Ten years ago, I picked up On the Justice of Roosting Chickens by Ward Churchill because I was twenty, felt disenfranchised and was a budding conspiracy theorist and forbidden literature was to me what Nutella is to hipsters with toast. I never felt we deserved the atrocities that befell our nation on 11 September 2001, but I wasn’t convinced we were entirely innocent either. Ward Churchill’s book may have convinced me otherwise had it not been for the fact that I can think for myself and realized how militant this anti-militant man could act. Still, I respected him and I loved his book (for the most part), though I never read the essay that spawned it. I never saw him as an anti-American or…