In high school I dated a white woman. She would come to visit me

Host:
The night air hung heavy over the reservation, filled with the scent of wood smoke, sage, and the far-off crackle of a campfire. The sky stretched above in an endless black canvas dusted with stars — ancient and silent witnesses. The crickets sang their slow, restless rhythm, and the faint hum of a pickup truck faded somewhere down the dirt road.

At the edge of an open field, under a weathered basketball hoop where the paint had long since peeled away, Jack sat on the hood of his old truck, staring at the dark line of the hills. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against the door, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her breath fogging in the cool air.

The firelight from a nearby house flickered, and between them hung a quiet — the kind of quiet born of memory.

Jeeny: softly “Sherman Alexie once said — ‘In high school I dated a white woman. She would come to visit me on the rez. And her dad, who was very racist, didn't like that at all. And he told her one time, “You shouldn't go on the rez if you're white because Indians have a lot of anger in their heart.”’”

Jack: letting out a slow exhale “Yeah. That sounds like the world talking to itself through fear.”

Jeeny: nodding “Fear pretending to be wisdom. That’s how prejudice always dresses up.”

Host:
The wind picked up, stirring the dust along the gravel road. A stray dog barked in the distance. The sound echoed across the flat land, breaking the stillness.

Jack looked down, running his thumb over the hood’s cool metal. His voice came low — not angry, but heavy.

Jack: quietly “I grew up near a place like this. I remember the way outsiders looked at it — like it was some kind of scar on the map. They saw poverty, not people. Anger, not history.”

Jeeny: softly “Because they never listened long enough to know the difference.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. They call it anger, but it’s not anger. It’s grief — generations deep. It’s memory trying to breathe.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And grief looks like rage to those who’ve never had to carry it.”

Host:
The sound of the wind slipped through the grass. A lone coyote howled from the edge of the woods, mournful and alive.

Jeeny’s eyes were thoughtful as she spoke, her voice low and careful.

Jeeny: quietly “Alexie’s words aren’t just about racism. They’re about how people mistake pain for hostility — how they judge what they don’t understand. That father saw anger. But maybe what he really saw was reflection — the kind that makes people uncomfortable.”

Jack: softly “The mirror of guilt.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. He didn’t see a boy in love. He saw the truth of what his own history had done.”

Jack: leaning forward, voice rougher now “That’s what people mean when they say the land remembers. It’s not superstition — it’s conscience.”

Host:
A faint light flickered in the window of a nearby house. Somewhere, a child laughed — high, fleeting, free. It cut through the night like music against silence.

Jack looked toward it, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: quietly “You know, that line — ‘Indians have a lot of anger in their heart’ — it’s the kind of thing people say to build a fence around themselves. As if by naming someone else’s pain, they can keep it from touching them.”

Jeeny: softly “And all it does is make the distance wider. It’s tragic — love trying to cross a bridge that prejudice keeps burning.”

Jack: after a pause “You think love can survive that kind of ignorance?”

Jeeny: quietly “Sometimes. But not always. Because love isn’t just feeling — it’s permission. And the world doesn’t always grant that easily.”

Host:
The truck’s engine ticked softly as it cooled. The stars above grew sharper — closer, almost — as if the universe leaned in to listen.

Jeeny turned to look at him, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: softly “Alexie was telling us something simple but devastating — that even when love tries, history interferes. That young love carries centuries it didn’t ask for.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. It’s not just two people meeting. It’s two stories colliding — one allowed to forget, one forced to remember.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And yet, they still tried. That’s the part that gets me. That girl came to the rez anyway. She stepped into his world knowing her father disapproved. That’s courage.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Love always looks like rebellion when the world’s still learning to be human.”

Host:
A long silence fell between them — not empty, but full. The air buzzed with everything unsaid: love, pain, defiance, the quiet ache of understanding.

Jeeny pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, eyes distant.

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? How love exposes what the world tries to hide. Two people simply caring for each other can unravel generations of fear.”

Jack: quietly “Because love tells the truth — and truth, when you’re not ready for it, feels like anger.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. The father saw rage because he didn’t have language for justice. For history. For guilt.”

Jack: softly “So he chose fear. It’s easier to fear what you’ve wronged than to face it.”

Host:
The firelight from the nearby house dimmed. The night deepened — the kind of deep that holds both sorrow and peace.

Jeeny looked up at the stars, her voice quiet but steady.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think the real tragedy isn’t that the father said those words. It’s that the boy probably already knew them before he ever heard them.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. When the world tells you what you’re worth before you’ve even had the chance to live, love feels like trespassing.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet — they love anyway. That’s what makes it holy.”

Host:
The camera would linger now — on the two of them under the vast sky, the earth stretching wide and endless beneath their feet. The stars blinked like old truths, indifferent but eternal.

The wind moved again — gentle this time — carrying the scent of smoke, soil, and something almost like forgiveness.

And in that quiet, Sherman Alexie’s words would echo — not just a memory, but a mirror:

“In high school I dated a white woman. She would come to visit me on the rez. And her dad, who was very racist, didn't like that at all. And he told her one time, ‘You shouldn't go on the rez if you're white because Indians have a lot of anger in their heart.’”

Because prejudice is fear disguised as certainty.

It is history whispering through generations,
teaching children to inherit wounds they never earned.

But love —
love is the defiance of that inheritance.

It steps over fences,
visits the places labeled forbidden,
and says, “You are not what they say you are.”

Yes, there is anger in the heart —
but beneath it,
there is memory,
and beneath that,
a quiet, unending dignity
that even hate cannot rewrite.