Module 4 Discussion Have attitudes changed as we move from early Native American Literature into later and present-day writings? What writers, along with specific examples, might you cite that represent this shift? What is the focus now and how does it compare to other minorities we have explored? Select a quote from the reading(see below) to incorporate in your discussion post. This means that you will also include an in-text citation and reference for each quote (Author, year, p. X). Your post should be around 100-150 words in order to receive full credit. References Author, I. (Year published). Title of our textbook. City, State: Publisher. FLIGHT John-John had been saving dollar bills toward a dream and when he had a shoebox full of bills he sat down to count out his future. "One, two, three," he counted, all the way up to ten to make a neat stack on the floor and soon, he had two hundred neat stacks in exact rows and columns. How much is enough? John-John packed a suitcase with his dollar bills, a change of underwear, a toothbrush, and a photograph of his older brother, Joseph. The photograph was folded, spindled, mutilated. Joseph, the jet pilot, sat in full military dress in front of an American flag. Dear Mr. and Mrs. -----, we regret to inform you that your son, -----, was shot down and taken prisoner by the enemy during a routine military operation. At this time, we are doing everything within our power to assure the immediate and safe release of your son. Sincerely, they said. John-John remembered the world before, remembered the four walls and one window of the HUD house on the reservation. So, most Indians had no job and they counted change to buy the next bottle of wine. Maybe the wells went dry every summer and maybe any water still left was too radioactive to drink. "Uranium has a half-life of one hundred thirty-five million years," somebody told Joseph, and he said, "Shit, I can tell you stories that will last longer than that." Then, there was music. Joseph sang in a voice so pure even the drunkest Indians threw their bottles down. He sang in a voice so sharp even the oldest Indians could hear him dearly. He sang in a voice so deep even the whitest Indians remembered the words. Sometimes, he danced. Joseph had big feet and he stumbled, often lost the rhythm of drums. But he smiled and picked himself up from the ground after he fell. He whistled. He slapped his thighs. He crow-hopped and sprained his ankle. He danced. Joseph paid the rent. After Joseph was taken prisoner of war, John-John waited at the window for years. He ate and drank at that window; he slept with his eyes open. John-John's friends grew up, graduated or dropped out of school, married, had children, got drunk too much, but he stood there at the window and waited. John-John remembered: the sky and ground disappeared into the horizon, that imaginary line forever rolling away. Snow. Ice. Cold wind. Joseph in blue parka and military surplus ...

1. Module 4 Discussion
Have attitudes changed as we move from early Native American
Literature into later and present-day writings? What writers,
along with specific examples, might you cite that represent this
shift? What is the focus now and how does it compare to other
minorities we have explored?
Select a quote from the reading(see below) to incorporate in
your discussion post. This means that you will also include an
in-text citation and reference for each quote (Author, year, p.
X). Your post should be around 100-150 words in order to
receive full credit.
References
Author, I. (Year published). Title of our textbook. City, State:
Publisher.
FLIGHT
John-John had been saving dollar bills toward a dream and when
he had a shoebox full of bills he sat down to count out his
future. "One, two, three," he counted, all the way up to ten to
make a neat stack on the floor and soon, he had two hundred
neat stacks in exact rows and columns.
How much is enough?
John-John packed a suitcase with his dollar bills, a change of
underwear, a toothbrush, and a photograph of his older brother,
Joseph. The photograph was folded, spindled, mutilated. Joseph,
the jet pilot, sat in full military dress in front of an American
flag.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. -----, we regret to inform you that your son, -
----, was shot down and taken prisoner by the enemy during a
routine military operation. At this time, we are doing everything
within our power to assure the immediate and safe release of
your son.
Sincerely, they said.
John-John remembered the world before, remembered the four

2. walls and one window of the HUD house on the reservation. So,
most Indians had no job and they counted change to buy the
next bottle of wine. Maybe the wells went dry every summer
and maybe any water still left was too radioactive to drink.
"Uranium has a half-life of one hundred thirty-five million
years," somebody told Joseph, and he said, "Shit, I can tell you
stories that will last longer than that."
Then, there was music.
Joseph sang in a voice so pure even the drunkest Indians threw
their bottles down. He sang in a voice so sharp even the oldest
Indians could hear him dearly. He sang in a voice so deep even
the whitest Indians remembered the words.
Sometimes, he danced.
Joseph had big feet and he stumbled, often lost the rhythm of
drums. But he smiled and picked himself up from the ground
after he fell. He whistled. He slapped his thighs. He crow-
hopped and sprained his ankle. He danced.
Joseph paid the rent.
After Joseph was taken prisoner of war, John-John waited at the
window for years. He ate and drank at that window; he slept
with his eyes open. John-John's friends grew up, graduated or
dropped out of school, married, had children, got drunk too
much, but he stood there at the window and waited.
John-John remembered: the sky and ground disappeared into the
horizon, that imaginary line forever rolling away. Snow. Ice.
Cold wind. Joseph in blue parka and military surplus boots.
After Christmas but before New Year's Eve. Everyone was
sober. Standing in some anonymous field while his Chevy sat a
few feet away on the other side of a fence, Joseph raised his
arms and said, Someday, the world will be mine. Maybe he just
said, Goddamn, I need a drink. Joseph had already dug through
the ashtray, in the glove compartment, under seats. There was
no money left in the world. Not even loose coins. We ain't got
gas and I'm out of miracles, Joseph said and walked fifteen
miles for help.
Now, John-John stood on the front porch with his suitcase, a

3. key hanging on a string around his neck. No lock, no door. The
key was just a small mystery. It didn't fit any lock on the
reservation. Maybe it opened a garage door in Seattle; maybe it
started a car in Spokane.
John-John watched the sky for signs, read the sun for the
correct time, and checked his watch to be sure. It's time to go,
he thought just as the jet ripped through the sound barrier and
shook the air. John-John tumbled down the stairs, landed on his
tailbone. He stood up, rubbed his ass, and searched the sky for
evidence. He could see vapor trails stretched across the sky.
John-John ran for the football field, down the reservation high-
way, three miles of smooth, smooth pavement. It happens that
way: the tribe had a government grant to fix the roads but half
the Indians on the reservation still lived on commodities. But
John-John ran until his chest hurt and legs trembled. He ran to
the ends of the highway and stared back toward his house, at the
jet approaching, then landing with a concussion of noise.
The jet taxied down the highway, turbines slowing, and came to
a stop a few feet from John-John. Power. Heat. Noise. It all felt
and sounded like possibilities; it was the machinery of dreams.
John-John stared at the jet until it grew beyond his vision. His
eyes watered, ached. He rubbed at them with fists until they
grew out of proportion. Minutes went by until the jet was silent
in the silence its arrival created.
Has Christopher Columbus come back?
John-John walked toward the jet, slowly, carefully. His steps
were measured and precise. Step on a crack, break your
mother's back. A balance beam is only four inches wide; the
reservation is only half that width. John-John reached out and
touched the jet with a fingertip. Hot and cold. He jumped back
as the cockpit opened and a voice called out.
"Sir, ace jet pilot Joseph Victor, code name Geronimo, reporting
for duty, sir!"
A tall man climbed down from the cockpit and stood at
attention. His unbraided hair fell out from under his flight
helmet, reached down to the small of his back. The tall man

4. saluted John-John then wheeled and saluted the crowd of
Indians quickly gathering. He turned back to John-John.
"Sir, may I have permission to remove my helmet, sir?"
John-John was stunned. He raised his arm in a half-salute, the
heels of his tennis shoes clicked together.
"Joseph, is that you?"
"Sir, yes, sir. May I please remove my helmet, sir?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
Joseph removed his helmet, leaned it against a hip, still at
attention. His face was scarred, battered. The purple scar
between his eyes was shaped like a cigar butt; the symmetrical
scars up and down his cheeks looked like gills.
"Joseph, your face. What happened?"
John-John moved doser to his brother, reached out and touched
the scars, the skin. Hot and cold. Both close to tears.
"Sir, it's been a long and glorious war but I am happy to be
home, sir."
"But, your face. What did they do to you?"
"Sir, I am proud to say I withstood their tortures with courage
and strength. I only gave them my name, rank, and serial
number, sir."
John-John cried then, took his brother's hand. Swollen and
scratched, Joseph's hand felt like fear and failure. He had lost
his left ring finger, his nails were torn, some missing altogether.
Crude initials were carved into his palms.
"Joseph, don't you recognize me? It's your brother, John-John."
Joseph stared at his brother intently, searched his memory. He
saw those eyes curved like a bow, colored like the center of the
earth; that hair short and still untamed, black; that mouth, too
small for the face, those teeth yellowed and healthy; those
hands, that hand now holding his, so long and forgiving, skin
like a woman's.
Who are you? Who are you?
"Sir, I don't remember. I'm sorry. I just don't remember, sir."
Memory, like a coin trick, like the French drop with one hand
passing over the other, quarter dropping into sight, then out of

5. existence. It was there! It was there! The little Indian boys
screaming at the sudden recognition of their first metaphor.
Memory like an abandoned car, rusting and forgotten though it
sits in plain view for decades. Dogs have litters there;
generations of spiders live a terrible history. All of it goes
unnoticed and no one bothers to tell the story.
This is not the story John-John tells himself just before he falls
asleep. In his story, Joseph comes back on a bus, on a train,
hitchhiking. In his story, Joseph's feet never leave the ground
again. But that kind of vision is costly; it rips sweat from John-
John's sleep and skin. He wakes up with a thirst so large that
nothing can be forgiven. He wakes up with the sound of
Joseph's voice in his nose. Reverberation.
"Hey, John-John, why do you got two first names?"
"Cuz you have to say anything twice to make it true?"
"No, that ain't it."
"Cuz our parents really meant it when they named me?"
"I don't think so."
"Maybe it's just a memory device."
"Who knows?"
Joseph sitting at the kitchen table as they replay this
conversation, this way of greeting, each day. Ever since John-
John could form a sentence, Joseph began the morning with the
same question.
"Hey, John-John, why do you got two first names?"
"Cuz I'm supposed to be twins?"
"No, man, that's too easy."
"Cuz mother always had a stutter?"
Laughter. Then, more laughter. Then, coffee and buttered toast.
Sometimes, a day-old donut. The sun came in through the
windows. It was there, just as much as the tablecloth or the salt
and pepper shakers.
Hey, John-John, why do you got two first names?
Now, John-John waiting at the window. Watching. Telling the
glass his stories, whispering to the pane, his breath fogging the
world. His house, his family's house, closed in all around him.

6. Too many photographs. Too many stray papers and tattered
magazines. The carpet has fleas.
There have been smaller disasters.
Mother and father, sister and sister, rush, rush. Fumigate,
bleach and vinegar in the laundry, old blankets driven to the
dump. The dog, lonely and confused, chained to a spare tire in
the yard.
"John-John," his mother says. "You have to leave. I mean, we
all have to leave the house for a few hours. It'll be toxic for a
while, you know?"
He is dragged from the window, sat down beside the dog on the
lawn. They both howl.
Once, John-John dreamed of flight. He imagined a crazed run
into the forest, into the pine. Maybe then they would search for
him, search for Joseph out there in the dark. John-John wanted
to build fires with no flame or smoke. He wanted to hide in the
brush while searchers walked by, inches away, calling out his
name. He wanted helicopters with spotlights, all-terrain
vehicles, the local news. Together, they would lift stones and
find Joseph; they would shake trees and Joseph would fall to the
ground; they would drink Joseph from their canteens; they
would take photographs of Joseph crawling like a bear across
snow, stunned by winter. The rescue team would find John-John
and Joseph huddled together like old men, like children, like
small birds tensing their bodies for flight.
John-John sits at his window. Waits. Watches. His face touches
the glass. Hot and cold. His eyes follow the vapor trails that
appear in the reservation sky. They are ordinary and magical.
Next time, John-John thinks. Next time, it will be Joseph.
Maybe it is winter again. Maybe it is just summer disguised.
There is no one left to notice. Dust. Cold wind. Noise. John-
John hears it all in his head. He counts his dollar bills, one, two
three, all the way up to ten before he starts again. He waits; he
watches.
He wants to escape.
~~~~~~~~

7. By SHERMAN ALEXIE