Unless you live in a Western state, or pockets elsewhere, you can go months, years, or decades without seeing an American Indian, ever. And there are only 3 million in the country. Of those, 1 million are on reservations — which are the worst places in America. They are among the worst places in the world. It’s not the poverty, though that is bad. It’s the malaise, the hopelessness, and the depravity.
Out of sight, out of mind, the Indians are. But they are the subject of Naomi Schaefer Riley’s new book, The New Trail of Tears. And they are the subject of my Impromptus today.
People think they’re friends of the Indians when they protest “Redskins.” Or when they say “Native Americans” instead of “Indians.” People such as Naomi are their real friends. And there are precious few.