spine of the Land cover

Author Jason Krawcyzk

Many thank to Dead Sky Publishing and NetGalley for allowing me to preview The Spine of the Land, a historical hicksploitation graphic novel by Jason Krawcyzk with artwork by A. Shay Hahn. I was drawn to this graphic novel by the amazing cover art by Andrew Barr, which shows some kind of giant monster man feasting on flesh above a group of masked men roving among a hill of skulls. The description of the novel as “3:10 to Yuma meets Texas Chainsaw Massacre” also grabbed my attention since it seemed like such an odd pairing. The story is simple and escalates quickly but takes some unexpected pivots and twists along the way. Louisiana is expanding the railroad line through the state, but the project encounters a frightening roadblock: a band of cannibals in the undeveloped backwoods of Louisiana, delaying the project and costing the railroad companies and the state money. The forces attempting to protect the workers have captured one of the cannibals in a bear trap and want to bring him back to his home settlement. However, the governor wants to also offer the cannibals money to move out of the railroad’s way and allow construction on the line to continue. The governor and others involved with the railroad’s construction hire a kindly sheriff along with a crew of other outcasts to escort the cannibal, in a cage, through the backwoods and bayous of Louisiana. Without giving too much away, the story takes some surprising turns as the crew realizes that this might not have been the mission they initially signed up for. This is a quick read, that moves along propulsively as the mission begins and the group of ragtag lawmen move throughout the creepy and ominous backwoods of Louisiana. I really enjoyed the story, as it offers an interesting historical take on the kind of hicksploitation films from the 70s and 80s that can be so disturbing. While the description references Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I was also thinking a little bit about Bone Tomahawk when I read this, as there are some brutal kills throughout this story as the marauding mass of man-eaters attempt to defend their home against encroaching eminent domain. Regardless, any horror fan will get their fill of brutal blood and guts with this edition that really puts the graphic in graphic novel. Recommended!

The Fire This Time: Eddie S. Glaude Jr's America, U.S.A.

 America, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation's Anniversaries by Eddie S. Glaude Jr. 

America, U.S.A. book cover

Author and professor Eddie S. Glaude Jr. 

Many thanks to Crown Publishing and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of the urgent and necessary new book America, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries by Princeton professor Eddie S. Glaude Jr. I read and thoroughly enjoyed Glaude’s book Begin Again about 5 years ago. I found that book, which uses James Baldwin’s works and ideas as a way to examine race and injustice in America in the 21^st century, to be both critical and hopeful in making the case that America has continuously faced issues of racial injustice, but that Baldwin’s writings and ideas can provide useful insight to examine these issues. Glaude never presents the ideas as solutions, but rather uses Baldwin’s life and experiences as like a lens for seeking understanding and contextualizing issues of race, injustice, violence, and inequality that we’ve experienced during the 21^st century. I really appreciated how hopeful the book is while maintaining a critical eye on the injustice. Furthermore, I loved how Glaude revisits Baldwin, using literature, essays, and criticism to explore how other great thinkers and writers have navigated challenging times. I wasn’t necessarily expecting the same thing, but America, U.S.A. takes on an entirely different tone and approach in examining the existential questions surrounding the coming semi-quincentennial (250^th anniversary) of the founding of the country. Nevertheless, like Begin Again, Glaude turns to other writers, thinkers, and activists, as well as the history of other celebrations of America’s founding, to examine how ideas of history and race have been co-opted, revised, or excluded in order to redefine the idea of America. Although this is a challenging and difficult book to read, it felt like the book I needed to read at this time, as I’ve been inundated with images of flags, stars, stripes, and Uncle Sams presented in a celebratory manner that don’t always seem to reflect my own complicated feelings about the country.

Glaude’s writing is clear and dynamic, not overwrought or dense. It’s not the prose of the book that is challenging, and if anything, the challenge and my own struggles with the book are necessary and contribute to a kind of growth and understanding. One of Glaude’s premises is that 250^th celebration of America has been taken over, and with executive orders demanding a fictionalized history that fails to acknowledge the role of racism in the country’s founding, Glaude questions what kind of history and celebration will take place this year. It’s his call to interrogate the past, to reckon with the injustices of slavery that continue to be pushed aside or swept under the rug that plague America, creating a kind of storybook nation that only exists for certain groups of people. To quote spoken word pioneer Gil Scott Heron, this hagiography of history “ain’t no new thing”; it’s been happening since America’s first celebration in 1826, when African Americans couldn’t vote or even petition their representatives, for those who were not enslaved. Glaude examines how America celebrated these varying anniversaries, and how often African Americans and their contributions to the country were often excluded from these celebrations.

Glaude examines the history of these celebrations in Philadelphia, which I found fascinating since I’ve lived in the Philadelphia region my whole life and did not know about some of the events and instances he discussed in the book. Furthermore, it’s important to note that much of Glaude’s analysis examines Frederick Douglass’s seminal speech in 1852 “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?” to further interrogate how history and celebrations of the ideals of America ring hallow. Douglass is an important figure to me. I graduated from the school where Douglass gave his last speech, and when I returned there a few years ago, I was excited to see a statue on campus memorializing not only his speech, but his contributions to society and Pennsylvania in particular. Glaude’s chapters not only present Douglass’s most famous speech as a reminder of how exclusionary the fourth can be, but also as a way to encourage readers to further interrogate history and the symbolism and meanings of what we sometimes take for granted as a day off to spend with friends and family at a barbecue or down the shore. Both Douglass and Glaude remind readers of how the “more perfect union” has failed to live up to its lofty standards set forth in the Declaration of Independence, where its initial lines clearly state that all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, including Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Glaude also presents a story about how Douglass was denied a seat at the centennial dais in Memorial Hall during the centennial celebration in Philadelphia. Apparently police did not believe that a Black man would have anything to contribute to the celebration. Although he was later allowed to enter the exposition, he was never allowed to speak at the centennial celebration. Glaude presents this story to explore how it is emblematic of how African Americans are often silenced or pushed to the side during these celebrations of America, U.S.A. He later notes instances when Dr. King petitioned Kennedy for more recognition of the contributions of Black Americans, but he and A. Philip Randolph only received an invitation to dinner.

It was also fascinating to learn more about the 1926 celebration in Philadelphia. I’ve visited Memorial Hall, and spent time in the Please Touch Museum’s exhibit about the centennial celebration, but I wasn’t really aware of the 1926 celebrations, probably because, according to Glaude, these were plagued by lower interest and attendance and more funding problems, often related to graft and corruption. Nevertheless, as Glaude documents, it provided an opportunity for A. Philip Randolph to speak, which Glaude notes is an interesting choice since Randolph was the President of the Sleeping Car Porters, who helped to organize key Civil and Labor Rights events. The chapters between these “celebrations” focus on interludes, demonstrating key events that continued to represent the conflict between inclusion and exclusion of African Americans in the portrayal of the history of America. It’s fascinating and important to think about the different ways in which American continued to promote its ideals as it grew to be a global power, yet failed domestically to live up to its standards of liberty and justice for some, but not all. There’s much to unpack here, and I learned much from reading these chapters. However, I think that the book also made me feel so many complicated emotions, and that is even more a reflection of how important and necessary this book is today, especially as we approach a “celebration” that feels so dour and funereal. The last few chapters that focus on the last 50 years are fascinating to read, and I could not put the book down. Part of it is that these are the years which I’ve lived through and learned about through experience. It’s fascinating to learn the different battles and conflicts that have emerged and shaped the ways in which history and our own understandings of the country have been shaped and evolved over time. For me, it was important to know the myths and fairytales we tell about the founding of the country are continuing to erode, and that there are many who are interested in continuing to learn more about and reshape the truth we present to students and others. Yet, it’s also disheartening to know that there are many others who wish to grasp onto the myths and fairytales that we learned as children, and that when confronted with the facts of history, continue to pervert the truth and perpetuate the lies, choosing comfort and complacency over the struggles and challenges of learning and change. Glaude’s book is an important book for many people, but I think that this book is especially important for educators and others working with young people. It’s not only important to learn about the complicated feelings about this nation’s history and why “celebrating” it comes with its own complications and contradictions, but it’s also necessary to learn the kind of propaganda war that is being waged by those with positions of authority and voice in our government and media. It’s important and necessary to recognize the kind of whitewashing they intend in bad faith and disinformation they continue to spew about the diversity in America. Glaude frames this battle as one of consensus versus conflict, where over the past century, America has moved to an idea of consensus about the role of African Americans, and this consensus often neglects the more radical or revolutionary voices, who more often than not, reflect the kind of revolutionary spirit that won freedom from England. Again, it’s part of the complex and complicated nature of our country. However, as Glaude notes, Trump has moved from an idea of consensus that presidents from Reagan to Obama exerted about African American history, to one of imposition and erasure. In the past year, the Trump administration has authored executive orders that sought to erase Black, Indigenous, and other non-white voices and contributions from museums, parks, military libraries, websites, and classrooms. Not only is it a way to shape the history that students learn, but, as Glaude notes, it’s a way to indicate who deserves freedom and citizenship in society. Although Glaude ends the book with the annoyingly whiny words of VP Vance, he also ignites a call for resistance and change, to not only reclaim history, but also to continue to push against the untruths and the unserious and unsettling presentation of the storybook version of America, U.S.A.

There’s more that I need to unpack and examine from this book as it really made me experience a lot of different emotions. There’s much to learn from the book, but I wanted to mention Glaude’s references to DuBois throughout the book as well. Glaude not only includes music to begin each chapter, like DuBois did in Souls of Black Folk, but he also shares DuBois’s acknowledgement that the problem of the 20^th century and beyond. DuBois declared that the color-line was the problem of the 20^th century, and Glaude acknowledges that this continues to be a problem in the 21^st century. It’s also important to call attention to Glaude’s references to DuBois, and that DuBois didn’t frame this as a problem of White people or Black people, but rather the division based on skin color and the oppression that results from this division. However, Glaude notes how DuBois’s color-line problem has evolved to the “desperate avoidance of self-awareness- its refusal to know itself fully, and the deadly consequences for people and the world that follow from that refusal. Ours is a time of shattered mirrors.” This line, and the shattered mirror reference from Baldwin at the end of the book, really resonated with me, and I felt like this demonstrated not only Glaude’s scholarship and references, but also his astute analysis at the ways in which the avoidance of race, injustice, and inequality continue to haunt us, leaving our homes with shattered mirrors that fail to reflect who we really are. Highly recommended and important book!  

The Battle of Little Bighorn retold in Tom Clavin's Vengeance

 Vengeance: The Last Stands of Custer, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull by Tom Clavin

Vengeance book cover

Author Tom Clavin

A corrupt government is populated with friends and relations of the president who seem to plunder and take advantage of lax oversight in the bureaucracy. The government displays animosity and weaponizes the military towards a disempowered minority, attempting to silence critics and minority factions that resist attempts at command and control. American society has been torn apart by serious issues of race, identity, and the economy, while politicians and people grapple with the future direction of the country.

Although these events seem like they may be ripped from today’s salacious headlines, it’s really a summary of some of the events that gripped America nearly 150 years ago 1876, as America grappled with westward expansion and removing the indigenous plains Indians from their roaming ways and proposing a more farmer like existence for these nomadic people. Tom Clavin’s excellent new book, Vengeance: The Last Stands of Custer, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull, captures much of the turmoil and resentment that festered between the government and the Plains Indians, resulting in one of the most stunning military defeats in American history.

I’m generally fascinated by this time period, and have read some other books about Indigenous People, but Clavin’s book was one of the more compelling and engaging books I’ve read about the frontier expansion. Maybe because he focuses on three of the primary characters in the Battle of Little Bighorn, Clavin is able to create a story where three distinct individuals collide in a violent fashion in this epic battle of the plains when America was still expanding its western territory, frequently making and breaking treaties. Clavin acknowledges that he’s not the first to write about this battle, and some of the other authors who he references throughout the book have wrote distinct and significant books outlining and analyzing the factors leading up to the battle and its aftermath. However, Clavin likens the story to a myth, where we recount the deeds of epic heroes, seeming to result in tragedy, whether through hubris or ignorance, and learn something new every time we recount the story. Thus, his contributions to this epic battle frame the battle by following the paths of Custer, Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse, and how they all ended up converging in June 1876 on this field in the territory that would become Montana.

I loved how Clavin organizes the chapters to focus on each individual, and he keeps them brief, which kept me reading. The book is organized into 6 parts- The Invaders, The Defenders, The Expeditions, The Searchers, The Avengers, and the Last Stands. Each section focuses on events leading up to the battle, and Clavin’s keen eye for details limits overwhelming readers with too much information about how the Indian Plains Wars against the Sioux especially started. Nevertheless, he provides a fair amount of information to let us know about how Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse eventually came to power, as well as how Custer, a lackluster West Point graduate, leveraged some heroics and bravado during the Civil War to eventually become a general. Through Clavin’s recounting and analysis of the events, it seems like some of Custer’s meteoric rise and bravado created a kind of arrogance that brought about his violent end. Interestingly, I learned that Crazy Horse, while exalted as a great Lakota warrior, also experienced his own downfall in claiming the wife of another man before they were officially divorced. It’s these kinds of little details that provide a broader idea of the decisions and strategies that Custer, Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse may have implemented during other events, giving us a sense of the kind of flawed heroes that our textbooks or high school history don’t always present to us for various reasons.

Clavin not only isolates these individuals but provides some important background in the policies of the US around the time of the Civil War, and how the focus was off westward expansion, during this time. When the war ended, it seemed like there was a large army in need of work and vast lands where gold and other resources were with people looking to move out of overcrowded cities for new opportunities and adventure. This led to threats and attacks on settlers, necessitating the building of forts and protection of the US Army on certain routes, like the Oregon Trail. It was fascinating to learn more about how these events and policies boiled tensions between different plains Indian tribes and the federal government. Along with broken treaties, reduced rations, and disease and illness, readers can also learn how the plains Indians were reduced in numbers and spirit, and yet leaders and warriors like Sitting Bull and Red Cloud arose to challenge the authority of the US government and the great father in DC.

Clavin’s recap of the battle alternates between the US forces, and the divisions of Custer’s men, who split up into separate groups, which ultimately led to their demise, and the warriors who followed Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. Clavin’s even-handed research presents much of the arrogance and mismanagement, including the drinking from Major Reno, and the friction with Captain Benteen, which also seemed to factor into the poor decisions and fractured strategy in this campaign. Although there were no survivors in Custer’s actual group, Clavin referenced other books and the Sioux and Cheyenne survivors who participated and provided accounts of what exactly happened. It presents an important recounting that challenges many of the myths and heroic portraits of Custer that were pumped out as propaganda after the battle. As Clavin notes, Custer was considered a potential presidential candidate and was set to speak in Philadelphia for the Centennial celebration about a week later. However, due to the vast distance and limited reporting at the time, people were unsure of where he was or what happened in the battle. This kind of limited access to information allowed the military and Custer’s widow, Libbie, to reshape the narrative, which ultimately painted Custer as a hero and victim, a view that persisted for many years.

The last section of the book went by quickly, and it moves from the summer of 1876 to the aftermath in the next few years, and how this led to the last stands of Crazy Horse shortly after and Sitting Bull more than a decade later. Clavin also frames this idea of the government and military continuing to seek and harass these tribes for the defeat at Little Bighorn. Sadly, it ends with the slaughter at Wounded Knee, where nearly 300 Lakota people, mostly women and children, were murdered by the military. Clavin notes like Little Bighorn, the limited information available at the time worked to the military’s advantage, allowing them to frame this as another battle like Little Bighorn, but that was ultimately prevented from major military casualties. In fact, there were several commendations and awards given. Tying these events to the present, Clavin notes that there have been recent attempts to rescind these awards and commendations, although the current administration has fought that, despite legislation that has authorized taking these awards away from the unjust murder of hundreds of Lakota women and children.

Clavin has written a compelling and important story detailing the history and facts of a inflection point in American history, one which has been mythologized and used to create a kind of narrative about American exceptionalism while denigrating the role of Indigenous people in American history, and has helped to educate and reframe the narrative. I learned a lot from this book. Furthermore, Clavin’s clear and engaging prose and his focus on the main protagonists in this tragedy, Custer, Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse, creates a compelling story of three flawed men who converge on a hot battlefield in June of 1876. The story still resonates today, and it serves an even more important lesson in understanding the truth in history, and how events can be twisted and propagandized to either avoid accountability or to create American heroes. This is a really important and engaging read. Highly recommended! Many thanks to St. Martin’s Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Tom Clavin’s latest historical book Vengeance: The Last Stands of Custer, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull. 

Examining Identity and Disability in 19th Century Performers: Currencies of Cruelty

 Currencies of Cruelty: Slavery, Freak Shows, and the Performance Archive by Danielle Bainbridge

Currencies of Cruelty book cover

Author and scholar Danielle Bainbridge

Many thanks to NYU Press and NetGalley for the advanced copy of Danielle Bainbridge’s critical and thoughtful examination of the intersection of slavery, disability, and performance in Currencies of Cruelty: Slavery, Freak Shows, and the Performance Archive. This was a challenging yet rewarding read for the insight and voice it provides to several performers during the period of enslavement and the antebellum period that followed, with most of the focus centered on an amazing woman, Mille-Christine McKoy, whose conjoined body was promoted as one individual, who was two different people, or as Bainbridge notes their tombstone reads “a soul with two thoughts. Two hearts that beat as one.” This was a fascinating book that explored the extraordinary life of Mille-Christine McKoy and raised questions about her life where she was born into slavery, and how her disability afforded her status and opportunities to develop a voice. However, Bainbridge’s research and analysis into Mille-Christine’s life identifies that this wasn’t always as straightforward as historical archives might suggest, which raises further lines of inquiry into the nature and subjectivity of the recorded history and artifacts that researchers like Dr. Bainbridge encounter. I wasn’t expecting this line of questioning in the book, and it’s something that I will need to revisit and grapple with, especially since the last chapter that deals with texts and performances that descend from these archives and voices, both aural and silenced. Nevertheless, Dr. Bainbridge identifies gaps and areas in the archives where Mille-Christine’s voice(s) are mostly absent, and questions whether her performances are celebrations of her talent or exploitation of her enfreakment. Dr. Brainbridge’s research explores how earlier exploitation of Mille-Christine on stage as a girl led to her ability to reset the parameters of her performance, and to develop further skills including singing, dancing, and talking simultaneously in different languages, to further her individuality and humanity. Nevertheless, these performances were conducted under ownership, and despite her status as free after the Emancipation Proclamation, her prior enslavers as well as others sought to control Mille-Christine’s personhood. Dr. Bainbridge presents court cases and other letters from the Freedman’s Bureau sent on behalf of Mille-Christine’s parents that argued for her return to her family. Furthermore, Dr. Bainbridge compares Mille-Christine’s challenges to her autonomy and performances to other individuals who were often exhibited and exploited during the 19^th century before and after slavery including Chang and Eng Bunker, probably the most well-known conjoined twins, Joice Heth, the supposed nurse of George Washington, and Blind Tom Wiggins, a pianist and composer who possessed an incredible gift for music. In all of these cases, we see how exhibitors often exploited these individuals due to their uniqueness. I also found it interesting that Dr. Bainbridge notes how many of them served as symbolic representations for America as the question of slavery gradually ripped the country apart. Both the McKoys and the Bunkers conjoined status was often mentioned in the context of uniting the country together while Joice Heth, who was not nearly as old as PT Barnum claimed, served as a reminder of the beginning of the country. Furthermore, we see that this kind of exploitation and misrepresentation not only occurred in their lives, but often after death as well when Heth was publicly autopsied for paying customers and the Bunkers were cast after death, with their bodies, organs, and casts on display at Philadelphia’s Mütter Museum. Throughout Dr. Bainbridge’s book, there is a call for the respect and humanity these individuals deserved and often did not receive in life and after their deaths.

I also appreciated Dr. Bainbridge’s reflections on visiting the Mütter Museum, a museum I’ve been to a few times and actually took students on a field trip there (our school was a few blocks from the museum) to see an exhibit on presidential health. While I find the museum fascinating, I also find it to be a deeply disturbing place. Dr. Bainbridge’s reflection on her reflection was a great point to consider our own interests and fascination with difference, disability, and death, and it’s something that has stuck with me since reading the book. Overall this was a fascinating and thought-provoking book. Dr. Bainbridge’s questioning of historical archives and positing that they are future perfect, or rather always looking to shape the future by describing the past, kind of reminded me of School Teacher’s admission about the definitions belonging to definers in Morrison’s Beloved. Dr. Bainbridge’s deep and detailed questioning of the archives not only raise questions about the nature of power and voice in historical analysis, but they also led her to create her own performance and short film about Mille-Christine’s life, and compare her own production to other works that use archival material as a means to elevate new voices to the historical record. This is especially important since performers like Mille-Christine, the Bunkers, Blind Tom, and Joice Heth mostly were denied a voice being both people of color and people with disabilities, identities that intersected and provided them unique public exposure, yet also predetermined their identities. The last chapter on aural fugivity in these works was also interesting and left me wanting to read these poems (Olio and Zong!) and watch Dr. Bainbridge’s short film Curio, which was adapted from her stage production. I enjoyed reading about her process and ideas for creating the stage performance and then adapting it into a short film and consider the kinds of production changes she needed to make. Furthermore, I liked reading about how her work was inspired by and connected to the poems Olio and Zong!, inspiring me to seek out these texts.  While this chapter differed from the other more historical-based chapters that analyzed the archival materials related to Mille-Christine’s life, I think it showed how artists and scholars can use archival work to provide voice and humanity to the forgotten and misunderstood. Furthermore, it emphasizes the importance of not just aurality, but also silence, and how meaningful silence and the absence of voice can be when examining texts and archival materials. In fact, Dr. Bainbridge’s work will make me listen closer for the silences and pay more attention to the absences, since it’s not always what is written, but often times what is missing or hidden that adds additional meaning. Although this is a challenging read and a scholarly text that not only analyzes history but also theorizes about voice and identity in archives, it is a rewarding read that will challenge our thinking about history, archival materials, and identities, especially the identities of those with disabilities. Highly recommended!

Reverential References in Stephen Graham Jones's The Buffalo Hunter Hunter

 The Buffalo Hunter Hunter 

by Stephen Graham Jones

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter book cover

Author Stephen Graham Jones

Blackfeet Indians at Sun Dance

Thank you to Saga Press and NetGalley for allowing me to read and review a copy of Stephen Graham Jones’s new book The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. I’ve read a few other books by Stephen Graham Jones, and my favorite was The Only Good Indians, mostly because it reminded me of a few other books I’ve previously read. While My Heart is a Chainsaw also wore its influences on its pages, I felt like it was almost too referential and the allusions became a little too much for me. It is a creative book, but the continuous references to slashers took away from the story for me. Thankfully, this new book has plenty of historical and literary allusions, but also tempers them so that they do not overwhelm the characters and the plot. In fact, I felt like this was a highly creative and compelling story where Graham inhabits the minds and personas of two very different characters. I also enjoyed the frame narrative that Graham employs to tell his story, using the discovery of a manuscript from the early 20^th century to set the story in motion. Etsy Beaucarne, a professor of communications, received a manuscript of her ancestor, Arthur Beaucarne, a Lutheran minister in Montana, who recorded his interactions and the confessions of Good Stab, an Indian in the town. While I’ve read some reviews that compared this kind of story within a story to Frankenstein and even Dracula, where the log of the Demeter essentially tells the story of what happened on the boat, I actually thought the framing was reminiscent of Heart of Darkness. However, we learn about Arthur’s story and experiences through his journal, but we also learn about Good Stab’s background and history, as well as his confessions through his own recounting to Arthur. This kind of structure creates some unreliability, but also allows us to see the events from different perspectives, especially since many history texts have left out the perspectives of Indians and Indigenous People. Good Stab is somewhat mysterious, and seems to unnerve Arthur initially, but Arthur also seems to be harboring some secrets of his own and doesn’t seem to completely fit into the town. He’s not only different, but some of the men make fun of him. In some ways, he finds a fellow outcast in Good Stab, an Indian on the periphery of the town, near where buffalo were nearly hunted to extinction and a massacre of the Pikuni Tribe previously occurred. Through this framing of the Beaucarne Manuscript as both a journal and a confession, Graham Jones is able to draw some initial parallels between the characters of Arthur and Good Stab. However, as we learn more about Good Stab’s story and origins as a Nachzehrer (I had to look this German word for a folkloric spirit that can drain the life from the living—almost like a vampire in Graham Jones’s novel) or catman, we will eventually learn more about the secrets that Arthur Beaucarne is hiding.

Both Beaucarne and Good Stab have unique voices, and Graham Jones effectively established characteristic differences between the two. However, I found it a little hard to adjust to their different styles at first. For one, Beaucarne writes like an educated member of the upper class from the late 19^th/early 20^th century. I found myself a little lost at times in his musings and observations about the town and Good Stab. As the story picks up and we learn more about both characters, I think I warmed to his peripatetic thoughts, but it takes some adjustment. Nevertheless, Graham Jones authentically re-creates this kind of narrator. I found Good Stab, on the other hand, more entertaining and endearing. His story about transformation from a Pikuni whose family is in the Sandhills (the afterworld) into a creature somewhat like a Vampire is incredible. Graham Jones uses literal names from the Pikunis (I think) to name animals. For example, Good Stab talks about Long-legs, swift-runners, and Blackhorns. It took me some time to figure out what these animals were, but I really enjoyed that kind of language use. It reminded me a lot of Achebe’s use of Igbo in Things Fall Apart. I also kept coming across the word napikwan, which sounded familiar. This is where I realized the similarities with James Welch’s book Fools Crow, which retells the story of the Marias Massacre and how white settlement (or colonizing) preceded this massacre of innocent Blackfeet Indians. In many ways, Good Stab is somewhat like the main character Fools Crow, who also undergoes a renaming and transformation, mostly due to his stories and exaggerations. I felt that Good Stab also exaggerated, but we also learn that there is truth to his stories. Furthermore, we learn that there is also a connection between both Graham Jones’s and Welch’s novel in that the Marias Massacre plays a part in both books. If you have the opportunity to read the Acknowledgement section, make sure you do. Graham Jones talks about visiting Welch’s house and sitting at his desk, which I thought was really amazing giving that the books both memorialize this massacre, giving voice to the dead, and trying, in some ways, to bring the dead back to life.

I’m not completely sure that Good Stab is a vampire, a Nachzehrer, or a Cat Man, but whatever he is, I can see how his ability to live forever is both a blessing and a curse. He’s able to continue to tell his story and recount the atrocities he’s witnessed as settlers continued to overtake the land of the Blackfeet. However, he also has to rely on others to sustain his lifeforce. One of the more interesting and creative twists on this story is the rules that Graham Jones creates for this kind of vampiric creature. I loved how the creature took on the qualities of what is was feeding on. For example, Good Stab noticed that as he was drinking the blood of trappers, he began to grow a beard and his hair color changed. When he drank the blood of animals, like long-legs, he grew antlers. This was a really cool element of the story, and it took the trope of a vampire in a new direction. I also enjoyed that this was also like a revenge story, where Good Stab was pursuing vengeance, not only for his transformation, but also for his people. In some ways, this part reminded me of the excellent film Ganja and Hess, which is also a unique interpretation of the vampire myth. Good Stab is not completely heartless, and he feels some guilt for some of his victims. He also ends up taking care of a buffalo calf named Weasel Plume. This showed that Good Stab was a complicated character, who was capable of both kindness and violence; yet his violence was also a result of his changed nature and interactions with white society. There’s a lot to think about and consider with this book.

In addition to being a historical vampire story that deals with a real-life massacre of Blackfeet Indians, there’s also a mystery happening in the town. The townspeople are ending up murdered in horrific ways. I enjoyed this mystery, and Graham Jones’s descriptions of the deaths are inventive, yet gruesome. For a horror fan, this is a highlight of the book. Furthermore, Beaucarne is haunted by some of these murdered people he has encountered, and he’s trying to understand how he’s connected to these murders.

The ending of the book comes back to the modern day, when things return to Etsy Beaucarne. I also liked her character, even though she’s limited to the beginning and the end. The last part of the book is interesting, but I also felt like it was tonally different from the other parts of the book. Nevertheless, there’s some humor and absurdity that is balanced with the idea of history and tradition and enabling a voice to emerge from the past that was mostly suppressed.  I loved that Good Stab could continue to tell his tale and celebrate his people for his long life. As I was getting towards the end, I also realized that Beaucarne’s name translates to “Good Meat”, which is also something interesting to think about with his character and this book. Although the book is a little long and some of the Beaucarne sections dragged a little with maybe a too-realistic portrayal of a 19th-century clergyman’s observations, it was a creative and compelling book that also tackles issues of culture and violence, as well as assimilation and history. This may not be a book for everyone, but I definitely enjoyed it. 

Examining Dostoyevsky's Influences and Influence: Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death

 Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death: or Language Haunted by Sex by Julia Kristeva (translated by Armine Kotin Mortimer)

Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death book cover

Author Julia Kristeva

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Thank you to Columbia University Press and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Jula Kristeva’s historical, biographical, and critical analysis of Dostoyevsky’s work Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death: or Language Haunted by Sex. I read this book over two separate times, and stepped away from it for a bit, only to finish it about a month or so later. I was initially attracted to this book for a few reasons—one was that I love Dostoyevsky’s books and stories. It’s been a while since I’ve read anything by him, but one of the best experiences with reading a book for a class was when I took a World Literature course and read Crime and Punishment. The course required us to not only read the text, but read other critical and biographical essays about the text, and write and discuss these texts regularly. I found that this enabled new and deeper insights into the book, the characters, and the tools and language Dostoyevsky used. In many ways, Kristeva’s book is a lot like taking a course on Dostoyevsky. She presents key insights into the language he used, emphasizing how particular word choices reflect important ideas or concepts that Dostoyevsky was conveying. She also provides important biographical details, framing them frequently in a Freudian perspective. Since taking that class in college, I’ve read some of the other books that Kristeva mentioned, but I feel like my experience with this book would have been enhanced with a more recent recall of the events, characters, and details from these texts. Nevertheless, this book provides some interesting interpretations and considerations for one of the most important writers from the 19^th century. I also liked how in the latter half of Kristeva’s book, she kind of frames Dostoyevsky as influencing more modern writers and texts. She frames his work by directly connecting other writers, artists, and movements in literature and science. In particular, she explores his connections to poets like Baudelaire and thinkers like Nietzsche and Freud. I remember reading an essay about Brothers Karamazov that references connections with Nietzsche (it may have also been Crime and Punishment), but it wasn’t a connection that I had thought about in more depth. And like Freud, I can see how a writer like Dostoyevsky pushed boundaries and questioned elements of society with his writing. The other element of the book that excited me was that it was by Kristeva. I had never read anything by her, even in college. In fact, it was only a few years ago that I came across her ideas and writing from reading Viet Thanh Nguyen’s The Committed, in particular her ideas about abjection. I found those sections in Nguyen’s book to be some of the most challenging, yet engaging parts. The idea of abjection as a reaction to horror made a lot of sense, especially considering the horror and trauma that continues to exist in the world. Kristeva applies these ideas to Dostoyevsky’s writing as well, considering not only the murder, patricide, and suicide that occur, but also other horrors that were a part of many of Dostoyevsky’s texts. I really forgot about some of the violence that occurred, and often looked at these events as more like symbolism than with any kind of sense of abjection. There are sections in the book that deal with sexual assault and violence as well, so be warned that this book takes a dark look at his work. However, Kristeva goes beyond literary theory and takes an interdisciplinary approach at many of the texts, examining common themes found across many of Dostoyevsky’s works through lenses like psychoanalysis, language, history, art, and biography. For me, some of the most fascinating analyses were focused on religion and examining how the Orthodox church and its ideas about God, the father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit were explored and examined in Dostoyevsky’s work. It was also interesting to learn how different this concept was from the trinity that is believed by many Catholics, and how some of Dostoyevsky’s work may have been critical of this belief in a kind of co-equal trilogy. Kristeva also examines her own personal connections to Dostoyevsky’s literature and oeuvre. This was another interesting section to read since I didn’t know much about her life. However, I think that those sections that explore language use and the kinds of similarities with other 19^th century thinkers like Nietzsche and Freud were probably my favorite parts of the book.

While this book has a lot to consider, it is a challenging read, and not necessarily a book that anyone could pick up and start reading. Readers should have some familiarity with Russian literature, especially the works of Dostoyevsky. Someone who has recently read some texts by him would probably enjoy this book even more. I read a few reviews that suggested that this book was like taking a class with a kind of free-associating professor, and at times, I found that to be true as well. There were some sections where I had to go back and re-read her connections to better understand how Kristeva was moving from one idea to the next. However, I also found this to be one of the strengths of her writing, and at times, her writing (or at least the translation by Mortimer) was elegant and poetic. Kristeva definitely has a unique and uncompromising voice, and her analyses and broad, interdisciplinary approach to unlocking ideas related to Dostoyevsky is confident and detailed. 

A History of Injustice: Implications for Education in Eve Ewing's Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism

 Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism by Eve Ewing

Original Sins book cover

Author Eve Ewing

Braiding Sweetgrass as a metaphor for teaching and learning

Fort Marion in St. Augustine, Florida- Originally a prison for Native People

“The concept that schools are complicit in the maintenance of a bad thing is contrary to the most basic idea that supposedly animates education in the United States. We are told that schools are supposed to be places that inculcate fairness, where our life outcomes are tied to our individual efforts. But, on the contrary, schools have been shaped by the same ideas that drove European colonists to stake property claims on faraway Indigenous lands and the ideas that shaped the formation of the Middle Passage. These original sins did not take place in a discrete moment of time; they linger, they fester, they grow and morph and change. They persist and persist and persist. They shape the tenor of our public discourse, the architecture of our buildings and towns and neighborhoods, the stories we are told, and the schools to which we send our children.”- Eve Ewing, from the Introduction to Original Sins. 

 Big thanks to Random House Publishers and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of Eve Ewing’s incredible and necessary book Original Sins: The (Mis)education of Black and Native Children and the Construction of American Racism. I’ve had Ewing’s other book about school closings in Chicago on my to-read list for a long time, so I was really glad to be able to read this book prior to publication. Ewing’s book is brimming with ideas and insights about education in America—some of them are new, many of them are challenging, while others take some previous concepts and thinking about the purpose of American schools and challenge them to view schooling and education from a colonial perspective, with a particular emphasis on eliminating the culture of Native and Black children and families. That is, education is used as a technology to “civilize” non-white minorities, but with the further intent on capitalizing (or making money) on their land and bodies. Ewing’s thesis is based on extensive history, finding examples and citing them through footnotes. As an educator, I was familiar with some of the arguments Ewing makes about the purpose of school. Is our educational system a ways to socialize new immigrants and have them assimilate into white, European behaviors and ideas? Are our schools merely factories that replicate the work expectations of 20^th century industrial America? Do schools merely reproduce inequality and social capital, providing advantages to those families with greater social capital? However, what is novel about Ewing’s perspective is how schooling is tied into the kind of colonial capitalism that was furthered by land displacement in the 18^th and 19^th centuries and slavery, both original sins of America. She argues that rather than thinking of American education as the great equalizer that provides opportunities for upliftment, schools are a site of replication of a the inequalities and used a technology to control (or “civilize”) Native and Black children. Thus, it’s probably safe to say that this book will not be a part of Moms for Liberty’s book club, nor will Florida makes this required reading for incoming teachers, which is really a shame because Ewing’s arguments and critiques come at an important time for education and teachers in general. As she documents from her own experiences as science teacher in Chicago, sometimes teachers with good intentions often further the kinds of inequalities or messages about control and inadequacy that has been a part of most American education since its start.

Although Ewing’s book is replete with scholarly sources and research, she also makes it accessible by looking for modern equivalents and making the examples and ideas relevant to today’s teachers. I also appreciated her historical perspective that moves in a chronological timeline, but also tackles issues in education from the different, yet related experiences of Native and Black students. Her chapters start with the founding of America, and how historical figures like Thomas Jefferson promoted ideas about racial inferiority to develop and maintain the system of chattel slavery. Furthermore by promoting an exclusive idea of education that focused primarily on classical education, mathematics, and history, American schools also became sites of exclusivity and elitism, where education was mainly offered to rich, white families, and the occasional top white student from a regional area. I really appreciated learning more about the evolution of American education, and in particular the views and ideas that Jefferson promoted. Furthermore Ewing notes how Indian boarding schools developed, mainly from a prison in Florida that relocated some Indigenous People who rebelled against their forced relocation. This was interesting to me because I just read about Fort Marion in Tommy Orange’s book Wandering Stars. As Ewing notes, the attempts to “civilize” Indigenous People began in a prison where the philosophy was “kill the Indian, save the man”, as well as other sentiments like “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” American schools have continued to perpetuate this ideas in various ways, both intentionally and unintentionally. Ewing’s organization, moving from the history of slavery and dispossession to the segregated schools and Indian boarding schools, eventually leads to modern applications of control and attempts to “civilize” through education. As someone who has worked in education for my entire career, I’m familiar with some of the attempts to “control” that Ewing describes in her chapters about school. She recounts a personal experience about her school’s attempts to “scare students straight” by taking a field trip to the local jail, not considering the experiences of students whose parents and relatives have been incarcerated. Whether justly or not, this kind of experience, confronting the loss of a family member, is sure to hit students hard, especially those who might not have the emotional vocabulary to grapple with this kind of loss and confrontation. I know that my former students who had relatives who were incarcerated didn’t really talk about it, and often struggled to really articulate their feelings, which were most likely complicated and deep. I also didn’t know much of what to say, not always aware of their experiences. Nevertheless, Ewing’s alternative field trip to view a documentary provided a better alternative for her students, and one that didn’t necessarily come with a emotional toll. She also explores the school to prison pipeline, noting how this unjust phenomenon has become more and more a part of the discourse on education of minority students, especially as we learn how they are more likely to face time out of school due to suspensions and other disciplinary actions that white students typically do not face at similar rates. As I read these sections, I was reminded of Monique Morris’s excellent and important book Pushout that examines the unfair treatment of Black girls in schools. Ewing explores similar injustices and biases in schools, especially how Black children often face adultification, where whites typically view behaviors and actions of Black children as older. These kinds of biases lead to different treatment, not only in schools, but also in the justice system. I was unfamiliar with this term, but I can see how it happens in many schools, and how it leads to a lack of second chances or opportunities when Black children make mistakes. Ewing also explores how often programs and teaching methods are implemented for Black children that do not allow for any kind of autonomy or free expression. Rather, methods like SLANT (sit up, listen/lean forward, ask questions, nod your head, track the speaker) are reinforced in many schools to promote an attention control for many minority students. I was so glad to see pushback on Doug Lemov’s Teach Like a Champion, which was a popular book at a school where I taught. While there are some useful strategies and suggestions, much of the book operates on a deficit approach of students, assuming that they lack any kind of willingness or initiative to learn, and as a result, they need to be trained to follow these behavioristic methods. Ewing’s critique was validation of those who believe that all students have the right to autonomy and how important that kind of autonomy and creativity will be in their future careers. Even though this critique was brief and succinct, I really appreciated reading it.

Other instances of control focused on more choices of personal expression, especially around important characteristics like hair, where I feel like there is always a story about a student being forced to cut their locks or afro. As Ewing noted in earlier chapters, this was often one of the first steps taken at Indian boarding schools, where children were shorn like animals, with little regard for the cultural significance of their hair or for their own feelings or personal autonomy. Ewing references Foucault’s theory of discipline and punishment to explore how the control of the body seeks to also alter the soul. As sad as it is, I agree with her analysis in many of the instances of school where the emphasis is on discipline and “no excuses” that largely seek to control behavior or shape behavior into what is the expected learning standards, at least from a white perspective. There’s no real consideration for learning styles that might vary or be different, that emphasize a sense of the collective group as opposed to individual responses. While there have been some shifts away from these no excuse schools and incorporation of more culturally relevant pedagogy, that need to control students’ bodies still exists and plays a significant role in shaping their education.

The conclusion of the book presents some ways to move forward and heal, presenting ideas of solidarity and acknowledgement of the hurt and harm both Native and Black people have endured and possibly inflicted upon one another. I loved this section, as Ewing presents a theory of not only unity, but also resilience. She also affirms the idea of thriving and how building on that kind of solidarity helps to facilitate thriving, rather than looking at blame or victimhood as a kind of zero sum game. In particular, she emphasizes an ethic of care, which I have always tried to make a part of my pedagogy. I loved that she brings this idea to addressing the kind of injustices that Native and Black students have faced in order to move forward and thrive. She couples this ethic of care with the collective struggle, in that we work together towards a common end, recognizing our similarities over our differences. Again, I loved this idea, and I think it is important to look towards commonalities as opposed to differences. Ewing’s ideas reminded me of the kind of collective struggle that the Brazilian educator Paulo Freire advocated when he likened education to a road that we make by walking. The idea was that our experience and knowledge help to create the path, and that we collective make our way on a shared journey. This is really important because it seems like education is too often viewed as a precious commodity or a finite resource, allowing others with the means to take more than is needed. It’s important to recognize that education is a right, and that all people should have this right. In other sections, Ewing’s ideas about the kind of revolutionary changes needed for school reminded me of Davidson’s ideas about institutional unlearning, even making the case for abolishing school in order to create a new educational institution that meets the needs of all learners and operates under more fair and just precepts. Ewing’s final metaphor is to liken teaching and learning to braiding, which is an important practice to both Native and Black cultures. Furthermore, the idea of braiding is seen as a kind of communal act that brings us together, strengthening our bonds. I thought that this was such a great metaphor or symbol to use. I kept thinking about a recent visit to the Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii where we learned about the different cultures of the islands in Polynesia. In Tahiti, we learned about braiding grass fronds, and my kids were so interested in the process. It seemed so natural and common to the Tahitians working there, but it took us some time to learn the process of hooking the two pieces together to create a kind of strong bond. Ewing uses a great quote from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, which is the third time I’ve come across this book in the past 2 months. I can see how Kimmerer’s idea of braiding, not just the product, but the process and the community involved, would be a great way to consider teaching and learning, and how these two ends can be tied closer together when we focus more on commonalities and communities. Eve Ewing’s book Original Sins is a very important book that is necessary for new teachers to read, but also important for others involved in caring and education, especially parents and other stewards of communities. She not only raises awareness about the unjust history of how capitalism stole bodies and land, and how schools and education were complicit in furthering this kind of theft, but she also explores how current practices in schools have been influenced by these injustices. This book is rich with details and explores research and ideas from Native and Black scholars, adding an integral perspective that is not always given the kind of amplification it needs. I loved how Ewing challenges popular perceptions of schools as the great equalizer, bringing history, statistics, and anecdotes to challenge this myth of meritocracy, and to share how not everyone shares the same kind of educational experiences. I highly recommend this book as an important text for anyone involved in education or community work. 

Re-Memory in Historical Fiction Spanning 100 Years: Angie Elita Newell's All I See is Violence

 All I See is Violence by Angie Elita Newell

All I See is Violence book cover

Author Angie Elita Newell (photo credit Ross McLeister)

Thank you to Greenleaf Book Group and Netgalley for allowing me to read a preview copy of Angie Elita Newell’s fierce and compelling novel All I See is Violence. The story features several different narratives that span nearly 100 years, yet are interrelated. The novel starts out with Nancy Swiftfox’s story, introducing us to her struggles as the wife of an incarcerated man trying to work as a professor and raise her four sons with the help of her father-in-law, George Swiftfox’s father. We also learn that they live on the Rosebud reservation, and it is in the mid-1970s when Dick Wilson’s goon squad reigned terror on the reservation. Nancy and George’s oldest son, Timothy, is a Vietnam veteran who returned from the war with the loss of an arm and some undiagnosed PTSD. To further complicate their relationship, Timothy’s father has been locked up for some time while Nancy works in a college nearly 3 hours away. Timothy seems to have latched on to members of the AIM (American Indian Movement), the group that Dick Wilson’s violence sought to counteract in Rosebud. While both Nancy and her father-in-law grow increasingly concerned about Timothy’s well-being, he ends up traveling with the group of AIM members that occupied the Federal Bureau of Indian Affairs in DC. Although seeming to make a statement, the real events had limited impact on policy, and Timothy returns to Rosebud dejected, angry, and further upset that his mother has found a new love interest with a white colleague at the college, Joshua. Newell not only establishes the complications of the main characters, but also paints a rather bleak winter setting on the reservation homes, as Nancy and her children battle rats and poor living conditions. Furthermore, Newell also uses real events and figures from history and the AIM movement (and its violent counterpart, the goon squad) the develop a kind of historical narrative fiction from the last 50 years. 

Chapter 2 follows a similar pattern where we meet Little Wolf, a Cheyenne warrior who has lost most of her family, but has become a skilled shooter and is determined to save the remaining members of her tribe from starvation and the forced displacement that seems imminent from the advancing US Army. It is nearly 100 years early, around 1876, and the US government is looking to take over the Black Hills, despite previous treaties securing the land for indigenous people. Little Wolf wants to ensure that her people are not relocated to the Red Cloud Agency, but violence is often the answer from the US Army for anyone resisting this forced relocation. In these alternating chapters, we meet some historical figures like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, while we meet Custer, his family, and other members of the 7^th Cavalry in a third alternating narrative that tells the story of the Army’s pursuit of the land and forced relocation from the white man’s perspective. Little Wolf eventually meets with Swift Fox, another warrior who is also refusing relocation and is looking to maintain the land of their ancestors with other warriors like Crazy Horse. Swift Fox is also the surname of Nancy’s husband, George, so we can see that George (and his children, including Timothy) are descended from warriors, and there is a connection among the past and the present in these narratives.

Newell’s use of both historical fact and individuals from history helps to establish the reality of the story, while also helping to establish links between the fight to maintain their land from US Government usurpation and the American Indian Movement of the 1970s. Although I have read a little about both the AIM movement and events like Little Big Horn, Newell’s book made me want to learn more about the figures from these historical events, especially whether some of the minor characters in the story were real or invented for the story. Her writing definitely provides some dynamics for them and imbues them with life. In particular, I was wondering about some of the grabbers and scouts who ended up working more with Custer and the Army, and whether these were real figures. Regardless, Newell’s research and attention to detail with ceremonies like the Sundance, clothing, and weapons provide interesting insight into the life of the People of the Plains. It was also interesting to see how the threat of white encroachment and violence (as well as forced relocation) brought many of the different tribes together to fight a common threat. I found myself more engaged with the Little Wolf chapters more than any of the others. I really enjoyed her perspective and storytelling, as well as her observations and experiences with the Sundance and other ceremonies she participated in. There are some moments of violence when during a ceremony she recalls losing her brother as well as the rape of her mother at the hands of Custer’s men. It’s a pretty brutal scene, but also captures the cruelty and barbarity of the men that Custer led (and most likely influenced). I tended to be the least engaged with Custer-focused chapters, where the perspective was either from Custer or one of the men in his Cavalry (some were his brothers or nephews). I’m not sure if that was the purpose, to kind of see how unlikeable these characters were or to possibly try to understand their motivations or perspectives, but I was wondering why Newell included them in the book. However, Nancy’s chapters were more interesting and engaging than the Custer focused chapters. I felt Nancy’s stress and struggles, but it also seemed like her romance with Joshua progressed rather quickly. I can understand that she neglected her own needs to focus on those of her kids while also trying to stay true to her husband, George, even if he wouldn’t grant her a divorce. One of the most unique chapters is when Joshua somehow convinces Nancy to visit George in prison with him. It’s strange, but I was impressed with Nancy’s response. I won’t spoil it here, but I loved the way Newell navigates this strange encounter to bring readers to an understanding about the lack of options for many indigenous men in the 1970s. I was also a little sad to see that Nancy’s story kind of ended suddenly. The last few chapters focus on the Battle of Little Big Horn, and these were some of the most exciting and compelling chapters in the book, as we see how the Indigenous People created a strategy to attract and eventually trap Custer. We see these experiences from both Little Wolf’s perspective and that of Custer’s men. However, Nancy’s chapters end shortly after her visit to George in the prison, and I wanted to learn more about what happened with the birth of her daughter with Joshua. However, I can also appreciate that Newell may be allowing readers to develop their own conclusions about the continuous struggles that indigenous women face and how they are often the warriors as well, fighting with men to maintain not only their land but also their traditions, culture, and their ancestors. Towards the end of the book, Swiftfox and Little Wolf are talking about the upcoming battle, and Swiftfox says “ ‘Things only die if you forget them,’…His words ring through my soul. I let my family, my ancestors, die because I had lost the courage to remember them.” There were some other lines like this as well as how these stories and tales about our ancestors help to keep them alive. In many ways, this reminded me of Toni Morrison and Beloved, how stories nourished Sethe’s children, and even brought the dead back to life. It seemed like Newell’s stories and narratives also serve a similar function that moves beyond entertainment and focuses on the kind of re-memory that Morrison employs in Beloved. It not only keeps the past alive, but it also honors and nourishes them. However, Newell also helps to show how this kind of generational trauma is passed on through the kind of systemic violence and racism that has been employed by the US government. I really enjoyed this story, and Newell’s writing made me want to learn more about the events surrounding Little Big Horn. I look forward to not only learning more about the past, but also reading Newell’s future work.