An Insider on the Inside

I looked at the sign: “Absolutely No Media or Press Allowed.”

I dismissed it.

I didn’t think it applied to me. And I had good reason. But to understand why, one must understand the story behind the sign, and why I was in a position to read it.

The sign was posted on a public building on Minnesota’s Red Lake Reservation. I was drawn to the building and the reservation by death, several weeks ago. The last time I had been in Red Lake I was with my mother, sister, nieces, nephews and in-laws for a powwow. It was a good time. Drummers sang. People laughed. We danced.

But my recent trip to the land of the Anishinabe took me to a place unlike the one in my memory. In the days following the deadly shooting spree at the local high school, I entered a land of sorrow.

On Monday, March 21, a 16-year-old Red Lake tribal citizen, Jeff Weise, shot nine people on the Red Lake Reservation before turning the gun on himself.

A journalism colleague from Canada’s Mohawk Nation and I both arrived in Minnesota about the same time — three full days after the killings. I had been on vacation the Monday the shootings occurred, and didn’t get back to my Montana newsroom — following a visit to relatives on the Fort Berthold Reservation in North Dakota — until Wednesday.

I had talked with my editors immediately after the shootings took place. And once in the newsroom, we talked about Red Lake news coverage. It was never a question of whether I would report — it was a matter of when.

Our papers had access to the AP wire, eliminating the need for me to file daily. At one point, it was suggested I wait a few weeks before visiting the community. But by the end of the day, I told my editors I felt I should leave immediately — not for the quick-hit news story, but to show respect to the grieving community.

My visit would also allow me to meet sources for the in-depth story to come. My editors agreed. I booked a flight, and arrived Thursday. Even though the first funerals hadn’t taken place, already about half the media corps was gone.

But the damage had already been done.

My Mohawk colleague, Kenneth Deer, complained that he and I — both Native reporters — were left to deal with the baggage created by the mostly white press corps.

When reporters initially descended upon Red Lake, tribal leadership reacted to their presence by clamping down, and limiting their access to tribal citizens. At one point, reporters were confined to a fenced area near the tribe’s detention complex.

I spoke with a spiritual leader on the reservation who left me with an image of reporters as killer bees. By the time I arrived, several press corps members had been escorted off the reservation.

Deer and I weren’t sure how we were going to handle what lay ahead. I talked with several Native community members about press restrictions. I asked them about the “No Media” sign, and they told me they didn’t think it applied to me. And at one point, I was invited into the tribe’s most traditional community for a wake.

On Saturday, people began to gather for the double funeral of the shooter’s grandfather and his companion. Deer, who brought traditional gifts of tobacco for all 10 grieving families, and I decided to attend.

We were both aware of the “No Media,” sign posted at the entrance.

On the day of the funeral services, I walked past it and into the building. I carried no notebook, no pen. Since the service lasted nearly five and a half hours, I left the hall several times. When I’d leave, I’d walk past the reporters outside who were separated from mourners by yellow police tape.

At one point, I joined them when it looked like they had been gathered for a press conference. A woman representing the tribe was answering questions. I stepped up to hear one man ask if all reporters were banned from the funeral service.

The woman said yes.

“So, if any reporters are inside, that means they are not supposed to be there?” said the journalist.

That’s right, the woman replied.

I went back inside.

Sure, a part of me felt conflicted. But, I felt I belonged there. When I first made plans to go to Red Lake, the decision was made out of respect, and a daily story was not my mission. A second trip would allow for an in-depth story.

Admittedly, the reporter in me took hold. After being at the funeral, I made the decision to report minor details. In my experience — and by attending Native wakes and funerals throughout my life — I knew what would be acceptable for publication. The tribe could be assured — I told myself — that I wouldn’t misinterpret anything.

I can understand why Red Lake tribal leaders chose to set press boundaries. And I talked to many tribal citizens who said they were thankful for the decision. For those who wanted to talk to reporters, that should have been their right, too.

Tribal-imposed limits certainly did not stop the press. Area newspapers like the Pioneer Press, the Star Tribune and Grand Forks Herald had teams of reporters who provided full news coverage in the days following the shootings.

The stories were needed.

More stories need to be told.

But the truth is the tragedy at Red Lake is already fading from the American conscience. President Bush belied national sentiment by waiting nearly four days to publicly express sorrow for the tribe.

As a reporter covering Native America, I felt connected to the tribe’s grief. I knew the pain that had befallen their community was something being felt by Native people across the country.

Tribal communities — and their teenagers — are exposed to suicides, car accidents and alcohol-related deaths regularly. The Red Lake deaths are not an isolated incident. They are an ongoing tragedy that belongs to every Native person.

For those reasons, I felt the “No Media” sign did not apply to me. 
 
Jodi Rave covers Native issues for Lee Enterprises. This column was originally published in the Rapid City Journal, and is reprinted here with permission.