On the Paiute-Shoshone Reservation near Fallon, Nevada, a unique and striking sight commands attention. It’s difficult to miss the two-acre homestead of Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall, where a structure unlike any other slowly takes shape. Here, amidst the arid landscape and dusty brush, a peculiar edifice rises, resembling a sacred temple of sorts. Its walls are formed from stacks upon stacks – some 5,000 in total – of used, fraying tires. These tires are meticulously reinforced with rusted tin cans and sand, creating a robust and unconventional barrier. This ambitious project represents what may well be the first entirely recycled Native American roundhouse, a testament to ingenuity and environmental consciousness. Yet, after a decade of labor, the structure remains only half-built, a testament to the scale and challenges of its creation.
"It’s a work in progress," acknowledges Nordwall, now 73 years of age. With a hint of self-deprecating humor, he concedes that the environmentally sound earth lodge is, in part, a flight of fancy, a whimsical endeavor. "One of these days," he adds with a determined glint in his eye, "I’ll finish it." This declaration encapsulates the spirit of the man himself: a perpetual work in progress, a complex and multifaceted individual.
Indeed, Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall is a study in contrasts. He bears little physical resemblance to the dashing, sharply dressed, raven-haired figure who emerged as a prominent voice in the 1960s. Back then, he was instrumental in shaping the burgeoning Indian movement from his home in San Leandro, California, finding himself in the company of influential figures such as Black Panthers, Terence Hallinan, and Willie Brown. The once dark hair, now styled in braids he has maintained since the 1970s, has faded to a distinguished gray. Deep laugh lines etch his face, telling tales of a life lived fully and with considerable passion.
Despite the passage of time, the spark of the "sacred clown" – a term that aptly describes his approach to activism – still flickers in his grandfatherly countenance. This enduring quality makes him an unforgettable figure, eliciting strong reactions from those around him. Some regard him as a hero, a champion who tirelessly raised awareness of Native American issues. Others, however, brand him as a headline-chasing embarrassment, a figure whose antics undermine the seriousness of his cause.
"I use (humor) in a way some Indians don’t understand," he explains, offering insight into his unique perspective. "It’s called serious joke medicine." To truly understand Nordwall, both his past and present, one must delve into the realm of his clowning – whether sacred or profane – those often-outlandish acts of political theater that have cemented his legendary status. The life of Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall has been a series of unforgettable acts.
Act I: Alcatraz, 1964
During the day, Nordwall presented himself as a serious and industrious businessman. He earned his termite inspector’s license at the remarkably young age of 21 and promptly established his own company, First American Termite, in San Leandro. He embraced a comfortable suburban lifestyle, residing in a split-level home with his wife, Bobbie, sporting a short, neat haircut, and even joining a bowling league.
However, as darkness fell, he underwent a transformation, morphing into a fervent activist. His specialty lay in the art of the publicity stunt, a method he wielded with both precision and flair. Fueled by a blend of whimsy and conviction, Nordwall and a group of like-minded Indian colleagues conceived a daring plan: to reclaim Alcatraz Island, which had recently been decommissioned as a prison.
They secured a boat and, armed with a carefully crafted proclamation, landed on the infamous Rock. The island’s caretaker managed to keep them at bay, and after a four-hour standoff, the group sailed back to Oakland. Nordwall, ever the strategist, had, of course, alerted the media. The following day, the San Francisco Examiner ran the headline: "Wacky Invasion," capturing the essence of the audacious event.
Act II: Columbus Day, 1968
Each year, Bay Area Italian Americans gathered at Aquatic Park in San Francisco to celebrate Columbus Day with a grand pageant, reenacting Columbus’s "discovery" of America. Nordwall found the spectacle to be deeply problematic, particularly the use of Boy Scouts in stereotypical and often offensive costumes to portray indigenous people.
As president of the Bay Area Council of American Indians, Nordwall, dressed in his finest business attire, successfully lobbied Joe Cervetto, the event organizer who also played Columbus, to include actual Native Americans in the ceremony.
However, Nordwall remained deeply troubled by the exclusion of Indians from other aspects of the celebration. "It was like blacks allowed to entertain but not eat with the guests," he observed, highlighting the subtle yet pervasive forms of discrimination.
It was time for a dramatic deviation from the script. As Cervetto emerged from his boat and began his march up the beach to "discover San Francisco," Nordwall extended his arm, presenting a ceremonial Indian stick. Cervetto bowed in acknowledgement. Then, with remarkable dexterity, Nordwall flicked off Columbus’s toupee in a symbolic act of protest.
It was a low-tech scalping, a moment captured in a photograph featured in Fortunate Eagle’s book, showing the bald-pated Cervetto on all fours and grinning. Unsurprisingly, the Indians were not invited back the following year. Two years later, when Nordwall and his compatriots arrived at the ceremony in full tribal regalia, they were met by a line of riot police.
"It outraged the Italians," he recalled with a wry smile. "But the rest of the crowd thought it was hilarious."
Act III: Alcatraz, the Sequel, 1969
This time, the occupation of Alcatraz would be neither brief nor "wacky," although a touch of the absurd remained.
In the fall of 1969, the San Francisco Indian Center in the Mission District was destroyed by fire under suspicious circumstances. This coincided with commercial developer Lamar Hunt’s attempt to secure approval from the Board of Supervisors to purchase Alcatraz.
Incensed by these events, activists resolved to seize the Rock in the name of "Indians of all tribes." Nordwall penned a "document of discovery," and on November 9th, they launched their operation in a rented boat. The activists were once again met by a caretaker, but the younger, college-aged participants felt that Nordwall, then nearing 40, lacked sufficient aggression.
Student leaders subsequently planned a second attempt, scheduled for two weeks later, during Nordwall’s absence from the city. A rift began to form between the college activists and Nordwall, eventually widening into a significant divide. Nordwall explained that he chose not to reside on the Rock because he had more to lose, being the father of three school-aged children at the time.
"There I was, a successful businessman who turned around to help his fellow Indians in a time of crisis, but because I drove a Cadillac, because I sometimes wore a suit, it was held against me," he lamented. "They resented it. Because I was so vocal and public, I was a target for all sides." Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall found himself in a difficult position.
ACT IV: Papal Encounter, 1973
Despite never attending college himself, Nordwall taught Native American studies at Cal State Hayward. One day, a colleague invited him to attend the International Conference of World Futures in Rome.
The Italian media eagerly awaited Nordwall’s arrival, and he did not disappoint. Dressed in full tribal regalia, he made a bold statement as cameras flashed: "’What right did Columbus have to discover America when it had already been inhabited for thousands of years? The same right I now have to come to Italy and proclaim the discovery of your country.’"
For a week, Nordwall became a media sensation in Italy. He was then summoned to the Vatican for an audience with Pope Paul.
As he was led in to meet the pontiff, who extended his ring-clad hand for the customary kiss, Nordwall was prepared. He offered his own ring back to the Pope.
"There’s this gasp," Nordwall recalled. "But the Pope broke the ice. He broke into a grin and clasped my hand."
A photograph of Nordwall and the Pope shaking hands hangs prominently in his home. Nordwall’s wife, Bobbie, still seems amused by the exchange decades later.
"I was surprised, but what was I supposed to do, run over there and grab his arm and tell him we have to go home?" Bobbie Nordwall said. "When he opens his mouth like that, it’s best just to get out of his way."
What drives Fortunate Eagle to speak his mind so freely?
It may stem from a challenging childhood, and his lifelong quest to find his place in a world that was often hostile.
Nordwall was born in 1929 in Red Lake, Minnesota. His mother, Rose, was Chippewa, and his father, Anton, was of Swedish descent. The family of eight lived on the north side, the Christian missionary side, of a vast 200,000-acre lake. He sometimes wonders how his life might have differed had he grown up on the south side, the traditional Indian side, of the lake.
When Adam was five years old, his father passed away. The Swedish side of his family had long since disowned them. Against his mother’s wishes, Adam and four of his siblings were sent to a boarding school, the Pipestone Indian Training School.
It was there that Nordwall encountered a different kind of prejudice – coming from full-blooded Indians. He did not appear "Indian enough" to the other children.
"I’d look at those beautiful Sioux and Cheyenne boys with their beautiful long narrow noses and then look at my pug nose in the mirror," he remembered. "I became very self-conscious. And all the other kids had these great names like Running Hawk or Charging Eagle. My name? Nordwall. Kids were mean, and my sensitive little hide couldn’t take it."
He did have a Chippewa name, which he learned at the age of eight: Amabese, meaning "Handsome."
"Now, there are some names that kids can proudly say out loud," Nordwall said. "But that’s not one of them."
It was not until he turned 42 that Nordwall received an Indian name that he felt comfortable using publicly: Fortunate Eagle, bestowed upon him by a Crow Indian in gratitude for a favor.
"What do eagles do?" Nordwall asks. "They circle."
Standing within the unfinished structure of his roundhouse, Nordwall enjoys discussing the cyclical nature of life, how the past never truly disappears but merely transforms. The life of Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall is a testament to this.
The Livermore "Curse"
Consider his long-standing conflict with the city of Livermore. In 1969, Nordwall donated an 18-foot totem pole to the city for its centennial celebration. However, after the city shortened the pole by several feet before installing it in a park, Nordwall demanded its restoration. The city refused, and in the council chambers, he placed a curse on the town’s sewer system.
Coincidentally, Livermore’s sewers experienced backups less than two weeks later. The city promptly restored the missing sections of the pole.
But the story didn’t end there. In February, two Bay Area documentarians included the totem pole story in a film about Livermore’s history. Nordwall was interviewed, as were the retired city manager and a prominent resident.
In the documentary, Nordwall stated that he was still awaiting a formal apology from Livermore before lifting the curse. Weeks after the film’s release, two of the city officials featured in the film (both in their 70s) passed away.
Livermore’s current mayor, Marshall Kamena, is now urging the city to formally apologize to Nordwall to prevent any further unfortunate events.
"Heart of the Rock"
The Alcatraz story has also resurfaced, this time through Nordwall’s own memoir, "Heart of the Rock," published by the University of Oklahoma Press.
Some Native American scholars and activists have hailed Nordwall’s book as a captivating account of the birth of Indian activism in the Bay Area. Others have criticized it as a self-promotional endeavor.
They argue that Nordwall exaggerates his role in the Alcatraz occupation and diminishes the seriousness of the cause through his "clownish" behavior.
LaNada Boyer, an original occupier of Alcatraz as a UC Berkeley student activist, contends that Nordwall gained prominence by embarrassing his people.
"We younger people involved at the time knew what he was about," said Boyer, who now resides on a reservation in Idaho. "He liked to use the Indian cause for his own benefit as a publicity seeker. He likes to be known as the big guy. It’s the attention he craves. People get taken in."
Joe Myers, the executive director of the National Indian Justice Center in Petaluma, counters that Nordwall’s "act" was primarily about raising awareness.
"Adam provided a link (to the white community)," Myers said. "He’s done a lot for the Indian movement and suffered for it, too."
For example, he possesses a substantial FBI file, which he proudly displays to visitors. As with many radical figures in the 1960s, the FBI compiled a file on Nordwall due to his Native American activism and leadership in the Alcatraz takeover.
Meanwhile, Nordwall’s termite business failed in the mid-1970s. This became a notable story because, by then, Nordwall was both the Bay Area Indian movement’s loudest voice and a respected Chamber of Commerce member.
To this day, Nordwall maintains that the government targeted him because of his Indian involvement. The government alleged that Nordwall violated numerous code regulations at his termite business. The resulting fines and an IRS audit, leading to thousands in back taxes, forced him to file for bankruptcy in 1975.
Feeling powerless to fight the government, Nordwall sold his home in San Leandro and "went back to the blanket" – the reservation, as Native Americans say.
Retirement on the reservation did not signify an end to Nordwall’s activism.
He immersed himself in sculpture in the 1980s, selling pieces for thousands of dollars and winning awards at art shows. He also toured as a traditional dancer, lectured at universities, and crafted ceremonial pipes and headdresses.
In 1987, his headdress-making led to his arrest for selling protected eagle feathers to an undercover Fish and Wildlife agent. Federal prosecutors in Reno sought a six-year prison sentence for Nordwall, who admitted to possessing eagle feathers but argued that he had the right to do so under the freedom of religion.
A criminal trial ended in a hung jury, with 11 jurors voting for acquittal. However, Nordwall was later found guilty in a civil trial and ordered to pay $15,000 in damages. Every month, he says, he writes a check for $100 to the government.
"The good news is," he says, dryly, "that I’ve only got 30 more years to pay on it, and then I’ll be a free man."
In the meantime, he remains a free spirit. He spends his mornings sculpting alabaster in his studio, his afternoons negotiating deals on the phone with his Hollywood agent, and working on a new book titled, "Damn Indian Stories: Truths, Half-Truths and Outright Lies."
"But," Bobbie said, "he doesn’t lift a finger to help around the house."
That could be because Nordwall is too busy plotting to finish that partially built tire-and-tin can house out front.
Or perhaps he’s dreaming of clowning yet again.
"I may even have a few more political acts up my sleeve," Nordwall says. "You never know." The legacy of Adam Fortunate Eagle Nordwall is still being written.