Reservations

Bellecourt told stories while we ate, mostly about Marlon Brando, who famously rejected the Academy Award in 1973 in support of the American Indians at Wounded Knee. One afternoon in the mid-‘70s, Vern Bellecourt and his brother, Clyde, were in California and decided to drop in on Brando at his house on Mulholland Drive. These were the days when AIM members had automatic caché in Hollywood. Brando opened the door himself and welcomed them; he’d just finished filming Apocalypse Now (a film no one had yet heard of), and he was enormous. Bellecourt stops here to gesture: a huge, belly that protruded nearly to his knees. The brothers asked Brando how he’d gotten so fat, and he responded that he’d done it for a role, drinking three or four chocolate milkshakes a day.

On a whim, Bellecourt’s story continued, Brando decided to use them in a series of public service announcements about the plight of Indian people. Together, the three filmed all afternoon. After a dozen takes, Brando told his people to order some food catered in; it was set out in the dining room. Unfortunately, when Brando’s dogs got in the way of the filming, they, too, were placed there. When the three men had finished for the day, they went to eat their belated lunch and found nothing left but a shred of pastrami. Over a second round of food, Brando told the brothers he’d recently been contacted about taking a role in the upcoming Superman movie. What did they think? Would it diminish his credibility in any way?

The entire vignette had the cadence of a story told many times to many different audiences. But Bellecourt is a master, and he kept the crowd at the barbecue — mostly Indian, surely familiar with the tale — entranced.

After Brando, talk turned to Johnny Depp — a protégé of Marlon Brando’s and AIM’s newest hope for a mega-star advocate. He’s contacted many of the members over the years and explored the idea of doing a movie about their plight. Each member told his story about a missed phone call or a meeting with Depp that didn’t quite materialize.

“I guess he was too busy making Pirates of the Caribbean 19,” someone said. The elders nodded but did not respond. It was clear they’re still hoping to bring Johnny Depp along.

As a group, they’re unhappy with the way Indian stories have been told. “ Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee should have been called Bury the TRUTH at Wounded Knee,” Beane said.

Bill Means, one of the originators of the global International Indian Treaty Council and a milder man than the others, suggested a structure like Crash to tell the modern story of American Indians. “We need to show different families from different tribes,” he said. “But they’re all connected somehow.” Everyone agreed that would work well, if only they could raise the money.

I was so busy listening and eating, I failed to register the man who came in late, wearing a red t-shirt and a long ponytail. He found a chair in the corner, next to Westerman and ate hungrily. Finally, when his plate was nearly empty, he raised his head and I saw. I went over. “Dennis?” I asked.

He nodded, swallowed, put out a hand. “Looks like you got here before me,” he said. “Hear anything good?”

I handed my plate to one of the young women collecting them, moved my chair across the porch next to Banks, and asked him to tell me about his business. I’d looked for information on the Internet, but though the business has been running for nearly a decade, I found only two links — one a defunct website, the other a months-old screen that a new page for Dennis Banks Natural Foods Company is coming soon.

He shrugged. “We make over 150 gallons of maple syrup a year, also blueberry syrup, blackberry, cranberry, and chokecherry. There’s another one I call blue-maple, where I mix blueberries and maple syrup; that’s my favorite.”

“And your wild rice?” I asked. “Is it native or cultivated?”

He looked startled. “It’s real, native rice. I harvest about 15,000 pounds every year.”

“And where can people buy it?” I’d just eaten a large meal. Even so, blue-maple syrup sounded awfully good.

“Oh, you can’t,” Banks said. “This was a personal economic decision. I don’t sell in the U.S. because then the USDA would get involved and I’d have to pay for an organic seal. So I sell everything to Japan instead; that’s the only way to get the prices I want. And it’s easy because I have only one buyer: Masaou Yamamoto. He has a lot of restaurants in Tokyo.”

I blinked. At least, I suspect I did. “But what about Indian people? Aren’t the children suffering from rising rates of diabetes? Don’t they need natural foods more than restaurant-goers in Tokyo?”

“Everyone on Leech Lake can get rice and berries,” Banks told me. “It’s tribal land. If they want to eat good food, it’s there. But many of them don’t.”

“The reservations are like economic concentration camps,” Westerman added. “Unemployment and government-issue commodities. We need to educate our people to get off fry bread; but the taste for it is still there.”

What about other reservations? I asked. Pine Ridge, for example — where there are no lakes filled with wild rice.

“Uh, we’re doing the Longest Walk again next year,” Banks offered. “All the way from Alcatraz Island to Washington, D.C. That helps combat diabetes, too.” He spotted someone in the dimming light and turned to me. “Are we done? I see someone I should talk to.” I nodded, and he ambled off.

Westerman stayed to talk, and I moved closer. He has the long gray hair and mesmerizing voice of Willie Nelson, but a carriage and mystique that’s closer to some minor god. “There is a complete breakdown and failure of tribal governments to see food as a priority for children,” he intoned. “Bill Means tells a story about the advent of casinos. An elder said, ‘A shiny wagon was coming to town; it was pulled by horses and made of silver dollars, and it glistened in the sun. Then it got closer, and I saw there were people who were on it, and others who were trying to get on it but being pushed off. Children were crying on the wayside.’” He paused and nodded. “That’s what’s happening on the reservations. We’re leaving our children behind.”