My father was a cowboy. He was born in Cody, Wyoming, and later moved to Grand Coulee Dam on the Colville Reservation where his father was one of many men who built the dam. The dam itself engulfed a salmon fishing spot called Kettle Falls used by Indigenous tribes for over 7,000 years. It flooded 18,000 acres of the reservation submerging their homes, graveyards, and fishing sites. The people of the Colville Confederated Tribes were supposed to receive a portion of the income from the dam but instead were charged higher prices for the power it generated. That horrible legacy sits on our shoulders. Every child and grandchild and great-grandchild of the men who built that dam carry it.
My father grew up as the cowboy son of a violent white man who helped build the monstrosity. He also grew up deep inside the local tribal culture, his best friends being boys from the reservation. His lifelong tenderness and love for his friends and for Indigenous culture is unmatched. I know that. I was raised in the flow of reverence for Native peoples because of him. But I hold this as a both/and. My father was still a cowboy.
He’s never stopped being a cowboy.
i. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the things he taught me and realizing why they were important to him. I learned to drive in the church parking lot on Tuesday nights when I was 12. My father wanted me to know how to drive the way a rancher’s kid would drive, so he started me early and taught me how to survive the unexpected. Later he taught me on tight curves of mountain roads, on gravely hills, and on long stretches of highway. He taught me how to respond to ice, to water, to bad drivers, to animals shooting across the road. My father taught me how to drive the way he learned to drive, and it has saved my life more than once.
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