“I’m not sure. Maybe as many as a hundred.”
Danya surveyed the faces on the ferry.
“I don’t think there are that many on this boat.”
“Don’t expect every protestor to look like an Indian. I mean, you’re participating, right?”
We’ll see. Danya was still apprehensive about placing herself in a situation that might involve police interaction.
“Besides,” Toby said, “more may arrive on later ferries.”
The ship slowed as it approached the dock, and with a small bump of the fenders, came to a stop. Once the mooring lines were secured to bollards fore and aft, the gangway was put in place, and the passengers offloaded in single file.
Many peopled milled about the dock area, seeing the structures of the former penal institution up close for the first time. The large apartment block dominated the view. It was originally constructed as barracks for soldiers when the island was a military prison, and then remodeled to provide housing for correctional officers and their families when the prison was transferred to civilian control. High up on the wall of the five-story building was a sign identifying Alcatraz as a federal penitentiary. Just above the sign, in red, was the greeting Indians Welcome. Hand-painted in 1969, it was a reminder that the former federal prison was occupied by indigenous Americans.
Danya and Toby followed a sea of people moving past a block of restrooms, toward the old guard tower.
“We’re supposed to meet at the base of the tower,” Toby said. “I think we’re going to be given pamphlets to hand out to visitors. And maybe some signs, too.”
“Why Alcatraz?” Danya said.
“This is where the modern movement really began. According to the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, any unoccupied land could be rightfully reclaimed and taken back by the tribes. Since President Kennedy closed and abandoned the prison here in 1963, it was our treaty right to claim this island. Plus, it’s only a mile or so from San Francisco. Initially, it was mostly a student group that had organized in the Bay Area. They called themselves Indians of All Tribes. On November twentieth, 1969, a boat carrying members from twenty tribes landed on Alcatraz. That initial group numbered seventy-nine, and included family members, women, and children. More activists came later.”
Danya said, “Being in the middle of the California Bay Area would make this a convenient, and strategic, location for a protest.”
“Yes, but it was also symbolic. Alcatraz was federal property. And Indians of All Tribes was taking it, just as the federal government had taken our lands.”
“What happened? Why didn’t the movement continue to gain momentum?”
Toby shrugged. “Hard to say. I think the public lost interest in yet another civil rights movement. Maybe they thought AIM was too militant. You know, not long after the occupation of Alcatraz, there were conflicts between Indians and the FBI, at Wounded Knee and Pine Ridge. Those events turned public opinion against us. And many of my people still don’t trust the FBI.”
Off to the side of the path, a group of people were gathering flyers. Toby grabbed a few dozen sheets, which consisted of a list of broken treaties dating back two hundred years. At the bottom was a chronological list of several massacres carried out by the US Army, against native populations, mostly women and children. On the reverse side, a historical black-and-white photo documented Native American corpses littering the village at Wounded Knee. Another showed a mass grave with bodies of Indian women and children stacked three-deep. The flyer was professionally produced with high-resolution images. The organization’s web address was provided at the bottom of the page, beneath the photos, along with a call for support.
“Offer these to everyone you see,” said the organizer, a barrel-chested man in his late twenties.
He wore a ball cap embroidered with the words American Indian Movement overlaid on an eagle feather.
“Ask people to write their representatives and demand recognition of tribal rights guaranteed by treaties,” he said.
“What are these for?” Toby picked up an arm band from the table next to the flyers.
The barrel-chested man said, “It identifies you as a member of the protest. Put one on your arm, over your clothing so it’s easily visible. Take one for your friend, too. We want everyone to know who’s here peacefully supporting our cause.”
Toby picked up two and handed one to Danya. They were printed on some type of durable paper, like the wrist bands they put on hospital patients, but many times wider. The design was a copy of a classic Plains Indian beadwork band, a style worn by warriors.
“These are beautiful. My name’s Toby.” She extended her hand to the organizer. “I’m from the Modoc and Klamath tribes.”
“Nice to meet you, Toby. I’m Clyde Means.” His grip was firm.
Several protestors were hoisting signs and chanting, attracting the attention of some of the visitors.
“Stay nearby,” Clyde said. “We’re expecting more supporters on the next ferry. It will arrive in about thirty minutes. We’ll get everyone organized on the dock, and then shoot video for the news stations.”
“Are you expecting any reporters?” Toby said.
“I hope so. Nothing confirmed yet, but we put the word out.”
Danya looked across the dock and saw a gathering group of park rangers taking note of the protestors. If they decided to question the demonstrators, she didn’t want any part of it.
“Why don’t you stay here,” she said to Toby. “I know this is important for you. I’m going to take a short walk, and then I’ll be back when the next ferry arrives.”
“But I thought you were also going to participate?”
“Don’t worry. While everything is getting set up and organized, I’d like to at least see the outside of the cell house.” Danya pointed toward the highest location on the tiny island, where the imposing three-floor concrete blockhouse stood next to the tall and slender lighthouse. “Besides, I’ll bet the view from up there, across the bay to San Francisco, is amazing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be back here again.”
Toby smiled. “Of course. I’m
