“If a university is not a place where intellectual curiosity is to be encouraged, and subsidized,” the editors wrote, “then it is nothing.”

High taxes threatened “economic ruin,” said the newly elected Ronald Reagan. Welfare stood to be curbed, the highway patrol had fat to trim. Everything would be pared down; he’d start with his own office.

As I continue the balancing act between the loaded hot dog and pop back to my seat, a cheering fan bumps into my pop hand. The pop splashes out of the cup and all over my shirt, leaving me drenched. I make direct eye contact with the man who bumped into me and he looks me in the eye, looks at my shirt, tells me how sorry he is, and then I just shake my head and keep walking. “It’s all just part of the experience,” I tell myself.

. Few tastes are as American as hot dogs and soda pop, and they cannot be missed at a ball game. The smell of hot dogs carries through the park, down every aisle, and inside every concourse. They are always as unhealthy as possible, dripping in grease, while the buns are soft and always too small for the dog. The best way to wash down the Ball Park Frank is with a large soda pop, so I order both.

. The crowd sings and hums “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and I feel a surprising amount of national pride through the voices. I take my seat as the umpire shouts, “Play ball!” and the game begins.

As the sun hits my face and I breathe in the fresh air, I temporarily forget that I am at a sporting event. But when I open my eyes and look around, I am reminded of all things American. From the national anthem to the international players on the field, all the sights and sounds of a baseball game come together like a slice of Americana pie.

First, the entrance turnstiles click and clank, and then a hallway of noise bombards me. All the fans voices coalesce in a chorus of sound, rising to a humming clamor. The occasional, “Programs, get your programs, here!” jumps out through the hum to get my attention. I navigate my way through the crowded walkways of the stadium, moving to the right of some people, to the left of others

Then there are the sullen and alreadydefeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision.The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stareout the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say. I throwmy weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I amlucky. I am trying to save our lives.

? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogantwonder. They are trying to save their lives.

I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read thenewspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribaloffices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. Iread anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy anddesperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I wastrying to save my life

They wanted me to stayquiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We wereIndian children who were expected to be stupid.

I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father,older brother, the deceased sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs,

I still remember the exact moment when I firstunderstood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have thevocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that heldwords. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They hadsome specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. Ibegan to think of everything in terms of paragraphs

If he'd beenanything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called aprodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity

Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman isbreaking down the door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Becausehe is breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am breaking down the door." Onceagain, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am breaking down the door" In thisway, I learned to read

SpokaneIndian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in easternWashington state.

One distinction between colleges and universities is that colleges do not offer graduate degree programs while universities offer both undergraduate (associate and bachelor’s) and graduate degree (master’s and doctorate) programs.