It is dusk on the Red Lake reservation, and the stern face of the police officer peers down at me through the open driver’s side window. His glare only reinforces the guilt I feel at having been pulled over. I nod compliantly, and apologize again.
_____
Everyone knows that jolt of dread - it is the worst feeling in the world! It’s that moment, peering into a rear-view mirror, when one sees a squad car flip around and those lights go on! And though there is an old myth on the reservation that no one ever gets pulled over on the rez (the police there are too busy handling bigger problems - meth dens, gang activity, unruly alcohol induced violence, etc.), when you cut a cop off so you can pass the person in front of you who is already maxing the speed limit… it is pretty blatantly obvious that you are going to be pulled over.
As I watch the two-toned patrol vehicle speeding up to my back bumper, I am giving myself a mental lashing! As part of our non-profit’s evening schedule, I am responsible for the programmatic elements - the entertainment and educational portions of the service engagement. I am rushing to beat the group back to our site in order to make sure everything is moving forward on time. But, our organization has stressed SO MANY TIMES that they nary tolerate traffic infractions! We are meant to be on or under the speed limit, and we had to take and pass a defensive driving course, which we are meant to follow to the minutiae of detail.
How could I let this happen?!
Am I about to get a ticket?
How does that work on the reservation?
Wait…am I about to lose my job?! Since this gig offers room and board, much of my earnings are meant to be savings toward my expenses the rest of the year!
My anxiety begins to spiral. I immediately begin to sweat.
The officer flings open his driver side door, exits, slams it forcefully, and marches up to my vehicle. My window is already down, and he positions himself in the frame of the aperture. With a small notebook in his hand, he leaves his sunglasses on. Still, I can feel his pupils (unblinking, I assume) burning into me. His face is close to mine, and I can feel his breath.
He is not amused.
Beyond the possible immediate personal consequences, when the policeman takes my information, I become dreadfully aware of a strange paradigm that heightens the situation. Red Lakers truly believe themselves to be a foreign country, an independent nation. This is because the seven Ojibwe tribes that comprise the commonwealth are unique from many other American Indian nations in that they rejected the Dawes Act in 1887. This would have allowed the federal government to divide up communal tribal land into private ownership, and it would have relocated many of the residents onto other allotted reservations. The act was a tool used for decades afterward to cede much Native land to the government by forcing the residents, who culturally understood land to be collectively held, into the capitalist structure of proprietorship. Often, these holdings were lost to deals the people did not totally understand or entered into out of desperation.
But, because the tribes of Red Lake rejected the initial treaty, they maintained their traditional and communal governance of their territory. To this day, as a closed reservation, they hold their tribal lands in a traditional and communal way; no one “owns” property on the reservation. Ultimately, this means their land is both their ancestral territory and, by their view, completely and sovereignly their own.
And while I am aware of this reality, the weight of it becomes painfully clear, as I sit nervously on a secluded two lane road. This “routine” traffic stop may in fact be a much greater ordeal than would normally be expected; I am treading less-than-lightly on this free and autonomous land! I am sickly stricken with the realization that I am now suddenly seen as an unruly guest in foreign territory.
The officer sternly grills me about the rental car that I drive. It is a company car, of sorts. The non-profit I work for often fills out their fleet with rentals, especially in the Summer - that is their busy time. He seems skeptical as I stammer a bit trying to explain why the car is not rented in my name. I am sure he has heard every type of excuse for why someone would be “legitimately” driving a car that does not belong to them. I flounder as I try to remember our training and the protocols my organization has for explaining why I am authorized to drive this vehicle. I hand him the proper paperwork and I even press a finger to a scratched and faded company ID with the organization’s logo.
As I continue on, the officer softens a bit. In truth, there seems to be surprise and maybe even awe in his tone as the interaction continues. It dawns on me that this sort of encounter may not be normal for him. Besides having to deal with some squirrely kid, he may not be used to someone so compliant; to have someone ready and prepared with paperwork; to have someone openly admit that they are in the wrong and so willing to accept the punishment due to them.
Maybe for him, traffic stops tend to be anything but routine. Maybe, he came into the situation geared up for any sort of altercation. Maybe, rez life has taught him to have his cackles up, even in seemingly commonplace interactions
Finally, he pauses, and his still shaded eyes seem to look me up and down. He sighs, clicks his tongue, and says,“Sir, I’m not going to write you up today. I see you are here working to help my people, and we appreciate what you are doing here. That said, the speed limit through here is _5, so please watch your speed. And, WHEN YOU ARE ON OUR LAND, YOU HAVE TO OBEY OUR RULES!”
“Yes Sir. Sorry, officer.” I muster meekly.
With that, he slams his notebook and saunters back to his patrol vehicle.
I slowly pull back onto the road and turn on my cruise control. I set it to five under the limit. I am still mentally eviscerating myself for my error in judgment, though my thumping heart begins to finally slow.
My little sedan slowly makes its way down this rural highway, which is forested on either side with tall pine trees in unending stretches. Internally, I bow my head in greater reverence for this ancient and wooded land; for this strong and storied people.
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