Colorado State University Tour Incident Is Nothing New for Native Students

“Our very existence as Native peoples in what is currently known as the United States is constantly seen as a threat.”
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In this op-ed, Native education scholars Amanda Tachine (Navajo Nation) and Adrienne Keene (Cherokee Nation) explore the recent news concerning two Native American brothers who were questioned during a campus tour, and how this incident reflects the “othering” that many Indigenous people experience in the United States on a daily basis.

Two Mohawk youth, ages 19 and 17, saved up money, took the family's van, and drove seven hours to visit one of their dream colleges: Colorado State University. Prior to this trip, Thomas Kanewakeron Gray and Lloyd Skanahwati Gray did what is expected of prospective students by researching colleges, reviewing academic and social programs, making the decision to attend a campus tour, and then pre-registering online to learn “what it means to be a Ram.”

Their dreams were quickly crushed soon after they stepped foot on Colorado State University’s campus and entered the tour. A parent in the group reportedly called 911 and alleged that the two were “definitely not part of the tour.” Her accusations seemed largely based upon racial and dehumanizing judgments. In the woman’s words in audio from the 911 call, because the young men were quiet, “they stand out,” “their behavior is odd,” they were “creepy kids,” and “made me feel sick.” According to body cam footage released by the school, the teens were questioned and later dismissed by police after verifying that they indeed belonged on the tour. They missed the rest of the tour and, at their mother’s direction, according to her Facebook post, drove the seven hours back home. Despite the fact that the school has since apologized and offered to invite the brothers back for a VIP tour of the campus, the incident has understandably left the Gray family heartbroken.

This situation demands that we pause and reflect upon the larger implications at hand. These Native teens independently saved up their money and took the time to research and plan a college trip, demonstrating that they hold visions of furthering their educational attainment. That thought alone is empowering and full of hope, particularly when pursuing college has been and continues to be an unrealized dream for many Native peoples.

This reality of unrealized potential is not the fault of the teens or Native people, who, like many peoples, have aspirations to attend college, but the stakes are often against them. Frequently, the biggest obstacle is the pressure to conform to white or eurocentric behaviors, ideals, and values. Research demonstrates that Native college students often feel isolated, out of place, or alone on university campuses, where we make up less than 1% of college students nationally. However, degrees can bring hope, potential, and futures to our communities — highlighting the importance of making Native students feel like they truly belong on college campuses.

While this incident may seem extreme, it is an extension of the constant “othering” that Native people experience daily. Our very existence as Native peoples in what is currently known as the United States is constantly seen as a threat. Our cultures and lifeways were not supposed to survive into the 21st century, and our presence is a reminder of a failed promise of eradication. The history of Native education has been rooted in genocide, forced assimilation, and dehumanization through government-run boarding schools, where the expressed goal was to “kill the Indian, save the man.” In the 1800s, white people forced their way of life onto the tribes whose land they forcefully claimed; at reservation boarding schools, Native children were made to cut their hair, speak only English, and wear standardized Eurocentric style clothing. Basically, Native children were taught that who they were, how they looked, and how they spoke was wrong and backward. Rather, they needed to look and behave more like a “civilized” white person.

The practice of forcing Indigenous youth to assimilate isn’t a relic of the past, however. In August 2014, a 5-year old Navajo child in Seminole, Texas was sent home on his first day of school and ordered to cut his hair because it violated district policy. He was only able to return to school with his hair uncut after his mother provided documentation from the Navajo Nation. In May 2015, Native high school seniors at Century High School in Bismarck, North Dakota successfully petitioned administrators to allow them to wear eagle tail feathers on their graduation caps. And in May 2016, another Native student was initially denied to wear moccasins during her graduation ceremony because Sapulpa High School in Sapulpa, Oklahoma claimed they did not meet the dress code. After the district heard from the student and others, they changed their policy and allowed her to wear the moccasins, saying, "Native American clothing, especially ceremonial attire (as in this case), can and should be considered appropriate for inclusion in our graduation exercises.”

The experience of the Gray brothers prove that these stories have not ended. “They don’t belong,” the caller said of the Gray brothers. Our cultures, ways of being, and sense of belonging are still being positioned as aberrational on our own lands; According to the unofficial, independent mapping project of Indigenous territories, Native-Land.ca, Colorado State University’s campus occupies the land of Ute, Arapaho, and Cheyenne nations. (Of course, every piece of what is currently known as the United States is also part of an Indigenous land.) Based on that assessment, Lloyd and Thomas were not the intruders or the outsiders in this situation — the white woman who dialed 911 was. The brothers’s ancestors were promised education through treaties their nations signed in good faith. They have a right to their presence on the land, and a right to their education, regardless of white settler comfort or white immunity.

Stories like this are all too common, and frankly do not often make the news. Instead, stereotypes through Hollywood portrayals and images like “Indian” mascots continue to paint us as savage, dangerous, and threatening to white settler safety. In 2014, Kelli O'Dell, a white Redsk*ns fan, called the police after appearing on The Daily Show, where she said she was “confronted” by a group of Native scholars and activists. According to O’Dell, she felt “in danger” and feared she was “going to be defamed.” No charges were filed, because no crime was committed. In 2016, when the ongoing movement against the Dakota Access Pipeline brought thousands of unarmed Native water protectors to Standing Rock tribal lands, local ranchers expressed their apparent need to carry firearms through their fields “for safety” and some local schools were even put on lockdown — a protocol supposed to be reserved for imminent danger and threats of physical harm to students — all because of the physical presence of Native peoples.

To be sure, safety is important to all of us, especially in a time of social and political unrest. But, we have to ask: whose safety, and on whose terms? This violence and othering isn’t unique to Indigenous populations, and the news cycle is filled with similar stories from Black, Latinx, and Trans communities , many with much more tragic outcomes. Black and brown bodies will always be “out of place” in a settler colonial structure that relies on Indigenous erasure and black labor to function.

As Indigenous peoples, we are policed and violated for not conforming, for not assimilating, for being too loud, for standing up for our rights and our peoples — but also for being too quiet, for dressing in black, for following the rules, and for dreaming of going to college.

On Friday, May 4, Colorado State University President Tony Frank called upon the school community to answer the question: “Where do we go from here?” Yet the “we” in that context should not be meant for the Native boys or populations who have to go through these circumstances. The responsibility should rest on the shoulders of the white mother on tour that day, and the countless people and structures who create these circumstances to begin with. Where do you go from here, when “here” was never yours to begin with?

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