...I trust the Jews with my tears. I once told a rabbi how I felt about Jewish people. I confessed, “I know if I really wanted to cry my heart out, I could come here (the synagogue) in the sanctuary, and just cry. No one would make me feel embarrassed. No one would shame me. No one would ask any questions. Everyone would understand. The Jews know.”

What would I be crying about?

The Indian story. It’s taken me many years to face it, but in my Comanche blood is written the worst historical trauma of all: to be free as the wind, then caged forever; to roam the prairie like a wild horse, then to be roped into everlasting confinement. Yes, I cry for an irreparable, tragic past. It is a doleful drone in my soul, a long, lonely drum beat.

I don’t know how to describe the sorrow. For all my education in the arts, I am mute. I have no voice. Yet...

...I haven’t killed my fears yet. I’m still afraid of the Indian tragedy within me. For now, I find my voice in the ancient wailing of another people. I indulge myself through their exquisite articulations. I hide behind the Jews.