I arose before dawn on February 26, the date of my hearing for the charge of attempted murder. I stirred the fire in my small Franklin stove until it flamed, then sat wrapped in my shawl and rocked, imagining Mama’s embrace and trying again to conjure her voice but hearing only the crackling fire. All I could do was take down my bandolier bag filled with tobacco and toss a handful of it into the fire. 

“Great Spirit, help me,” I prayed, wondering whether my Ojibwe creator was strong enough to counter the white people’s vengeful God. I seemed to be suffering a punishment, although I could not say what my sin had been. 

         Oberlin College was a place wh...

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