A Book Review of Native Heart: An American Indian Odyssey by
Gabriel Horn (San Rafael, Ca: New World Library, 1993 
ISBN 1-880032-07-4)
By Sondra J. Ball
I first read this book in the early winter months of 1993-1994.  
Sometime during the first chapter, I began to feel that I had fallen 
into 
a poem, or perhaps only into a dream.  I vowed to write a poem for 
every chapter in  the book.  I didn't fulfill that vow at the time. The 
story became too overwhelming, as Horn recalled his battles with 
the Shadow People, the descendents of the Conquistadors, the oil 
tycoons, politicians, and bankers who still strive to destroy The 
People.  I followed his adventures as a young AIM activist, taking 
the pipe to Indians in prison, teaching at the Red School House in
 Minneapolis, starting an Indian artists' group.  I followed the steps 
of his developing love for his uncle Nip, his wife Simone and his 
three children.  And I felt I had nothing to match the moments he
 talked about.
But I still had that vow to fulfill.  So, this month, I picked the book 
up again.  This time I did write the poems, refusing to move on to a 
new chapter until I had at least written a first draft of a poem for the 
chapter I had just read.  It was still hard for me to do that, however. 
For again I became totally absorbed in the book.  I felt the wonder 
and joy of being Indian in a world that had tried so hard to destroy 
all Indians; the wonder and joy of having ancestors so strong that 
their capacity to love and create had survived even the holocaust, 
sweeping through more than 500 years of horror to be born anew 
into my generation.
Horn's story is compelling.  His writing is beautiful.  To show you 
something of his style, I will quote three paragraphs from chapter three 
on page 13.
"A man with cold, violent eyes raised a badge in one hand and pointed 
a gun at my head with the other.  He said something, but I didn't hear 
what he said; I only stared at the gun while my fists formed like frozen 
stones.  An icy Minnesota wind whipped wildly out of the dark.  My 
bones didn't feel the chill from the wind, only the cold in the 
stranger' s eyes.  And I wondered if this was how I was going to die.
"Behind me, seven young boys gathered in the doorway, clutching 
sticks and clubs.  They were between twelve and fifteen years old.  
They were prepared in their boyhood to fight like men.
We were the Heart of the Earth, an American Indian Movement 
survival school for native children.  The school was, however, 
closely tied with AIM, and AIM and the government of the 
United States were at war."
I loved this book.  I will probably read it again sometime.
On a scale of 0 to 10 (0 meaning  "Don't ever read this book even 
if you are slowly tortured to death for refusing to read it" and 10 
meaning "Drop everything immediately, even the baby at your breast, 
and don't do another thing until you have read it"), I give this 
book an eight.
                             Copyright 1997 sondra ball
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