The March on White Clay

The March on White Clay

The step off of any march is always one of the more exhilarating moments of any protest. The circle before helped us all to feel centered and at one with our brethren marchers, with our purpose, welling up in our hearts and minds—always it’s about freedom. Freedom from oppression, pain, struggle, poverty—all forms of slow genocide of any of the human kind. To not have resources and a way to provide the most basic of needs is daunting at best, murderous at its worst to the human spirit. It is no wonder then, that ways of escaping from this way of life are often viewed as preferable, though most often NOT—life enhancing.

Hence, we were there to battle against the sale of alcohol, long a killer among the indigenous, since it was introduced to them by the invaders centuries ago. I was told that it was true that their bodies do not metabolize it well, so that they become addicted very quickly, and that addiction causes deep rifts between the drinker and their family, their community, their tribe, and of course within their spirits. In this town—White Clay, there were also murders, suicides, raping of women, etc. all of the other hideous outcomes of this killer substance.

The women of the family we were staying with, had called for a march—calling it Women’s Day of Peace, as a way of addressing most especially the outcome of what the killer alcohol does to the Life Givers. As a Life Giver, it felt honoring to be there, and an honor to be able to walk alongside my sisters of this tribe to take a stand against that which kills.

The march started out rather festively, led off, by a truckload of drummers around a mother drum, I believe who came with a group of folks from AIM, themselves leading the way. The chanting, singing and drumming were such a fitting backdrop to the movement of the marchers, children and adults with masks, mother’s with babies in strollers, vans and other cars, following along the side, and truly an amazing sea of people of all colors, with White Buffalo Calf Woman waving and floating almost magically behind.

As we got closer to White Clay, the festivity of the moments before began to dim, as we felt the oppressive air of moving into “enemy territory”. At this part in the march, the drums and the chanting/singing, seemed to get slower, and the oppressiveness of this town was actually palpable. In my mind, I could imagine the many years of pain, wrought by hatred, racism, greed—the usual suspects in any situation where a group of people is being systematically put to death—for crimes no more than asking for justice and freedom to live their lives their way—on this land that was stolen from them, and built upon by hands, stolen from Africa, Asia, and all over the world.

The protest itself went on for about 7 hours, it’s hard to even try to capture the moment by moment happenings. There was a little confusion at times, because as was surmised later, we didn’t have the plan completely worked out, as well as not having done the cross cultural work to make sure that we as visitors to this reservation and their ongoing struggle understood the ways of these people. There were a group of older Native men who were with AIM, and who carried staffs. There was yet another group of young Native men, called the Young Warriors, who were, just that, teens to early twenties, learning the ways of being a man—they were identifiable by their chamo wear, and red bandanas, some over their faces, some just around their heads, or both, We learned later, they’d been asked to keep an eye on the children, and to make sure they were kept safe. This would explain why the first major altercation of the day took place when a young boy of 10, we believe was apparently yelling into a police car, and was immediately hit with a long stream of mace from the officer, which was caught on camera, he was then loaded into the car, ostensibly for arrest.. Another group of young men, some of the Young Warriors included, began to rock the car, and others also got hit with the mace. Our legal representative came in at that moment and intervened—getting the young boy released to his mother—who also had been a victim of the mace as well. Luckily we had a team of folks acting as medics who’d put together a mix of Milk of Magnesia and water that apparently alleviates the symptoms of the burning of the eyes.

This first altercation made it very clear that this was business as usual for the law enforcement in this area, there was no sense that things were different for them, except that there were many folks there with cameras rolling to start the business of recording what acts they had been used to getting away with against the reservation’s people.

At some point close to our arrival in White Clay, the five young people from Deep Green Resistance locked themselves down with long black arm cuffs that essentially kept them immobile and stretched across the whole street, right in the middle of a state highway, into and out of White Clay.

The AIM folks, and the other native people were a little amused I think at first at the idea that 5 young white folks were willing to literally put their lives on the line for them. Not that this was a first in history, it’s clear from the Civil Rights movement that things started to move and change once busloads of white freedom fighters arrived from the North to help and stand alongside as allies. It was also hard for the Native folks to trust on some level that this was actually happening, and that they meant to stick it out until they were arrested. Previous so called “treaties” with the law enforcement had been ignored and forgotten, why would they trust that these young activists were truly there for them? But there they were, and at some point, I saw a subtle shift as the Native folks began to accept what was happening, and got behind it as well. To see that shift was amazing, and I, as another ally person of color, hope with all my heart, mind, body and spirit, that they continue this battle with the folks of Pine Ridge. What has been started is the beginning of a wave that must happen all over the world in order to continue shutting down the systems of power—the systems that kill—the systems that bring pain and suffering to the many. As we have always known, no one is free, until we all are free…

The bar and liquor store owners had shut down for the day, probably thinking it would be short lived as it had been in the past—a couple of hours—maybe. We felt a great deal of pride in that we shut them down for 7 hours—a major feat. We also felt pride in that there were many cameras rolling, every time the law enforcement officers approached, and in the end after a day of pondering, offering more and more legal threats, they finally amassed a large enough number of officers from around the state it would seem to carry the 5 Young Activists off—and load them into—a Cattle Car!

It was no surprise that the following morning, calls started rolling in from all over the country, and most importantly from the Department of Justice. It is our fervent hope that perhaps when those with privilege understand how much they can help situations when people of color and other oppressed peoples are involved, they will do so. It took having young white people being arrested to bring, hopefully, some much needed attention to this situation. We all knew that had it not been done this way, and had there been only Native folks putting themselves on the line, they would have been brutalized, jailed, and as we were told—the women would have potentially been sexually abused. This is what must be stopped. This is what needs to be fought, over and over. I sincerely hope and believe progress will continue to be made—it is time, and that time is now.

After the activists were carried off, there was confusion, and one of the points we didn’t take care of was making sure we got all of our people out of “enemy territory”at the day's ending. Near the end, before the young activists were arrested, there was a moment when we noticed that the sun was going down. Vic, stood and spoke, in his tongue—honoring the directions, we all solemnly watched and followed along. It was a very powerful moment. It was this moment that felt so honoring, even the officers stood by and kept silent for these moments. I always am reminded how important it is that we as non-Native folk always remember that the spiritual part of the Indigenous is theirs and theirs alone, unless they choose to share it/teach it. It is understanding that to steal their practices is yet another form of genocide.

I have forgotten another very powerful moment, that happened earlier in the day when the law enforcement got ready to converge on us. This wind came up out of nowhere. Many gasped, with the recognition that the ancestors we had called upon earlier in the day had made their presence known. The winds were like a white curtain between “us and them” It is my thinking that ancestors were around all day—we also saw dragonflies—another sign that the ancestors were among us and acting to help.

I’d gotten separated from the man I rode in with—an older activist, who said he’d been in the Civil Rights marches, who’d gone to get his car, but had not been allowed to return to the town. We met up later, and rode back to the camp.

The mood back at camp was one of exhaustion, exuberance, yet also, a subdued sense of concern, while we waited. We had been told that they young activists had been taken in, given citations, and released rather quickly, never even having seen the inside of a jail cell. Ironic, how the systems of justice work in this country. A few folks sat quietly around the fire, and in our exhaustion, conversations were subdued and quiet. I spoke for a long time with a Native man who was the husband of one of the women whose land we were staying on. It felt so nice by the fire, as we warmed ourselves and spoke of life. I was reminded of why it is we focus so much on our differences when we are so very much the same. As adults of a similar age, we have children, have known struggle, have survived, become weary of the battles of life. That human connection was so very comforting to me in the moment. I was also struck at the thought that here were Native folks sharing the fire with us, being in our midst, perhaps the walls that had been between all of us down through time might finally be starting to break down, as we began to understand that we could be there for/standing with each other.

TR one of the White Clay 5

Vic

Rachel one of the White Clay 5

Zander one of the White Clay 5

Oluwan: amazing woman! She and Vic were the main leaders

The ritual before the march

The Lock down

Alex  and Zander  Two more of the White Clay 5

Debra White Plume, we were on her family's land, an activist for many years

The Grandmother I spoke of, loved her...

Little by little, folks started drifting back in, many of us had stopped for food in Pine Ridge, knowing that our camp food supplies had dwindled. At some point, the young activists came back and we welcomed them warmly with our love.

The next morning, as could be expected, many were preparing for departure. The usual vat of oatmeal was there for us, dear Iver, what a dear person to keep making sure we had food and coffee in the morning. At some point, a circle was called, and we came together for the debriefing. One of the five was apparently ill and needed to be taken to the hospital—we later learned with dehydration and some form of food poisoning. The activists of DGR, began to talk about what had happened, and at some point early on, Vic asked if they could do this in the Native way—going around the circle, rather than popcorn style. What began at that point was a sharing from each heart in the circle, which I will talk about in my next post.