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I was informed recently that there was a problem with my Tripod e-mail
account. For a long time — since this summer — I wasn't getting a lot of the e-mails sent to the [email protected] address. In fact, some of it was
being sent to someone who used to work at Tripod but doesn't anymore, and a
lot of it was just devoured by the Tripod server. Don't worry, though, as of my last column, I've been getting all my mail again. Thanks for all the feedback. I will respond to some of your letters in my next column. Anyway, Happy 1999! Is this the last year of life on Earth? If it is, let's try to enjoy it!
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By
Tyler Valdez
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Every Christmas my parents take me over the river and through the woods to
my grandmother's house near Norwich, Connecticut. My mother's father died
a few years ago, so this is the most important holiday of the year to my
grandmother. Even though the Coke she gets out of the basement for me is so old it's about twenty percent sediment, and the Goldfish she serves are,
well, pretty moist, she's a nice woman and I always like spending time with her. And for your information, it's not just because she always shoves a fifty
into my hand on my way out the door.
This year, however, on the day after Christmas, Grandma introduced a new
idea about what quality family time is all about. She announced that
afternoon that she was taking us all out to an early dinner at a "fancy"
restaurant, and that after we ate we could all go visit what she called
"The Indian Bingo." This, my mother explained to me, is what people of a
certain age call the Foxwoods Casino, a successful gambling emporium run by
Native Americans on tribal land in a neighboring town. I have to admit, I
was kind of excited. I recently saw a documentary on the history of Las
Vegas, and I loved Sharon Stone's wigs in Casino, and even though I
know the whole thing was controlled by violent criminals, it still seemed
like a great time to me. My parents weren't quite as enthused. My
mom rolled her eyes, and Dad flat-out said, "Dorothy (that's my
grandmother's name), I can't go, I have some work to do."
My grandmother was really surprised at my parents' attitude. "What's wrong
with a little harmless fun, Rafael?" she asked my dad. "You could make some
money, and pay off all of Christmas at once!" My dad started acting like
Che Guevara, telling her how gambling is just another way to keep poor
people poor, but Grandma was all "Talk to the hand." No, not really, but
she did put a stop to that line of thought. She grabbed my mother's coat
and my leather jacket, packed us into the Oldsmobile, waved good-bye to my
father, and hit the highway. Before we were even out of the driveway, she
asked me to check the glove compartment to see if she brought her quarters. That's when I realized this wasn't Grandma's first
visit to "The Indian Bingo."
Despite the urgency of our mission, when Grandma got behind the wheel she
refused to drive any faster than about fifteen miles an hour. Apparently
she'd heard that a busload of senior citizens had just crashed on their way
to go gambling in Atlantic City, so she wasn't taking any chances. As the
illuminated Santas and manger scenes of suburban Connecticut crawled by, I
thought about how casinos run by the First Americans are a really great
idea. When you think about reservations, you usually picture a tract of bad
land without good schools or houses, where people have little to do all day
but drink too much alcohol. With a big business like a casino, though, the
people who live there could use all the money they make to provide
themselves with housing and education in order to make a better life for
themselves. Plus, the taint of criminality that I associated with casino
gambling in Las Vegas was instantly eliminated because this casino wasn't
run by wiseguys, but by a community dedicated to self-improvement.
When we finally arrived (I think it was the following Christmas because the
decorations were still up), my lofty hopes for a casino gambling experience
that combined sophistication with Native American dignity came crashing
down. It wasn't exactly guys in tuxes throwing dice down a long green
table. Try overweight seniors in baggy tracksuits staring at video screens
and muttering to themselves incoherently. So much for Sharon Stone.
It gets worse. I started to wonder how people my grandmother's age could
sit at the same slot machines for hours without budging. They were sucking
down their share of free drinks, I noticed — so how was it that I had to
take five trips to the little squaw's room (those free root beers really
add up), but these people couldn't be dislodged from their perches with
TNT? I forced myself to stop thinking about it; the implications were too
disgusting. Then, for some reason, I started imagining these same elderly
gamblers dying in a bus crash on their way home. Is this tacky scene really
worth the risk of entering the Sweet Hereafter with a bucketful of quarters
in your lap? Maybe gambling IS morally wrong — I don't know. What I do
know is that it's incredibly depressing.
After three hours of me thinking such thoughts while staring blankly at
Caribbean Stud Poker and trying unsuccessfully to amuse myself at the
nickel slots, Grandma's ATM card had taken enough abuse. As we headed back
to her house, which probably, at this rate, won't be getting that new vinyl
siding next spring, I reconsidered my earlier position on tribally owned
casinos. Maybe having Native Americans run casinos doesn't make a bad thing
good, it just aims evil in a different direction. For years, Anglo-Saxon America encouraged the indigenous peoples of this country to spend all
their welfare money on liquor and waste their days and nights getting
drunk. Now the tables are turned, and it's old white people who are pouring
their social security money into glorified arcade games and peeing in their
pants. I guess it's some kind of get-even tax.
—Tyler V.
Tyler Valdez isn't afraid to say what's on her mind, and we love her for it. This was the ninth edition of her Mad Crib. Catch up on what you missed in Tyler's archive.
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