I was a little Spokane Indian boy who read every book and saw every movie about Indians, no matter how terrible.
I’d read those historical romance novels about the steroidal Indian warrior ravaging the virginal white schoolteacher.
I can still see the cover art.
The handsome, blue-eyed warrior (the Indians in romance novels are always blue-eyed because half-breeds are somehow sexier than full-blooded Indians) would be nuzzling (the Indians in romance novels are always performing acts that are described in animalistic terms) the impossibly pale neck of a white woman as she reared her head back in primitive ecstasy (the Indians in romance novels always inspire white women to commit acts of primitive ecstasy).
Of course, after reading such novels, I imagined myself to be a blue-eyed warrior nuzzling the necks of various random, primitive and ecstatic white women.
And I just as often imagined myself to be a cinematic Indian, splattered with Day-Glo Hollywood war paint as I rode off into yet another battle against the latest actor to portray Gen. George Armstrong Custer.
But I never, not once, imagined myself to be Tonto.
I hated Tonto then and I hate him now.
However, despite my hatred of Tonto, I loved movies about Indians, loved them beyond all reasoning and saw no fault with any of them.
I loved John Ford’s “The Searchers.”
I rooted for John Wayne as he searched for his niece for years and years. I rooted for John Wayne even though I knew he was going to kill his niece because she had been “soiled” by the Indians. Hell, I rooted for John Wayne because I understood why he wanted to kill his niece. I hated those savage Indians just as much as John Wayne did.
I mean, jeez, they had kidnapped Natalie Wood, transcendent white beauty who certainly didn’t deserve to be nuzzled, nibbled, or nipped by some Indian warrior, especially an Indian warrior who only spoke in monosyllables and whose every movement was accompanied by ominous music.
In the movies, Indians are always accompanied by ominous music. And I’ve seen so many Indian movies that I feel like I’m constantly accompanied by ominous music. I always feel that something bad is about to happen.
I am always aware of how my whole life is shaped by my hatred of Tonto. Whenever I think of Tonto, I hear ominous music.
I walk into shopping malls or family restaurants, as the ominous music drops a few octaves, and imagine that I am Billy Jack, the half-breed Indian and Vietnam vet turned flower-power pacifist (now there’s a combination) who loses his temper now and again, takes off his shoes (while his opponents patiently wait for him to do so), and then kicks the red out of the necks of a few dozen racist white extras.
You have to remember Billy Jack, right?
Every Indian remembers Billy Jack. I mean, back in the day, Indians worshiped Billy Jack.
Whenever a new Billy Jack movie opened in Spokane, my entire tribe would climb into two or three vans like so many circus clowns and drive to the East Trent Drive-In for a long evening of greasy popcorn, flat soda pop, fossilized licorice rope and interracial violence.
We Indians cheered as Billy Jack fought for us, for every single Indian.
Of course, we conveniently ignored the fact that Tom Laughlin, the actor who played Billy Jack, was definitely not Indian.
After all, such luminary white actors as Charles Bronson, Chuck Connors, Burt Reynolds, Burt Lancaster, Sal Mineo, Anthony Quinn and Charlton Heston had already portrayed Indians, so who were we to argue?
I mean, Tom Laughlin did have a nice tan and he spoke in monosyllables and wore cowboy boots and a jean jacket just like Indians. And he did have a Cherokee grandmother or grandfather or butcher, so he was Indian by proximity, and that was good enough in 1972, when disco music was about to rear its ugly head and bell-bottom pants were just beginning to change the shape of our legs.
When it came to the movies, Indians had learned to be happy with less.
We didn’t mind that cinematic Indians never had jobs.
We didn’t mind that cinematic Indians were deadly serious.
We didn’t mind that cinematic Indians were rarely played by Indian actors.
We made up excuses.
“Well, that Tom Laughlin may not be Indian, but he sure should be.”
“Well, that movie wasn’t so good, but Sal Mineo looked sort of like Uncle Stubby when he was still living out on the reservation.”
“Well, I hear Burt Reynolds is a little bit Cherokee. Look at his cheekbones. He’s got them Indian cheekbones.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.”
Yes, that became our battle cry.
“Sometimes, it’s a good day to die. Sometimes, it’s better than nothing.”
We Indians became so numb to the possibility of dissent, so accepting of our own lowered expectations, that we canonized a film like “Powwow Highway.”
When it was first released, I loved “Powwow Highway.” I cried when I first saw it in the theater, then cried again when I stayed and watched it again a second time.
I mean, I loved that movie. I memorized whole passages of dialogue. But recently, I watched the film for the first time in many years and cringed in shame and embarrassment with every stereotypical scene.
I cringed when Philbert Bono climbed to the top of a sacred mountain and left a Hershey chocolate bar as an offering.
I cringed when Philbert and Buddy Red Bow waded into a stream and sang Indian songs to the moon.
I cringed when Buddy had a vision of himself as an Indian warrior throwing a tomahawk through the window of a police cruiser.
I mean, I don’t know a single Indian who would leave a chocolate bar as an offering. I don’t know any Indians who have ever climbed to the top of any mountain. I don’t know any Indians who wade into streams and sing to the moon. I don’t know of any Indians who imagine themselves to be Indian warriors.
I was wrong. I know of at least one Indian boy who always imagined himself to be a cinematic Indian warrior.
I watched the movies and saw the kind of Indian I was supposed to be.
A cinematic Indian is supposed to climb mountains.
I am afraid of heights.
A cinematic Indian is supposed to wade into streams and sing songs.
I don’t know how to swim.
A cinematic Indian is supposed to be a warrior.
I haven’t been in a fistfight since sixth grade and she beat the crap out of me.
I mean, I knew I could never be as brave, as strong, as wise, as visionary, as white as the Indians in the movies.
I was just one little Indian boy who hated Tonto because Tonto was the only cinematic Indian who looked like me.
Sherman Alexie is the author of “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,” the screenwriter of “Smoke Signals,” and the recent winner of the 17th Taos Poetry Circus.