In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

The American Indian Quarterly 27.1&2 (2003) 386-393



[Access article in PDF]

Indians Can't Learn

One of my earliest memories is of being alone in a strange classroom with a strange teacher, staring in confusion at a piece of paper with unfamiliar purple squiggles ending in dots. All the lines seemed squeezed together. I had just turned seven and was beginning the second grade (late) in a new school off the "Rez." I was only familiar with the bold, clear, heavy black type of the Dick and Jane books. This writing terrified me. The room and the teacher terrified me. "Read, read!" she sternly demanded, tapping her finger on the paper. I started to cry.

Another woman came into the room, and the first turned to her and said in exasperation, "Indians can't learn."

But I did learn. I had instantly learned that, "I can't learn." I learned how to stand in the Indian line at lunchtime and hate it. I learned my older brother got in fights with the white boys on the playground because he was Indian and that he became mean to me and my little brother at home. I learned to hate school and that Christopher Columbus had discovered America—but not much more.

So my education continued through graduation from college—with many little gaps and one not so little gap between dropping out of high school and returning to school later as an adult student.

I wish my response to aiq's call for submissions on the Native American experience in education could be a positive one. But, if not positive, I will make it brief. Following is just a glimpse at what brings me to grieve for the Indian experience of education.

At one time I was so naïve as to believe I could be a part of making the experience for students more positive. I have worked at a college in Washington state for thirteen years and have been totally disillusioned. [End Page 386]

I applied for and accepted the position of advisor and retention specialist to Indian students. It was a Title III position based on a five-year U.S. Department of Education grant. Though based at the college at which I worked, it was a collaborative program including five locations. The position was part-time, meaning (I was told at the interviews, and it was reaffirmed in the beginning) four eight-hour days, or thirty hours per week. There had been a large turnover for the position, and when I asked why, I was told that the previous employees gained the experience the job offered and then went on to greener pastures.

The coordinator of the program, my immediate supervisor, was not a Native American. The college gave the overseeing of the program to the director of continuing education, also not Native American. At first I did not have any kind of office; I was just parked in a hallway of the continuing education/mental health/international studies portable. After several months, when the director was on vacation and by the generosity of his secretary, some panels were brought in to enclose me in the hallway, making a cubicle of about five feet by seven feet for my desk, two file cabinets, a storage closet, and a chair for the students that I served. For a year and a half, whenever I met with anyone I had to sit with my upper body in one place at the desk and my legs at another, twisting my body into muscle spasms.

Part of my position was to interact with the various departments of the college to advocate for Indian students. The atmosphere was totally hostile. When I asked for a list of Native American students who were on probation, I was told that I could not have that because it was information for the college's retention specialist only. I was sent to the monthly Student Advising Department meeting (my first time there) by the program coordinator to request that another college in the program have its own assessment...

pdf