The voice on the other end had an ominous sense of urgency. He opened with, “We're running. I can't take this **** anymore.” As per our last conversation I knew that he was talking about running for council, but “this ****” could mean any number of things these days. Unfortunately in that instance it meant another suicide on our little reserve. Another young girl takes her life in the early hours of the morning, the third in the last year or so. And before those, a father shot to death (father to one of the suicide victims), a promising youth dies in a drunk driving accident, and before that another suicide. Gradually, incessantly, our former sanctuary has become an extremely depressing place for disillusioned young people who can't see beyond the jagged borders that define their existence.

For the last few years I've worked and gone to school off the reserve and it might seem to the casual observer that I am on some valiant variation of a path that's supposed to lead to a twisted red version of the North American dream. Leaving the reserve to better ourselves financially is not a sellout we tell ourselves. It's just the way of things. The truth is that my reserve has become, for me, a familiar horror movie. The plot is twisted and is tightening, but in this picture the victims are people that I've known all my life. For someone with a weak lingering moral compass it's a welcome reprieve to be away for school. But that's bull****. Because to grow and aim for any meaningful morality means doing what's right even when it's absolutely daunting. One flirts with the idea of taking a last minute flight into some jungle-filled South American country and just blending in with the natives. Que pa sa, amigos.