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THE ASTORIAN • TUESDAY, JULY 12, 2022
Indigenous assault survivor empowers other traumatized women
Coyote overcame
her own struggles
Kathy Aney/Underscore
By BRYCE DOLE
and ZACK DEMARS
The Bulletin
Indigenous
domestic
violence advocate Desireé
Coyote endured struggles
at nearly every turn in her
life, like so many Indige-
nous women in Oregon have.
It could have ruined her
life. She refused to let that
happen.
Her determination and
strength to fi nd her voice,
and help others fi nd theirs,
have served as an inspiration.
Coyote’s story, told through
hours of interviews and doc-
uments, reveal how years of
trauma and systemic failures
drove her to fi ght for survi-
vors like her. To understand
it, you have to go back to the
beginning.
Coyote, now 62, grew
up in Sweetwater, a sin-
gle-block, unincorporated
town on the Nez Perce Res-
ervation in n orth Idaho.
The family moved into a
two-story home there when
Coyote was 3 years old,
and when she and her nine
siblings arrived, the chil-
dren were thrilled to see
a swingset and merry-go-
round in the backyard.
In school, a 2 -mile walk
away, Coyote took up soft-
ball and wrestled on the boy’s
team. “Not that I could com-
pete,” she said, “but I could
practice with them.”
Though Sweetwater was
on reservation land, Coy-
ote recalls seeing few Native
Americans like her around
town. She grew up learn-
ing little of the customs, tra-
ditions or ceremonies of her
people. Her father, Cliff ord
Allen Sr., a U.S. Army vet-
eran of many trades, worked
under Idaho Gov. Cecil
Andrus. As a member of the
Idaho State Human Rights
Commission, his focus was
revamping education around
tribal nations in Idaho, Coy-
ote said. But during child-
hood, he taught her: “It’s a
white man’s world, you gotta
learn the white man’s ways.”
Her father eventually
started a relationship with
Coyote’s aunt. When Coyote
was 3, her aunt became her
abuser, she said.
When Coyote was 7, her
father kicked her mother
out of the house. It would
be nearly a decade before
Coyote would see her mom
again.
Meanwhile,
Coyote’s
relationship with her aunt
soured. To avoid her, Coyote
began doing her chores early
in the morning and would
stay at school late after ath-
letics. “It wasn’t safe for me
at home, with her,” Coyote
said.
One day, when Coyote
was 10, her aunt stormed into
her room, furious that she had
found blood in the bathroom.
She accused Coyote of being
on her period and scolded
her for making a mess. Coy-
ote replied that it wasn’t her.
She began hitting, punching,
slapping and pushing Coy-
ote. For the fi rst time, Coyote
fought back. Then, Coyote’s
older sister jumped off their
bunk bed and “got involved.”
They never fought again.
When the abuse from her
aunt ended, her dad returned
from a work trip. For the fi rst
time, he hit her. She was sur-
prised, and the abuse esca-
lated quickly. One day, he
thrust her head into a wall,
scraping her scalp against
a nail, creating a scar that
remains on the back of her
head.
Desireé Coyote helped the
Umatilla tribes gain essential
legal protections for survivors.
man’s society.
To Coyote, the school was
“odd.” There were few staff ,
none of whom she recalls
being Native American,
despite the many Indigenous
students. Coyote learned
skills that were meant to
help her fi nd jobs immedi-
ately after school. Instead of
home economics and wood
shop, Coyote learned how to
operate a mimeograph. She
learned nothing about her
culture and heritage, and any
lessons about Native Ameri-
can history were “off mark.”
“It was depressing,” Coy-
ote said. “It’s being alone in a
strange place.”
While at school, Coyote
stopped eating and became
“skinny as a rail.” But she
came to appreciate the sol-
itude of life at school. It
kept her from the home she
feared.
“It was just something I
had to go through,” Coyote
said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
The summer months
passed. Coyote returned
home to Idaho.
Coyote was home for less
than a month before deciding
to leave again.
Coyote packed a bag
and joined her friends on a
backpacking trip across the
Pacifi c Northwest, visiting
Portland, Salem, Yakima and
Seattle. She began to think of
her mother, wondering where
she was. About a decade had
passed since she had last seen
her. Coyote knew her mother
had grown up on the Uma-
tilla Indian Reservation, so
that’s where she found her.
Coyote lived with her
mother for six or seven
months, but life even there
wasn’t safe. Her mother
struggled with alcoholism
and threw parties full of
scary men who would break
into her room. Without much
of an education to lean on,
she decided, at 16, to join the
military. Her mother was by
her side when she signed the
papers.
The bulk of Coyote’s ser-
vice occurred at Fort Riley in
Kansas, where she worked
in communications. It was
here that she met a hand-
some infantryman from New
York, with whom she bonded
over daily runs around the
base. His name was Wil-
liam Cruz. The two started
dating and would eventually
marry. When Coyote left the
military, they moved into a
home in Kansas, where they
remained for three years. She
took care of their two chil-
dren as Cruz’s service moved
them from Kansas to Ger-
many to New York and back
to Kansas.
Early on, Coyote said she
began to notice the “manip-
ulation and coercion that
forms a tight rope around
the leg.” At fi rst, the signs
were subtle. A devout Chris-
tian, Cruz would only allow
Coyote to listen to Chris-
tian music and watch Chris-
tian television. She was not
allowed to leave the house
unless she was going to
church. “Being a good Chris-
tian woman, I did what I was
told,” she said.
“Everybody thinks that
domestic abuse is a physical
thing,” she said. “It’s not ...
when they take who you are
away, piece by piece, when
they dehumanize you, make
like you’re less than — that’s
when it all begins.”
Cruz and Coyote arrived
in Oregon with their four
children in 1983, moving
into a home on the Umatilla
Indian Reservation. Cruz
became a leader at three
local churches while work-
ing as a student mechanic
at Blue Mountain Commu-
nity College. Coyote worked
as a secretary for economic
development for the tribe
and attended the community
college.
On the outside, he
appeared as a polite husband,
walking Coyote to class and
taking her to lunch. But life
at home was a diff erent story.
“For me, as well as all
victims, what we’re going to
remember is all the holes in
the walls, the holes or dents
in the doors, because they
know not to hit you physi-
cally,” she said.
But the emotional abuse
turned into physical vio-
lence, she said. She some-
times called the police two or
three times a week, but offi -
cers seldom responded. She
couldn’t take it anymore. She
divorced Cruz in 1990 and
promptly obtained a restrain-
ing order. He moved out.
Coyote’s nightmare didn’t
end there. She would walk
outside to her car and fi nd
her tires punctured and parts
dismantled, and because
Cruz was a mechanic, she
assumed it was him. For
months, she and her fi ve chil-
dren stayed in a single room
in the four-bedroom house,
sleeping stacked against the
windows and door, hoping
to feel the slightest breeze in
case he broke in.
Soon enough, Coyote’s
life appeared to be improv-
ing. Her mother had moved
in, and Coyote was helping
her get sober. She worked
with the U.S. Forest Service
in nearby Walla Walla, Wash-
ington, and began going on
dates with a co-worker there.
“It was the fi rst time I’d
been happy in I don’t know
how long,” she said.
What happiness she had
found would be shattered
in a single night, the night
she says Cruz kidnapped
and attacked her in the Blue
Mountains near Pendleton.
Cruz declined to be inter-
viewed for this story.
Coyote comes home
After the alleged assault
by her ex-husband on the
Umatilla Indian Reservation,
Coyote feared for her life and
was contemplating suicide.
About a year later, Cruz was
sentenced to federal prison
for child sexual abuse. Coy-
ote moved with her fi ve chil-
dren to New Mexico, where
she lived for around three
years before moving back to
Oregon.
In 1995, she began her
work in domestic violence
services and advocacy while
living in Lakeview. It didn’t
pay well. It off ered no retire-
ment or medical benefi ts.
Meanwhile, her kids were
facing racial harassment in
school. And even though
Cruz was in prison, Coy-
ote was worried that, hav-
ing stayed in one town for
three years, he would fi nd
her again. The family hit the
road. This time for Salem.
Coyote felt that she was
a fl oater in Salem, “not here,
not there but still trying,” she
said.
Soon enough, a repre-
sentative from the Ore-
gon Women of Color Cau-
cus called, asking if she was
interested in contracting with
the group. They were lack-
ing in Native Americans in
the group and they wanted
her help fi lling that role.
She accepted and became its
director in 2000.
Soon, she also joined Gov.
John Kitzhaber’s council on
domestic violence, becom-
ing the only Native Ameri-
can woman on the council.
She started traveling around
to communities of color and
tribal nations, hearing from
survivors about what services
were lacking. In time, the
state called on her so much
that she considered herself its
“token Indian,” she said.
“I was invisible on these
teams, but they needed me
to represent communities of
color and tribal nations,” she
said. “I was an object, not
something that was import-
ant. My voice often was not
heard.”
In 2001, her mother fell
ill. She started driving home
to the Umatilla Indian Reser-
vation every weekend to take
care of her.
Though they had been
apart for the majority of Coy-
ote’s upbringing, she had
always appreciated how hard
her mother had tried to be
there for her children. After
Coyote’s mother died in
2002 at the age of 62, Coy-
ote moved into her mother’s
home on the reservation.
She took a job as the
tribe’s domestic violence
coordinator. She began learn-
ing about tribal jurisdiction,
law enforcement and tribal
courts. She started meeting
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Boarding school
Coyote knew from a
young age that she needed to
escape her home. The escape
she got would be a turning
point in her life.
At 14, her father surprised
her again and shipped her off
for a summer at Chemawa
Indian School in Salem, the
oldest continuously oper-
ated, federally run Ameri-
can Indian boarding school
in the U.S. In the 19th cen-
tury, these schools were
established across the coun-
try with the goal of eradicat-
ing Indigenous cultures and
assimilating Native Ameri-
cans into the white, Christian
with survivors. More often
than not, they were tribal
members, the off enders were
non-Native American, and
the abuse occurred on res-
ervation land, meaning that
tribal authorities could not
prosecute them due to a 1978
U.S. Supreme Court ruling
that barred them from doing
so.
Alongside law enforce-
ment, she would drive sur-
vivors out to the spot of their
alleged assault. The offi cer
would then use maps to see
whether it was on or off tribal
land, and they would explain
who had jurisdiction to take
the case.
“This job really taught me
what it means to be an Indig-
enous woman,” she said.
At the same time, Coyote
began learning about tribal
customs and traditions. Hav-
ing grown up in her father’s
home and attended boarding
school, she knew little about
the traditions of her peo-
ple. But when she moved to
the reservation, she met with
elders, attended powwows
and learned about dancing,
drumming, singing and tribal
regalia. Her mother’s land
and the people there made
her feel at home.
Coyote helped the Uma-
tilla tribes gain essential
legal protections for survi-
vors. She helped the tribes
become authorized for the
sex off ender notifi cation reg-
istration act and helped tribal
authorities regain jurisdiction
over non-Native American
perpetrators of domestic vio-
lence on tribal land. She also
pushed forward a batterers
intervention program to help
perpetrators.
But much of Coyote’s
most notable work has been
behind closed doors, away
from courtrooms, legislators
and police. It has focused
instead on the untold number
of survivors whose lives she
has touched.
Coyote changed her last
name from Cruz to Coyote
in 2012.
Coyote is still searching
for any record of what hap-
pened that night in 1991,
some written acknowledg-
ment that, for her, reaf-
fi rms what happened. What
records she fi nds she keeps
in a corner of her shed, far
enough back so she won’t
stumble on them.
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