On Stolen Lands made with Stolen Hands

On Stolen Lands made with Stolen Hands

 Over the years as a single mom, I realize that I had come to understand poverty, want, need, and struggle very deeply. I lived this every day. I look at my teeth, needing work, and I can remember the hard decisions about deciding whether to get dental care or shoes for the girls—the shoes always won. Even now, my daughters tell me what a great mom I have been, that I have successfully raised two lovely young women who are now—on their own, learning how life really is, without me to soften it for them as I had for so long.

Visiting the Pine Ridge Reservation was an experience like none other I’ve had in my life. We first encountered White Clay, the town where all the alcohol was being sold that was ruining the lives of the Indigenous people on the reservation. If you blinked, you missed this tiny town, and it felt odd to think that this little Nebraska hamlet could bring forth such ire. Though, once we began to listen to the stories of the people later on, it became very clear.

We drove slowly through White Clay, partially out of wanting to see the home of the “enemy” as it were, but also, because we couldn’t help but be overwhelmed at the sight of so many folks stumbling into the streets, obviously intoxicated. Some lying on the ground, or on the sidewalk. Some part of me worried if any of them might have drunk so much that they might have been  dead, and no one knew it yet—we later learned that this wasn’t uncommon. Collectively, we all were probably thinking that this is what the people who vended the alcohol in White Clay were doing to the Native folks from just over the border in Pine Ridge. Before our eyes, we saw, the destruction of the human spirit. We later learned from one of the elders, that until folks who’ve given themselves over to alcohol, gets clean, they are thought of as not having a Native spirit—“they are no longer Lakota”.

After passing through and out of White Clay, we crossed the border into South Dakota, as well as onto the Pine Ridge Reservation. I’ve read a number of books by Native author—Sherman Alexie, so on some level, I was sort of prepared for the kind of lifestyle that he exemplified as being typical for the “Res” as it’s often called. Though, reading about it, and even seeing it in movies like “Pow Wow Highway” I was still somewhat shocked at what I saw. We were still driving slowly, ostensibly to take in what we needed to understand of the people here. The first thing that struck at my heart were rows of “clapboard houses, with all sorts of debris strewn around them. Occasionally you would see a house here or there that was better kept, but, the poverty was so visible.I noticed that rarely did we pass a car with only one person in it, and sadly, many of them seemed to be on route to White Clay.

There were many various buildings we passed on our way to the park where we would camp--a recreation center, the reservation police station, A couple of fast food places, a Pizza Hut, a gas station/Subway. Then, finally out of the sort of business district of town, we came upon the sign pointing out “Wounded Knee”. I could feel my eyes tear up, knowing history, and having read about and seen the movies about the original massacre at Wounded Knee, as well as the occupation of it in the 1970’s by the then newly formed AIM(American Indian Movement) organization. It occurred to me that the inhabitants of this reservation and their ancestors had been fighting for such a long time. The battle against alcohol is yet another of the attempts to eradicate these proud and wonderful people. Generational Genocide is a fitting name for what has been done here.

Somewhere back in history, the Native people were labeled as “savages”. Their religion that loved Mother Earth was seen as wrong, and an affront to good Christians. Even until now, so-called “good Christians” do not recognize their thinking—that as seeing Mother Earth as the provider of our sustenance and all else that we would need. Sadly, the U.S.  government still only gave them land that wasn’t capable of growing food, and for the poorest reservation in the country, there is 80% unemployment. So, for food, most of the people are relegated to eating what is called commodity food—provided by the government. Those with children to support could at least get a tiny amount of money with which to provide for their other needs. It is no surprise that many families live together in the same house, and pool their meager resources. Really? So this is how the first peoples of this continent are treated? It hurt to hear the stories that were abundant throughout the weekend.

So, upon our arrival at Kiza Park, we wre welcomed by the other activists already there, waiting for more of us to come to join the action.

I am glad for my years of camping experience that helped me to feel right at home in camp, where it’s best to pitch the tent, how to avoid the numerous piles of horse dung, given that beautiful horses roamed freely over the land. I think my only complaint was the latrine that (given my sensitive nose) caused me to gag and I admit to resorting to a bush or spot far from the center of things for the rest of the weekend—my bowels, lucky for me, decided to shut down until I came back..

The owners of this part of the land were very gracious to us, and provided us with our first night’s dinner (we came in on Friday) of Spaghetti and meatballs. I’ve not eaten beef or pork for many years, so I sort of struggled throughout the weekend trying to get enough protein, yet afraid to eat too much of the meat, as my intestines no longer have the enzymes to digest it. I worked hard at not complaining, as it occurred to me how much effort it took and how it probably dipped into their personal stores to feed us. I gratefully ate tiny amounts of beef, and shared the big pieces with others.

A seasoned  activist from Canada—a man by the name of Iver, took over the kitchen duties, I was amazed each morning, at his provision of a huge pot of oatmeal and plenty of coffee. Other folks shared of what they’d brought, giving it that feel of true community, where resources are shared, and all bring what they can.

One of the weirdest feelings I had as time went on, was that I’d met a number of these people before. I then remembered back to the dreams I often have, where I feel I’m doing things with others, setting things up, working in tandem, yet when I awake, I can’t remember. Yet, seeing the faces of the 5 young folks, I knew I’d met them before—companions from the dreamtime—perhaps working behind the scenes together to make sure that change would occur.

Throughout Saturday, we learned and talked about what had been planned for the action, and the various parts that were needed to be filled. Given my peacekeeper training, I chose to be on the team of folks who would be responsible for keeping an eye out for trouble and difficulties with the townspeople. One poignant moment happened when during an exercise, I was asked to demonstrate how a peacekeeper might go about their job, and was confronted with three different men who were agitator, as I tried to protect and shield our activists who would be on lockdown. One young man, who towered over me, in height and size did a particularly convincing job as a sort of “redneck” giving me a look that nearly withered me. I suddenly remembered it as being the look I’d received often enough in my life when I’d end up in some place I wasn’t wanted. He and I talked about it later, and he told me of his life growing up with “rednecks” and that his ability to “play” that role came from real life experiences. I had various conversations over the weekend with a number of the young folks from “Deep Green Resistance”, the organization that planned the action.

 As an elder (among the Indigenous, you are an elder at 52) I was so very buoyed to hear these young, knowledgeable folks talk about what brought them to activism, the choice of living in poverty in order to be able to leave at a moment’s notice to go to actions in various parts of the country. They impressed me with their knowledge of racism, sexism, and all the other isms, and their dedication from their hearts to help Mother Earth, and all of Her people. Some of the Indigenous folks were very unsure at first, as they, have have had reason to mistrust and even hate white people for the centuries of abuse.

Saturday was jam packed with all sorts of trainings, role playing, connecting, puppet building, which brought out all of the children from the family whose land were were camping on. What a joyful time it was to talk to them and work with them, knowing it was for them their parents and grandparents fought and died.

At the end of the day, we ended with women and men’s circles. We women were lucky enough to get the fire pit, as we went late into the night, and it began to get cold. My sisters and I were led by a woman from a tribe that was located on a small island way off of the coast of Canada. Mostly we told our stories—in my work, always a powerful thing—to understand who we all were, to connect sister to sister, around our pain, and our triumphs. It was shocking to me to hear that most all of our lives had been touched in some negative way by the very alcoholism that was causing rape, murder, suicide and death to numbers of the people of the tribe. If nothing else, we bonded over this fact, and even now, it saddens me to think of the alcoholism in my own family and in my ex-husband, who I left for the reason of not wanting my daughters to be affected by the meaness and violence he would display when he became drunk. Indeed, it has caused me to reflect back to times in my life when I myself have abused alcohol out of sadness, loneliness, or desperation. I am clear that while I’ve been a more mindful drinker in recent years, I will become much more vigilant in times to come, and I realized that after this powerful weekend, alcohol holds no attraction for me, given what role it has played in my life.

Yet, there is also a part of me that can very much understand that in conditions of severe poverty and centuries of hopelessness, alcohol can be a balm for the gaping wounds created by racism, sexism, pain, sadness, loss, lack, fear, and anger. I’m also aware that it can damage and even destroy relationships, families, friendships, marriages, communities, and clearly, whole groups of people. What a powerful weapon to use against a people, thus creating genocide far into the future, as each new generation takes it up. Stopping it now before anymore would be affected seemed to me to be a great purpose for us to take up banners, and walk beside our Native sisters and brothers.

Sunday morning started early, the mood of the camp was pensive and focused. I noticed as I glanced around the first morning circle, that most of us had on clothing that one might see as “war clothes” I chose to stand with the Native women by wearing a skirt, allowing my power to be unhindered. It wasn’t until hearing that from them had I even thought about it. I wear skirts and dresses a majority of the time. I always feel more flexible, less hindered, more powerful somehow.

There was still a lot of bustling around, putting finishing touches on the large puppets that Jennifer, one of the women I’d rode with, and a friend of more than a few years, as we each have twin daughters of the same age, and we met as our twins became friends. She’d fretted for sometime over the puppets, taking on a task she didn’t feel suited for. Oddly, the work got done, and the children were very excited when it was time for the march later to be able to wear and carry them, The main figure was a roughly 10 foot tall puppet of “White Buffalo Calf Woman”, a Sacred Being of many of the Indigenous tribes. Given that the March and Action were termed as a women’s march for peace, it felt apropos to have Her there. She lent a certain magical quality to the day, with her white flowing dress and black braids

As we gathered in our final circle to prepare for the action/march, the mood had become most somber. The five young folks who were planning to lock themselves down in the middle of the road in White Clay looked nervous but determined. I had deep respect for them, as a woman of color, I’ve never, during all my years as an activist sought to be arrested or to do jail time—I know what happens to people of color in jails and prisons…I might not have come out alive, as many of my sisters and brothers of many races have not. Indeed, we know that to be incarcerated often means getting a taste of the cruelest and most despicable behaviors that law enforcement officers can dish out. Yet, oddly, I chose an Orange role (red means you are highly likely to get arrested, Orange means you could possibly be arrested if you’re not careful.)

As the circle came to an end, and the 5 came forward, a lovely elder from another tribe who’d come from New Mexico, said a few words, and asked if I’d offer a prayer. I felt most honored to do this, and felt the words pouring out of my mouth, as my best priestess self rose to the occasion. I called upon the help of all of the ancestors of those who were gathered in that circle, as well as the ancestors of the land on which we were standing. In that moment, I felt the familiar rush of energy that happens within me, when I am filled with spirit. The woman next to me from the Canadian tribe was apparently feeling it as well, for we were both shaking and realizing that they had come forth for us, and as I have always done, I knew that the energy was to be given to the young warriors to help them to get through the day. Again, the elder from New Mexico spoke and offered a very touching send off gesture where we face each other, take each other’s opposite hand, and each kisses each other’s hand, then place both of each other’s hands on one, then the other’s heart.While it sounds very simple, it was so very loving and powerful all at the same time. I was so struck at how these rituals that the Native people provided for us, helped to create not only a sense of connection and community, but to bring forth the strength and power needed from the other realms—ancestors, helping spirits, guides—who are more than willing to lend their aid to us for causes of justice and freedom for those of us on this side of the veil.

So, finally came the time to load ourselves up into cars and get ready for the caravan to the meeting place, before the march into White Clay. As we all began to arrive, it seemed that some wonderful convergence began to happen, and the whole thing took on a festive atmosphere. Many folks from the reservation started to arrive. Many wore red bandanas around their foreheads—especially groups of young men who also wore camouflage type clothing and some wore the red bandanas as masks. Again, we circled up—a much larger group now, and Vic helped everyone to know what was coming up, so we could all be prepared. As always, there were more prayers that always lend such a meaningful atmosphere to any moment.Then, as the time came, we began to form a line for the march—women and children in the middle, with men on either end—I reminded myself to be mindful of the ways of the people we were with and not to go into my feminist thinking about how we women can take care of ourselves. In their culture, men, as warriors, and the younger men as warriors in training had always been the ones, in most tribes, to be on the front line—keeping the women and children safe. When I thought about it, it actually make a great deal of practical sense—the women are the lifegivers as they call us, and the children are the future of the tribe—the future must be protected. Though, I noticed, that as an elder woman, the rules are a little looser. Later during the day, it was a joy to watch one of the grandmothers, who had lost some of her children and grandchildren to alcohol, fearlessly yelling at the officers, and letting it be known that her voice would not be silenced. She reminded me of my own Granny, one of the women who raised me—a daughter of my great great grandmother—herself part African, and part Cherokee—her deeply lined face, wisdom in her eyes from years of pain, loss, worry, and joy, strength and courage. I loved her deeply in those moments as I loved my own Granny.

I lost some of this when my computer went down…I hope it will be recovered, or I will rewrite it.