Was I brave when
my brothers and I faced the Border Patrol and U.S. Marshall’s guns at the take-over of Wounded Knee by the American Indian Movement? We drove past cars with Indian bumper stickers rolled in the road ditch and riddled with bullet holes. Our
car trailed a cloud of dirt road dust as we rounded a curve into the waiting guns pointed in our open windows. No, we were too young and dumb to understand our limitations, the dangers, and issues that brought American Indians into conflict again with
the federal military. Perhaps I was brave when stranded in Copan, Honduras at the Maya ruin as night approached and everyone had guns but my good friend and Marine Dr. Rudy and me. No, I was not brave. Rudy stopped a bus and got us out of
there. Maybe it was the airplane trip into the mountains of the city of Tegucigalpa, Honduras where my pilot friend said out loud, “Oh! I would not do that.” His comment created a cloud of fear for me as the 747 commercial pilot made
his approach landing. It wasn’t our time to die.