Our migration to Minneapolis started with my Uncle Dale. My family has always been musical. My uncle was in all kinds of Country Western and Country Western Blues bands. Sometime in the ’70s he got a gig in Minneapolis at an old bar right on Nicollet Ave. He came back and said, “Its AMAZING there! There’s the American Indian Movement, incredible bands… I’m moving, I’m getting out of the prairie for awhile…”

One by one, the rest of my family followed.

We are from North Dakota–the Three Affiliated Tribes – NuE’ta, Sahnish, Hidatsa–all within the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation. My ma said she always wanted to get out of Twin Buttes, North Dakota. She was raised in a log cabin with a dirt floor. When she first saw Star Trek on a friend’s TV, it changed her. The whole world outside of her Rez was like the cantina in Star Wars, and she wanted to see it.

Minneapolis was exactly what Mom wanted. Her brothers were playing in bands and the Indigenous movement was going from protest, to creating organizations. She helped start the first Indian clinic in St. Paul.

My dad had worked at the the Red School House, but they sent me to Bancroft Elementary, where I was one of four Indians — and two of them were my sisters. I had long hair. Everyday I would fight someone who pulled my hair and called me a girl. That went on until 9th grade.

My mom let my sisters transfer to Red School House, Heart of the Earth Survival School, and Center School. When I asked to go there, my mom and dad said no. My grandma said, “If you want to hang out with Indians all day you can stay home with gramma and do the dishes. The world is filled with all kinds of people, not just Mandans. It’s important for you to be able to talk to all kinds of people.”

The places that I’ve been on the short time that I’ve been on this big old turtle have been pretty amazing and I attribute that to my mom and grandma insisting that I go a little farther.

Golden Eagles Baseball Team. Twin Cities Champs, circa 1993.

I was always a shy kid around non-Native people. At Folwell Junior High there were only a few more Indians.

It was Indian youth leadership groups that helped me build confidence. The Soaring/Golden Eagles and an Indigenous theater troupe helped me get out of my shell. In High school I got an internship for the Circle newspaper’s Native youth-run and produced paper New Voices.

In high school we moved to Corcoran neighborhood and our first house. The only other Indians in the neighborhood were our relatives. My mom became a caseworker for Ruben Lindh Family Services and my dad went from every-once-in-a-while construction jobs to full-time work for a big old construction management company. My parents wanted us to have something a little bit better. The house wasn’t big enough for all of us, but it was ours.

In Corcoran I lived down the block from my very first non-Indian friend. Shane Caird and I were inseparable. My older sisters called him our Albino brother. We produced our very own single- issue comic book, “The Adventures of Super Shane and Mighty Vince.”

We were three blocks from Roosevelt High School, but coaches at South High saw me play football for Sibley Park and recruited me. I was always deceivingly fast and had lots of what they called “upper body violence”. They said, “There are all kinds of Indians in a program called All Nations. You’re going to love it.”

Shane was upset. We only cried once about it.

South is the most diverse school in the city. I met my first Somali friend there. His name was Mohammad Mohammad. I thought that was cool and wanted to be Vincent Vincent, but then he explained to me who Mohammad was.

I wasn’t good at school. I could do the tests really well, but I could not sit still. I got in trouble. My friends and I were stealing cars in the neighborhood. The first time I got caught, they took me to JDC, but because I looked older, they put me in with the adults.

My mom and dad — activists from the sixties and seventies —had always told me, “If the cops get you, don’t say nothin.” So I didn’t. Luckily, one of the cops who worked at South saw me and me said “What is he doing here?”

While I was at the JDC, I had a moment. I thought “I don’t want this.”

My parents yelled at me that whole Halloween, and then I had to go to private school. I tested so well, I got into Blake School but my mom said it looked like one of those schools from TV where all the mean White people go, so I went to Minnehaha Academy. I lasted seven weeks. I came home and my parents asked me – how was it? I told them about a math problem they gave us:

“If Jesus had five apples…” They want us to figure out how many apples Jesus would have. I answered “Jesus is magic. He could have as many apples as he wanted.”

My dad was not about Jesus. I went back to South and put my head down and studied.

My freshman year in the All Nations program, there were 200 Indian students in my class. The second year, 75, the third, fifteen. I graduated with six Indians — and a bunch of others who were from other schools, but wanted to graduate with us at South. I still have the picture of us sitting there. All Nations Awards Graduation Banquet Dinner, South High School, 1998.

Four of us played for the Golden Eagles. For the most part, we had strong male and female role models in our houses. David Paul Saice Jr., Jesse James Strong, George Noodin Spears. I’ve known them for forever and a day. My friends who didn’t make it through South? All but one are still trying to get right. And they will. Indians are stubborn. When we set our minds to something, it doesn’t matter how long it takes, we’ll get it done.

Theater also saved me. I went to theater boot camp in Phillips taught by Spider Woman Theater. These New York Indian ladies were sweet but tough. You fooled around you were out. When I was in Junior High, Sharon Day started a Native youth theater troupe, called the Ogitchidaag Gikinomaagaad (“Warrior Teacher” in Anishinaabe) Players.

We performed plays for AIDS awareness, drugs and alcohol, and a big list of other topics. In 1992-3, AIDS was an epidemic on reservations. Sharon got money to travel to reservations across the country. We went to nearly every state, traveling by van and airplane. For the play, “My Grandmother’s Love,” we performed monologues about our grammas.

I won the Outstanding Youth Award for my work with the Ogitchidag Gikinoamaagad Players. Right after high school, I went to the Centre for Indigenous Theatre in Toronto, to perfect my craft.

Then I came home to Minneapolis and I got myself in trouble. I ended up burning every bridge. I was 20. You couldn’t tell me nothin. All these awards, writing, acting — I had a pretty big head. I ended up homeless, living on the streets. If you are 20 and homeless, you will have a mental breakdown. I ended up at HCMC, and from there Catholic Charities.

My mom and dad loved me, however their addiction to alcohol and drugs created an environment where we could do whatever we wanted. My sisters as well. Our structure was loose, because just trying to keep the lights on was an adventure. Sometimes when I’d come home from a weekend trip with the troupe or a football game at South and the lights would be off–though only for a couple of days. We were all really smart, so we could always fall back on, “Well, I’m doing well in school… ”

By 2002, I was climbing out of it. I got my own studio apartment downtown. I went from owning a backpack, to having a place of my own. I started acting again. Children’s Theater was doing heavier plays for their Black Box series. They were going to do One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I said great – what will I play? The director said, “Nurse Ratchett.” I was like, alright , cool! He said “I’m kidding. I want you to play the narrator.”

I met my partner, Megan, through Cuckoos’ Nest. One of her friends was one of the orderlies in the cast. He asked me to go out to Burnsville to a bowling alley. (I had never gone to Burnsville. They used to have an Indian head for their high school mascot.) When I walked in, I thought, “Holy smacks, that lady is pretty.” I told her as much that night.

I moved down to Winona to be with Megan, while she finished her degree in Political Science and Women’s Studies. I got a job at the Green Mill and later at The Blue Heron coffee shop.

Damn, Winona is racist. They invented their own Indian maiden myth and put her on a statue in the middle of town. Across from the court-house where all the judges and police hang out, is the Red Men Club. In it are photos of White men — lawyers, cops, judges, dressed up in feathers holding fake spears. And they have that statue of the Indian slumped over — “End of the Trail” — sculpted by a White guy.

Winona State University asked me, “How do we get more Indians here?” I said, “First, you shouldn’t have kicked out the Santee Dakota who are from here. Second, you shouldn’t have this effigy to the dying of my race. I’m standing right here, my brown-skinned self! Indians don’t want to look at that.” Their response was to hire another White sculpture to put some positive Indian imagery around the dying Indian. I said, “Good luck with that. This is a very racist town and I’m out of here.”

Megan and I moved to North Dakota. She became an intern for Senator Kent Conrad, and then worked for the Prevent Child Abuse North Dakota. With her resume built up, we headed back to South Minneapolis.

I knew that I would need her White resume, if we were going to be able to build a life for ourselves. Because, even in South Minneapolis, even with a degree, even the Indian organizations don’t hire us too much.

There are four types of Indians: the urban, suburban, rural and rez. Most people don’t realize that rural Indians are not the same as rez Indians. The non-profit Indian organizations in Phillips only seem to hire light-skinned Indians who grew up in suburbia or other places where they were the only Indians in their communities. I don’t know why. Indian Health Board, Native American Community Development Institute, American Indian Center, Little Earth, Native American Community Clinic — go into any of those places and you will see mostly light-skinned and/or suburban Indians working. A small percentage are people from the neighborhood. I could speculate on why this is, but I don’t really know.

Megan was excited to move to the city. I had an opportunity to finish my degree at Augsburg College, but for the most part, I was scared to move home.

Augsburg was open to all types of Indians, but what they really wanted was the “safe” suburban Indians – those who know how to operate in this world. They elected me to the American Indian Student Association. That was a big scary thing. Some of those Indians were really entitled people. I called out one guy for being mean to other Indians. His mom came down and everyone bowed down to her. I guess when you offer to buy the Indian student group hats and jackets, you can make moves like that.

That is when I realized I was not cut out for college. I could not kiss anyone’s ass. It was tough be in one class learning about how Indigenous nations were forced to convert to Christianity to survive, and then go to my mandatory theology class where the instructor told us to, “Think of this as Sunday school, because it is.”

I had gone to a technical college. I planned to finish my degree in Information Business Management at Augsburg. I lasted two semesters and then the perfect storm hit. My older brother passed away. Fortunately, before I left I took a few non-management classes: Intro to Acting, American Indian Studies, and Poetry 101, with Cary Waterman.

I took poetry so I would have more to talk about with this writer who had given me a copy of her poetry book, back when I was an intern at The Circle in high school. Cary Waterman was awesome. That 90 days was like my second birth.

I had thought my art was acting. The way I learned to write at the Circle was, right down the middle and you piss both sides off. I never thought I’d be able to do creative writing.

Waterman wanted us pick a poet to be our mentor. Other students chose Walt Whitman, Shakespeare. I didn’t realize she meant we were supposed to read their work. I asked the poet I met in high school to be my mentor.

I told the other students, “We went to a coffee shop and talked for an hour….” One of the kids who wrote for the student paper said: “that woman was the poet laureate of Augsburg College.”

I was like, “Dope! I’ll tell her.” I felt like I messed up. I didn’t realize they were impressed.

Mentored by this great Indigenous writer, I started writing poems. That changed my life. She waved her hand and the hallway of closed doors opened up. She told me: “ You’ve got agency in your braids.”

A year later I won my first Jerome Foundation Grant. My mentor told me that was big.

I was ready to go to my first professional Indian writers conference: Returning the Gift: Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers, held at palatial old University of Wisconsin men’s dorm. Those White fuckers had a mansion. Now it was the mansion that Indian Writers Built. I walked in and saw Jim Northrup, laughing and teasing Joy Harjo . Gary Farmer, Denise Sweet, Wade Fernandez, Susan Power were coming down the stairs talking with Heid E. Erdrich….

My mentor said, “I think you should try the poetry slam. If you win this you go to the next round and they pay for it.”

I was like — “Pay for it? Pay for Indians?”

She said there is only one other Indian champ, Sherman Alexie.

I thought OK, I’ll go and do my poem and get the hell out of here.

I sat at this table, with Norb Jones, at the conference to win the poetry slam. On the other side of me was Charlie Hill, who had worked for Richard Pryor. He was one of the judges. There were Indians from Canada, Hawaii, Mexico, the Sami even. They were all there to compete. Some were reading from published books.

I got up and put my two worlds — writing and acting — together. The first bout I got all tens.

The championship was the next day. Me against Norb Jones. I won. That was it. I was a writer. I started winning every Minnesota poetry grant you could win.

I went with my mentor, to the Turtle Mountain Writers Retreat and Workshop. Dr. Gordon Henry was there. He asked me, “Do you have 90 poems?” I thought he was asking me, “How much do you write? Are you working hard enough?”

My mentor said — “Ninety poems is a book. He’s asking if you have enough for a book. He runs a press, dumdum”

The rest of the time there is a blur. I only remember that he paid for dinner.

My mentor told me to take my time getting the work together. She said “It took me five years. You are in this one year and some change. Take your time.”

But then, someone showed my Youtube videos to Sherman Alexie.

He was in town, at the Fitzgerald Theater. My friend was a DJ for the event. We got box seats. I was planning to go up to him afterward and tell him he should stop writing positively about fry bread and Pepsi; he’s giving us all diabetes. During the sound check he looked up at me from the stage. “There is an Indian in Lincoln’s seat. Watch out they are going to shoot you.”

After his performance, he hung out with a group of Indian kids from one of Indian Schools for about an hour. I thought, “He is a really good dude.” Then he looked up at me and motioned, “Come on down here.”It was one of those movie moments. Sherman Alexie just called me down.

He said “How’s it going? Your name is Vince.”

I thought “My name IS Vince.”

“People have been sending me your videos. Do you write them down?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to show me them?”

I said “Well, they are being looked over by Dr. Henry at University of Michigan Press, I don’t think I can….”

He said “I know Gordy. It’s OK. Send them to me.”

He asked “Do you have any of my books for me to sign?”

I said “I don’t have any of your books. I read em and I give em to my Aunts and my mom to read. So he said “Do you have anything for me to sign?”

I pulled off one of my red Pumas and he signed it: “Less fry bread, more running. ”That’s when I realized he read my tweets.

When he was back in town, speaking at Macalester, I emailed him: “What do you think of my poems?” I thought he was going to break it down – tell me what to work on — tell me to read more of this or that poet. He wrote back, “You know you’re pretty good right?”

That was it! I thought I was going to catch some knowledge. We went a year. I finally sent him another email.

Sometimes it’s problematic to be Sherman Alexie. Sometimes he makes decisions he shouldn’t make. I told him he can’t talk for all Indians…

His email back said, “I’ve been writing this email to you for five days. I write, delete, write, delete. I’ve been having this conversation with Indians on and off the reservation for 25 years. For you– I am going to give a to-do list.”

All the things I wanted to hear were there, and other things like: “Eat More Salads” and “Run more.”

**********

Recently I was in North Dakota, driving out of Bismarck, when I got a text from Sherman. It said, “Write me a story about an Indian kid.” That was it. I thought, “Doesn’t he know I just write poetry?”

I started writing.

It’s all moving pretty fast. It scares me. I was an actor when I was a kid. I even went out to LA and auditioned during pilot season. I was Indian-famous, which is like being a Z-level celebrity. It was awful. I had to learn that lesson hard. I have learned that there are so many tertiary people who want to have a piece of you. I had to push those people away. I am learning to create a bubble around myself. All I can do is what I can do. That’s me. That’s where I’m at. I’ve made some big mistakes recently, but I’ll learn. Then I drove over here to talk to you.

R. Vincent Moniz, Jr. Performing his work.

Minneapolis Project.