They're in all the paintings of the First Thanksgiving. And all the season's grade school plays.

Native Americans. The First Americans.

We invited them to dinner that historic day.

Then we forgot them.

And today their monumental battle to survive is nowhere on our radar. Take the suicides of young Native Americans, for example. Happening again and again in Native communities. With a suicide rate at least three times of the rest of the nation - skyrocketing to seven and ten times greater in some areas.

Unbelievable. It's time for another graduation season! And, wow, has the world changed since I was the one "commencing."

But the commencement ceremony itself? Not so much. Same sweat-a-lot robes. Same funny, flat hats with that annoying tassel. And the same lofty "we will change the world...follow your dream" speeches. Inspired by the view from the top of Mount High School.

Sadly, many will look back later from the Valley of Reality and ask, "Whatever happened to those graduation dreams?"

I've handled my share of bills in my life. But the one from the orthodontist was the best bill I ever got.

I owe Native Americans so much. We all do.

They helped the Pilgrims stay alive.

They helped create our Constitution with their model of representative government. They helped in every war our country's fought - in larger numbers per capita than any other ethnic group in America.

And they helped me.

The First Americans. The forgotten Americans. Native Americans.

A truck driving away from a warehouse wouldn't usually be the lead story on national news.

This week it was! That truck was loaded with hope! It carried the first shipment of an anti-COVID vaccine. And that might be the biggest news of all this relentlessly painful year!

By Brad Hutchcraft

Life is definitely different nowadays. Including planning family vacations. After being very careful and sticking close to home the past several weeks (due to some at-risk health factors), it was time to get away for a few family days. After exploring some options where we could still be careful but could also stretch our legs, we took the camping plunge!

So my son goes in the Post Office to pick up mail from his box. He comes out laughing. I ask what's so funny. "I just came out of a United States Post Office wearing a mask! Can you imagine that four months ago?"

When the shocking news of Kobe Bryant's sudden death broke, it really hit like losing someone you knew.

I see it in the Native American young people who are so much a part of my life and my work. Like Amy. She's an overcomer - depression, abuse, trauma. For her, basketball has offered relief from reservation despair. She says, "Kobe inspired me."

A lot of our Native "sons and daughters" proudly wear their Kobe jersey. Because he "inspired" them. As one young Native leader and friend said, "It looks like we're all in a state of mourning."

I got to visit my very intelligent grandson on the campus of his new college last week. Wall-to-wall with students like him. I got to use the three big words I know.

He's a freshman there. No, he's a '23. Every student I met was a number. From 20 to 23. It's like part of their name. "Emily Smith, '21."

I like labels. In a grocery store. It's good to know what you're about to put in your body.

I also don't like labels. On people. Because - unlike the grocery labels - they don't tell you what's inside.

In our very confusing, very complicated, very combative world, we find it easier just to put people in convenient categories. Often based on flawed stereotypes. "If I know your 'tribe,' I know you." Not necessarily. I've been wrong too many times about a person because of some category. Then I got to know some members of that "tribe." And found out they were so much more.