Posted on

The First Person

The lawyers had been talking for more than nine hours. The case was United States ex rel. Standing Bear v. Crook. The courtroom sat on the third floor of the federal building at Fifteenth and Dodge in Omaha, and the date was May 2, 1879. The crowd had stayed past the dinner recess and into the dark. When the last argument ended, Judge Elmer Scipio Dundy made an announcement. One more speaker, he said, had asked to be heard, and he believed it was the first time in the country’s history such a request had come from an Indian. Standing Bear rose from among the prisoners. He wore an eagle feather in his braided hair, a blue shirt trimmed in red, deerskin moccasins, a Thomas Jefferson peace medal, and a necklace of bear claws. He walked to the front of the room, faced the audience, and held out his right hand. The hand stayed there, still, for a long time. Then he began to speak in Ponca, in a low voice, and the interpreter gave the room his words in English.

Continue reading → The First Person

Posted on

The School That Signed

The first student was a girl from Omaha named Katie Callahan. She came through the door of a school building on Twenty-Second Street, between St. Mary and Leavenworth, on April 1, 1869, and Nebraska began teaching its deaf children. The legislature had voted the school into existence two years earlier, and the man in charge of it was a deaf man. Principal William DeCoursey French ran the Nebraska School for the Deaf alongside a minister named Henry W. Kuhns, and the medium of instruction was sign language. A deaf child could walk in and see a deaf adult in charge, and most such children had never seen that before. Forty-two years later, the same state made that language illegal in the school’s classrooms.

Continue reading → The School That Signed

Posted on

Twelve, Neither More Nor Less

The jury box in a Florida criminal courtroom holds six chairs. In one of those courtrooms, in West Palm Beach, six people heard the state’s case against a chiropractor named Hamed Kian, and they convicted him on every count. Kian is forty-five years old, with an office up the road in Jupiter. Florida had suspended his license after three women he had treated complained that he kissed or touched them inappropriately, and prosecutors said he went right on seeing patients. The charge was practicing chiropractic medicine with a suspended license, a third-degree felony, five counts of it. He drew a year and a day in prison and five years of probation. The Fourth District Court of Appeal affirmed in October 2025 and did not write an opinion, because none of this is unusual in Florida. Florida seats twelve jurors only in capital cases. Everything else, from this chiropractor’s case to armed robbery, has gone to six jurors since 1877.

Continue reading → Twelve, Neither More Nor Less

Posted on

The Rain Gauge

I am standing at the kitchen sink at 6:40 in the morning, rinsing a coffee cup in the dark, and there it is, whole and settled, as if it had been waiting behind the faucet for years. Every day, I cry a little bit more. I am sixty-one years old, and I have lived long enough to know that a sentence like this one does not visit at random. It comes because it is true. It stays because tomorrow it will be truer still.

Continue reading → The Rain Gauge

Posted on

Speeding Up to Slow Down

Sometime in the early 1980s, while researching a play, I spent an afternoon talking with a Nebraska State Trooper about the border between local law enforcement and the state patrol. We covered jurisdiction, drugs, homicide, and how causes of death get decided in a county with more cattle than people. By then he had worked those highways for twenty years. He was a careful man with a careful voice, and when the talk turned to death on the road, he lowered it. When you read about a one-car crash that kills the driver on a Nebraska highway in the middle of the night, he said, you are usually reading about a suicide. The car alone, the road empty, the bridge or the embankment at full cruise.

Continue reading → Speeding Up to Slow Down

Posted on

Population One, All in Favor

The election notice goes up on the tavern wall. That is how the mayoral race begins in Monowi, Nebraska, the only incorporated village in America with a population of one. Elsie Eiler tapes the announcement up inside the Monowi Tavern, the bar she and her husband bought in 1971, and then, as the BBC’s filmmakers recorded, she votes for herself. She wins unanimously. She has won every year since the count fell to one, because she is the entire electorate and the entire government: mayor, clerk, treasurer, librarian, and bartender of Monowi, population one.

Continue reading → Population One, All in Favor

Posted on

Rudy’s Library Is Open

The key to the public library in Monowi, Nebraska hangs on the wall of the town’s only tavern, within reach of the bartender. Ask and she hands it over. Then the shed a few steps from the bar is yours for the afternoon: five thousand books and magazines, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a sign painted by grandchildren on the side of an old refrigerator that reads Rudy’s Library. There are no library cards and no overdue fines, and there is no librarian at a desk, because the librarian is the woman who just handed you the key. She is also the mayor. You borrow on honor and you return when you can. That is the whole system, and it has held for twenty-two years.

Continue reading → Rudy’s Library Is Open