Last year, Franci, a very knowledgeable Lakota scholar and writer, arrived to teach at this author's university. The author's friend, Malea, had left, so she was pleased to see another American Indian face in the department. The past year it had become clear that Indians faced many hardships at the university, but most strikingly they continued to face attacks concerning the value of their own scholarship, primarily due to a lack of understanding and more specifically an unwillingness to understand Indigenous peoples. Franci, too, experienced the callousness of the dominant culture's assumption of intellectual superiority. At a meeting where she was told she was not the chosen candidate for the job, she was also told that "This is a Class One Research institution, and the general consensus among the faculty is that your research is not good, and that your dissertation adds nothing to the body of knowledge." Not only did these words cripple her worth, but they also affected this author deeply because a knowledgeable American Indian with sound research skills lost much of her self-esteem and was not treated with respect. Being Indian is difficult enough, and immediately after being shuttled through the doors of academia, Indians often realize that the institution creates illusions, propagates illusions, and thrives on illusions. Thus, the author writes to all American Indian students: You will get in the doors, but after you have arrived, you will find the doors closing much more often, find fewer allies, and find your back, more times than not, firmly planted along a wall. If we speak up, we are disgruntled troublemakers, and if we are quiet, we will not remain so for long. Unless you plan to disappear, you will become an activist. Prepare yourself. You may never be accepted by others, but before you confine yourself to serious depression or consider leaving the education you so rightly deserve, ask yourself the most important question: Do we not have a right to voice our concerns?