Harlan the “Hayseed”
Reckoning with the life and death of a Native American journalist
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The last time I saw Harlan McKosato was too long ago, the summer of 2011. I was in Santa Fe for a weeklong documentary film workshop that turned out to be a disaster. I recall meeting up with Harlan, my Sac and Fox journalism colleague, at the end of that awful week. Together we lamented about how hard it is to be Native while working in the media. He made it easy not to bitch but rather banter about all the dumb stuff we too often face: the stereotypes, the intellectual undermining, the blatant biases.
That week, a non-Native colleague embarrassed me in front of the rest of the group when insinuating that I somehow was lying about being accepted into the Columbia School of Journalism. Two of my Pueblo relatives were present for her word vomit, and to this day, I’m so grateful to have had them as my witness. A few days later, the workshop leader, another non-Native woman, chided me in front of the others when I left a film screening glorifying the colonization of my Pueblo homelands to meet a scholarship application deadline. By the week’s end, I was harangued by Hollywood producers for kindly rejecting their composer’s Indigenous-inspired flute music to soundscape…
