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A commentary on “Drugs, The Nation and Free-Lancing: Decoding the Moral Universe of William Bennett” by William E. Connolly, Theory & Event, Vol. 1, No. 1 (1997)

A journey through William Connolly’s peripatetic 1997 essay, “Drugs, The Nation and Free Lancing: Decoding the Moral Universe of William Bennett” from the first issue of Theory & Event, begins in the “Drug Confessional” and ends with “Dis-nationalizing the Democratic State.” As finish it, I am struck by the essay’s concluding sentence: “The largest agenda remains: to show how a democratic civilization flourishes best when a large variety of constituencies overcome nostalgia for the innocence of a nation lost.” In 2016, nostalgia for a nation lost still runs strong. Nostalgic sentiment resonates in the defining visual signifier of the 2016 presidential campaign; a bright red baseball cap emblazoned with the words, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, worn by Republican nominee/2016 US presidential election winner Donald Trump and his millions of supporters. In 1997, Connolly did not predict, claim, nor offer any reason to believe that a nostalgic overcoming was afoot, in 20 years or 100. Rather, his essay is fundamentally about the politics of national memory and how it is utilized to define good from bad Americans in the discourse of conservatives like William J. Bennett, US Secretary of Education under Ronald Reagan from 1985–1988 and Drug Czar under George H.W. Bush from 1989–90. Bennett is Connolly’s impish free-lancer extraordinaire; a self-aggrandizing, often pompous and overly self-assured figure who would intentionally go off-script and make outlandish statements in order to provoke discussion and draw attention to himself. If that sounds familiar, stick with me as we take a “quantum leap”1 between the 1990s and our time.

Twenty years after its publication, Connolly’s analysis remains a pointed articulation of the role of national memory in American politics, particularly in the discourse of longing for a mythical founding unity. As he notes, in the face of centrifugal forces undermining a national [End Page 44] unity built around “the abstract common sense of a nation of regular individuals…. the spirituality of a nation of regular individuals is maintained by political invocations of a putative past when this unity was present and by the repetitive exhibition of contemporary policies, ethical codes, and styles of living that deviate from the spiritual norm. The fictive ideal of a nation of regular individuals catalogs the actual populace into a nation of diverse deviants in need of coercive correction.” There is a timelessness to this form of American evocation of a longed-for past from which the nation has fallen. It serves to both redeem the nation’s deeper purpose and critique those who deviate from it. In that dialectical relation of unifiers and deviants we see another timeless form of American narrative, which is the countersubversive one that evokes a mythical unity in order to draw out and demarcate deviance. While this is a narrative one can locate in the politics of nations around the world, in the contemporary moment this narrative particularly defined the terms of the 2016 US political context. Before speaking to the contemporary US context, we must pay homage to and make connections with the past, even if it is but a decades-old past in this case.

In the 1990s, it was one’s relationship to drugs and the drug war that lured and ensnared deviants in the web of William Bennett’s moral universe. The deviants were drug users and dealers, and more fundamentally were and remain people of color, liberal academics and media, state bureaucrats, and anyone who thinks and acts more like a social scientist than a common sense American. The threat that drugs and drug addiction posed to the nation’s spiritual unity was the looming terror of dependence; dependence on substances, on excuses, on government, on anything outside the first “conventional code of the nation: individual responsibility for your own fate.” Collective memory of the nation in this light is not about the status of a collectivity per se but of a past in which American individualism embodied in the white settler hetero-masculine figure reigned supreme with neither constraint nor critique, but rather esteem. Bennett’s free-lancing routine is itself an expression of this particularly white masculine and heteronormative form of individualism. This notion of free-lancing speaks most directly to a liberal individualism that is centered in the neo-liberal logic that US state institutions must extract themselves from intervention in social and economic relations in order to allow, even nurture, the free reign of the free-market so as to liberate these individuals from the collectivizing constraints of the state and its main beneficiaries, the latter of whom are coded or explicitly signified as racialized, gendered, and sexualized alterities to the white masculine heteronormative ideal. This the ideal of Bill Bennett and Donald Trump, and their most vocal adherents. Thus, Bennett’s free-lancing is not only a strategic means to conveying a message, but his unapologetic free-lancing performance is [End Page 45] a medium that is a central part of the message of white masculine performative liberation. Connolly’s assessment of Bill Bennett thus fore-shadows, in this specific regard, the 2016 US Presidential campaign that was defined in great part by Donald Trump’s countersubversive memory politics and free-lancing performance, while in other respects, the essay seems bounded to its place in time.

The key word in Trump’s signature slogan, Make American Great Again, is “Again.” It evokes a period of past American greatness and the fall from those heights. The exact time period of this great America is never precisely designated nor can it be articulated in any historical detail, for two reasons. First, to do so would raise empirical and political questions—and put the campaign on the defensive—about what was so great, and for whom, about a particular period of America’s past—pick one—and the institutional forms of domination and inequality that defined it. Second, and most importantly, the time period is not a historical past as a nation, but rather it is a mnemonic claim that speaks as a “fictive ideal” located (or not) within each American, as evidenced by the manner in which they affirm or deviate from the practices of individualism. These practices were set out by actor Scott Baio, one of the prime time celebrity speakers at the 2016 Republican National Convention. In his speech, Baio offered these words about what it means to be an American: “It doesn’t mean getting free stuff. It means sacrificing. Winning. Losing. Failing. Succeeding. And sometimes doing the things you don’t want to do—including the hard work—in order to get where you want to be. And that’s what it means to be an American…. So, of course, let’s make America great again. But let’s make America America again.”2 Baio became famous in his role as Chachi Arcola from 1977–1984 on the popular TV show Happy Days. The show was set in a white middle American settler imaginary of Milwaukee, Wisconsin in the 1950s. It took its viewers back to those ‘happy days’ prior to the political unrest and racial transformations of the 1960s, where Chachi and his cousin Arthur ‘The Fonz’ Fonzarelli represented otherness as white ethnics adapting to white American norms. This period is a well-heeled fictive moment in American popular and political culture when, ostensibly, ideal Americans worked hard to succeed without requiring “free stuff.”

This ‘happy days’ white settler imaginary of the individualistic roots of American- ness is not troubled by the fact that Federal Housing Authority loans and the GI Bill subsidized the emergence of the home owning white, especially white ethnic, middle class in formally segregated communities during the post-World War II era, and that the founding and development of the nation relied upon cheap labor extracted from enslaved Africans and their descendants and cheap land violently dispossessed from Indigenous people. The fact that land, labor, housing, and education were all “free stuff” provided to many [End Page 46] white Americans and some but not many non-white Americans does not disturb this white settler imaginary, because the political lesson of Connolly’s piece and our moment is that memory is more powerful than history for those engaging in the public arena. This speaks to the power of American collective memory, motored by the repetitive mnemonic loops activated by each articulation of “Again,” which when tied to the word “Make” that begins Trump’s slogan invokes the notion of American independence and socio-economic development as driven by individual producers—“makers” as opposed to “takers,” as House Speaker and 2012 Republican candidate Vice-Presidential Paul Ryan likes to demarcate3—not a governmental or structural support system, belying the empirical facts of US history. Like with Bennett’s discourse, those of Trump and his supporters only ever speak of the past in the most abstract ways, as they must, and then import this abstraction into their critique of the ostensibly established facts of the decline of American-ness (not simply greatness, but as Baio asserts, America itself).

To Bill Bennett, drugs were the source and signifier of unfreedom. In our time, in Trump’s worldview, it is political correctness. In both cases, they undermine American individualism and freedom. It is Trump’s self-stated refusal to be politically correct that is both the medium and a central part of the message for his Islamaphobic, racist, settler colonialist, ablest, and misogynistic statements, proposal, and actions. For both men, their free-lancing provides the medium for advocating unrepentant state violence. In the 1990s, Bennett stated on national television that he would support the beheading of drug dealers, and during his 2016 campaign Trump stated his open support for waterboarding suspected terrorists. For the latter, the free lancing goes on and on, with Trump asserting that as President he would compel military officers under him to do whatever he tells them to do, including engage in torture and also kill the families of suspected terrorists, and he would fire any officers who refused to do so. As with Bill Bennett’s free lancing in the 1990s, “liberals are stunned and outraged” at Trump, while his supporters are drawn ever closer to him. Whether Trump could or would ever do any of these things is less the point in terms of its discursive power than the fact that he openly throws off the constraints of what he deems the new opiate of our time, political correctness, that has kept his supporters muted, emasculated, and un-free for too long. He “tells it like it is” is one of the most, if not the most, popular reasons people give for why they support Trump. Even if he is telling it like it isn’t, Trump’s successful effort to free-lance his way to a major party nomination through the mnemonic invocation of the lost greatness of America can be read as the Bill Bennett approach taken to its furthest political reaches, so far in fact that a Trump candidacy that looked to be driving off a cliff in late August 2016 successfully drove [End Page 47] this strategy to an electoral victory by November 2016, which itself might take the nation off a cliff after his inauguration in January 2017.

Nested within the wider insights about the power and pervasiveness of the politics of collective memory, Connolly’s 1997 essay reveals some of the seeds that would eventually blossom into the Trump nomination. One can trace the lines from then to now rather clearly—the appeal to a seemingly undermined, victimized American-ness embodied in white settler masculinity, this wounded white masculinity lashing out at deviants in a reckless free-lancing style that turns off many people while also garnering a fiercely loyal following, and the concomitant invocation that the only way to get America back to being great, or just being America, is to refuse the constraint upon ‘telling it like it is.’ In this respect, the connection between past and present—separated by only a couple decades—is quite clear, and we can connect the dots. However, Connolly’s essay can also read like a dusty archival document from a distant era—THE 1990s—when one could smoke in bars and restaurants, the idea of legalizing marijuana seemed utopian, cell phones were not that smart, and we were unknowingly in the midst of the “birth of social media,” in 1997 coincidentally.4 The drug confessional with which Connolly starts the essay - “a definite expectation that you confess before discussing drugs or drug policy”—now seems quaint and archaic, for at least three reasons—1) the emergence of the war on terror after the attacks on September 11, 2001; 2) the massive increase in the size and intensity of the US carceral state and the political movement that has arisen to oppose and dismantle it; and, 3) the contemporary emergence of popular critique and resistance against “agents of capital” who Connolly viewed as “politically unavailable” and “exempt” as potential scapegoats in the 1990s.

After September 11, 2001, Guantanamo Bay Prison opened and the drug confessional closed. In the post-cold war 1990s—the new world order as George H.W. Bush put it—the rationale for American Empire had to devise a new enemy abroad to fight in the name of the safety of the white settler nation at home. Bennett proposed the use of “‘military force against the production and shipment of drugs’” to, as Connolly put it, “bound the war against restless minorities at home to that against rebellious populations abroad.” The September 11, 2001 attacks immediately transformed the most feared racialized enemy from drug users and dealers in the US and drug kingpins in Latin and South America to Arabs and Muslims in the domestic and foreign settings. Connolly presciently suggested that the drug war could well be displaced by “exciting new signifiers of negations of the nation,” and 9/11 provided the US empire with one that far surpassed anything the drug war could offer to fuel American imperialism abroad and enhanced domestic state surveillance. Post-9/11, US foreign policy was an exercise in free-lancing, generating unfounded accusations and rationales [End Page 48] to justify pre-emptive wars, engage in forms of torture such as waterboarding that we were told was not torture but rather ‘enhanced interrogation,’ the creation of a military prison in Guantanamo Bay where prisoners existed outside any juridical apparatus, and the rendition of prisoners to unnamed black sites around the world. Domestically, people who were or looked like they were Arab and Muslim came under attack by US citizens and the fear of the “radical Muslim” took hold, and continues to do so as the exemplary threat to white settler safety. The demonization of Muslims took particular hold in this election cycle, personified in Trump’s free-lancing proposal, subsequently only slightly tempered, to ban all Muslims from entry into the country. In the wake of Trump’s victory, threats to Muslim and Arab people, or those who are deemed to be so, by US citizens has been on the rise, emboldened by the victory of their free-lancing candidate. In comparison to all this, a politician who once smoked weed seems but a trifle, and is now treated as such.

To note the displacement of the war on drugs by the war on terror in US national and imperial political discourse is not to suggest that the drug-war fueled carceral state declined. To the contrary, racialized mass incarceration and violent racialized policing continued unabated, and was even fueled with unchecked authority post-9/11 in the form of such state practices as “stop and frisk” that primarily targeted Black and Hispanic people in US cities. These police tactics were a continuation of the state surveillance and incarceration practices that were further empowered under a Democratic US administration in the 1990s. During the Presidency of Bill Clinton from 1993–2001, the carceral state expanded considerably, especially as a consequence of federal acts such as the 1994 Violence and Crime Control Enforcement Act, which 2016 Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton justified at the time as necessary to deal with the problem of people she referred to as “super predators,” a barely coded racist language that could nicely fit in with Bill Bennett’s free-lancing strategy for pursuing the war on drugs. In the early 1990s, the videotaped beating of Rodney King by Los Angeles police and the eventual verdict that exonerated these cops for their violent actions led to serious civil unrest, violence, and property destruction in the streets of Los Angeles. The spectacular visualization/video evidence of this police violence was critical to provoking this days-long unrest. At the time, such visual evidence was usually not available for the multitude of cases of police violence across the country, even for those cases that came to public light. In late 1990s, New York City Police violence towards people of color occurred often, such as the sexual violence, beating, and torture of Haitian immigrant Abner Louima in a police station 1997, and the 1999 police killing of Guinean immigrant Amadou Diallo, shot 19 times, and shot at 41 times, as he stood unarmed in the vestibule outside his Bronx [End Page 49] apartment, reaching for his wallet. In the 1990s, the harassing and violent behavior of New York City police was mobilized, energized, and defended vigorously by then New York City Mayor Rudolph Giuliani who, in 2016, was Donald Trump’s most notable surrogate and vigorous defender.

Racist and colonialist mass incarceration and police violence are nothing new in America, but what has changed since the 1990s, and what maybe could not be foretold is that we all became potential free-lancers in the guise of free-lance video journalists whose smart phones can record police abuse and violence. Visualization itself has not changed the judicial system a great deal, as police continue to be exonerated despite blatant video evidence, such as that of Eric Garner’s murder by New York City police in Staten Island in 2015. Seeing does not bring justice on its own, but it has opened eyes and helped to strengthen the case made by the political movement #BlackLivesMatter (BLM), started by three Black queer women, Alicia Garza, Patrice Cullors and Opal Tometi. In just a few years, BLM has gained great resonance and wide participation through its deft organizing efforts that have been helped by the fact that the public has been able to literally see what those impacted most directly by US policing have been saying for decades, if not longer—that the cops are beating down and killing people, especially people of color, with impunity. In their efforts, BLM engages in its own politics of collective memory by making the case that the contemporary abjection and treatment of Black Americans as people whose lives have not mattered to the police, the state, and many citizens of the nation is traceable from the time of chattel slavery on up to our day. This is a politics of memory that runs directly and necessarily counter to the white settler vision of the greatness of the abstract past of America. Here, the narrative is the opposite; America is founded not in greatness but in great crimes, and these crimes have not been resolved but rather have perpetuated and pronounced their legacy in contemporary state practices.

BLM’s emergence points to another contrast between the 1990s and 2016. Connolly’s essay focused on the shaping of American political discourse from above, from elites like Bennett and even the elites such as academics and the media he deemed so deviant. In our time, the major discursive developments are increasingly shaped from below, as the decentralized BLM movement directly compelled Democratic candidates Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton to address their concerns and questions. As well, in an interesting turn on the discursive mode of drawing out deviants, the counter-assertion of “All Lives Matter” has served to lure out and expose those who say it—defensively or angrily, or with defensive anger—as racist reactionaries in the wider public discourse. Racialized mass incarceration has come under increasing scrutiny as a consequence of BLM, but also because the American [End Page 50] carceral state has reached such an absurd, brutal size and intensity that it itself has tipped over into a site of critique from mainstream political actors. For example, the racialized nature of drug use in the public eye has shifted from where it was in the 1980s and 1990s, when people of color were the face of drug addiction in the form of the crack epidemic, to now in the second decade of the 21st century when in many regions of the country the face of drug addiction is that of white people addicted to heroin, methamphetamine, and other opiates. In the 2016 Presidential campaign, this changing face of addiction to a white one led to a changing discourse about the relationship of drugs to the carceral state. During the 2016 Republican New Hampshire primary campaign, tough talking, ‘tell it like it is’ free-lancing Donald Trump stated that the many people of this state—this almost entirely white state - who were addicted to heroin needed treatment, not incarceration, “to make them better,” and that their drug addiction was the fault of nefarious Mexican drug dealers who needed to be stopped at the border.5 White settler suffering is salved and promised safety once again; safety from threatening racialized others who are the cause of all their problems, from economics to security to addiction.

Political discourse and claims from below have also shaped the US political context in the increasing critique of capitalism and neo-liberal practices such as rigged trade deals, increasing financialization of the economy, and moves toward market based answers to pretty much all facets of human existence. The Occupy Movement that emerged in October 2011 forced into the public realm a discourse of political and socio-economic antagonism between the 99% and the 1%. Occupy, the pre-cursor and in some ways forerunner and model strategically if not topically to #BlackLivesMatter, presented a decentralized vision and practice of a lived critique of contemporary capitalism, providing spaces for people to openly debates the economic system’s merits and alternatives. It is hard to imagine the presidential candidacy of Bernie Sanders, an avowed democratic socialist who ran a competitive second place to Democratic Party establishment choice Hillary Clinton, occurring without the Occupy Movement’s build-up of energy, critique, and organizing efforts to politicize by denaturalizing the status of capitalism and market dogma in US political discourse. This is not to paint a rosy picture of the situation in 2016, as the results of the election make that picture look very bleak indeed. It is still to be determined whether post-election the Democratic Party will remain captured by the center-right of the party personified in the nomination of Hillary Clinton, with a priority placed upon continued commitment to advancing neo-liberal economic policies and American empire, as evidenced in the loud, proud American exceptionalist discourse and themes of the 2016 Democratic National Convention. Alternatively, given the Democratic Party’s decimation in the 2016 election, up and down the [End Page 51] ballot, there may be flicker of possibility for a more transformative left politics to engage and utilize the present energy and capacity of existent movements to openly oppose the policies and practices of a Trump Presidency, protect those most vulnerable to it, and possibly redefine the Democratic Party from within, although the latter agenda seems less pressing than the first two. The Republican Party hitching its wagon to Donald Trump and the Democratic Party’s disarray may unintentionally encourage further movement away from elite shaped politics that too easily draw upon national nostalgia, collective memory and American exceptionalism to unify supporters and lure out deviants. By pushing from below, Occupy and BLM have had shaping influences on a wider public way to think and talk about a post-capitalist political economy and abolitionist approach to incarceration and policing, or even authorize for a wider public that one can be openly critical of capitalism and policing. The achievement of the more radical political goals of these movements are a long way off to be sure, especially in the wake of not only Trump’s 2016 victory but also that of the Republican Party in every elected branch of the federal government, but the movements that have driven these ideas at least offer another form of political imaginary than that which is reproduced by the elite narratives of the major political parties. Given the 2016 election results, this may now be their time. In that light, I close by pointing to another politics pushing from below against settler colonial practices in our time—a politics that rarely gets attention in the United States.

Throughout this piece, I have referred to the white settler in terms of imaginary, subjectivity, memory, collective identity and governance, without ever defining the term, intentionally. It is the settler part of white settler-ness that is generally ignored in US political discourse from the left to the right of the spectrum, or even worse than ignored, for many it is not even so much as an ‘unknown known.’6 This is a consequence of a form of memory politics that skews American political discourse and politics through the role of what I call settler memory, which are the practices of memory that allow those in the United States to both see and not see Indigenous people and settler colonialism, to remember and forget them at the same time. One can scan a map of the United States and easily find references to Indigeneity in the names for places, sports teams, and consumer products, in military nomenclature, in popular entertainment, and in the rituals of annual American holidays. Indigeneity is not absent in the collective memory of the American nation, but rather constructed as a people and positionality deeply sewn into the existence of the nation as part of the nation’s past, not its present, and thus not politically pertinent today. As such, settler memory allows Americans to not see settler identity itself, and its persistent and correlated practices. For example, in American discourse one does not hear discussed the manner in which Donald Trump’s promise that he will build a huge wall at the southern border [End Page 52] as not only deeply racist in its invective against the seeming threat of Mexican people but also as a claim that is fundamentally white settler in its assertion of authority and ownership over the territory he proposes to further secure. The unstated presumption here is that such claims to territory are settled politically, uncontested in our time, and thus are not pertinent to the matter at hand. When the politics of American memory deploys settler memory to disavow on-going settler-ness as an active practice it reproduces the violence and dispossession of settler colonialism itself, and in so doing it lets some of the most egregious and dangerous US practices off the hook.

As I conclude this essay, in late November 2016, members of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe and their Indigenous and non-Indigenous allies are resisting the development of the Dakota Access pipeline across the Missouri River, and doing so in the face of intense state-supported and corporate violence. They are resisting as “water protectors” through on-the-ground activism of “occupying the prairie,” and under the hashtag #NoDAPL.7 The proposed pipeline would run just north of the Standing Rock Sioux’s reservation territory. The Standing Rock Sioux’s justified fear is that any accident with the oil pipeline will poison their water supply, their land, and themselves. What is going on now is active Indigenous resistance from below against settler colonial capitalist expansion that threatens the health and safety of land and bodies. In this light, it is telling that in the halls of American academia, especially those disciplines focused on matters of justice, rights, inequality, and politics, Indigenous people’s presence and agency are virtually ignored, or more accurately seen as there and not there at the same time due to the power of settler memory. To reference back to the discussion about racialized police violence, while the understandable and appropriate focus of #BlackLivesMatter is, first and foremost, on Black lives, it is also a fact that Indigenous people suffer proportionally even higher rates of police violence and abuse. This is terrible in and of itself, but the even deeper problem is that, as an article on this topic put it, “nobody is talking about it.”8 This lack of talk is settler memory doing its work, effectively. That said, as the political push from below continues, Black radical activists such as those involved in #FreedomSquare in Chicago have asserted their solidarity and alliance with the #NoDAPL movement.9 Thus, at the moment, and it is really at this moment, Indigenous resistance by water protectors fighting against the Dakota Access Pipeline is being talked about somewhat, gaining a little but not near enough mainstream press attention, and developing radical alliances from non-Indigenous organizations that see a confluence of concern in the overall threat that state and capital practices are posing to the health and safety of land, humans, and non-human life. In short, there are many reasons and avenues for us to refuse the power of settler memory, and political potentialities to so doing. If we do not, we reproduce the false notion that settler colonial invasion was an [End Page 53] “event” consigned to the history of the nation, rather than seeing and analyzing it as a defining “structure” of the nation, economy, and governing institutions that is composed of myriad events, which occurred in thousands of forms and locations historically and continue to do so right on up to today, such as at Standing Rock.10 With that thought, I’ll end by free-lancing a bit with William Connolly’s closing words in his important, and still very relevant, 1997 essay, ‘The largest agenda remains: to show how a democratic civilization built on settler colonial practices flourishes when a large variety of constituencies overcome the blinding influence of settler memory in order to see their nation for what it is, not what they imagine it to be or to have been, and on that basis work to decolonize it.’ The anti-colonial resistance of #NoDAPL shows that this political work is on-going, not a distant memory.

Kevin Bruyneel

Kevin Bruyneel is Professor of Politics at Babson College in Massachusetts He wrote The Third Space of Sovereignty: The Postcolonial Politics of US-Indigenous Relations, (University of Minnesota, Indigenous Americas Series, 2007) and writes on the relationship between race, colonialism and collective memory. He is working on a book manuscript on White Settler Memory in the United States. He has published articles in History & Memory, Settler Colonial Studies, The Canadian Journal of Political Science, and Native American and Indigenous Studies. He can be reached at, and his faculty website is here:


1. The television show Quantum Leap, premised around the adventures of an unintentional time traveler, ran from 1989–1993, as did the George H.W. Bush administration.

2. Scott Baio. “Transcript: What Scott Baio Said About Donald Trump,” July 18, 2016. Accessed, August 10, 2016.

3. See the video montage of Ryan’s “takers and makers” distinction in Ben Craw. “Paul Ryan: 60 Percent of Americans are ‘Takers, not Makers.” October 5, 2012. The Huffington Post. Accessed: August 20, 2016.

4. See on-line source, History Cooperative: A Short History of Nearly Everything, “1997: The Birth of Social Media.” Accessed, August 20, 2016.

5. Harper Neidig. “Trump pledges to fight NH ‘drug epidemic,” February 6, 2016. The Hill Accessed, August 20, 2016.

6. The phrase comes from Donald Rumsfeld, during his time as Secretary of Defense under George W. Bush from 2001–2006. It is also the title of Errol Morris’ documentary about Rumsfeld. The Unknown Known: The Life and Times of Donald Rumsfeld (Errol Morris, director. Radius-TWC, 2013)

7. Jack Healey. “Occupying the Prairie: Tensions Rise as Tribes Move to Block the Pipeline.” August 23, 2016. The New York Times Accessed, August 24, 2016

8. Matt Agorist. “Police are Killing Native Americans at Higher Rate than Any Race, and Nobody is Talking About It,” August 2, 2015. Accessed, August 7, 2016.

9. Kelly Hayes. “From #NoDAPL to #FreedomSquare: A Tale of Two Occupations,” August 25, 2016. Truthout Accessed, August 26. 2016.

10. Patrick Wolfe. “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research. Vol. 8, #4. (December, 2006): 388 [End Page 54]

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