Return to Pine Ridge
Driving
into Pine Ridge this time gave me a very different kind of excitement
than when I came here for the protest in August. When I came, before,
I was a stranger, and I think I was in awe of being on a reservation.
Until...until I began to listen to the stories of her people, and to
understand the centuries old battle that they had been in, and what
they had to deal with on a day to day basis—just to survive.
I
remember feeling the growing of a deep sense of anger at the
conditions of the lives of the people, and how the United States
government could let this continue, or worse that our government
wasn't even just a passive, but an active participant in the ongoing
oppression and genocide of this land's First People.
I had
listened intently and with an unspeakably deep sadness to the stories
told to us be the wise people of the Lakota tribe. The stories
touched me because they were the stories of my relations. Here on
Mother Earth, we are all interconnected, and there is no separation
between us, we ARE all related—there is no question.
So,
knowing this, I cannot sit by and watch, when there is something I
can do. From my years as a single mother, at times on welfare and
foodstamps, I was not able to even think about doing activism when I
was simply trying to make ends meet. Obviously, this is a part of the
ongoing oppression—creating conditions in the lives of people so
that they are too tired, too hungry, too depressed to be able to
rise up. Yet, and still, people have, down through time, found the
energy, strength and courage to keep fighting for justice and
freedom. Also, from my time as a single mother, and a lifetime of
being a woman of color, I can understand not only dealing with
oppression, depression, and an ongoing need to provide what my
children needed, even if it meant I went without. Yet, I also know
that living in the colonized culture has its perks of programs that
are available for the single low-income parent.
I have
embarked on my journey, and found that it doesn't look like I thought
it would, yet, I know this is what it is. What I know is that the
people on the reservation, no matter what has been done to them—they
still have their ancient ways, and a medicine so strong, it cannot be
taken from them, no matter how much the “fat taker” culture has
tried. (see my earlier posts to understand the story of the “fat
taker”)
I was
elated when I found—on Craigslist oddly enough—a young man and
his wife who were grateful to be able to take all the things I'd
collected over to Pine Ridge. I know that they got a huge education
while they were there. They came away with a sense of wanting to do
more of the work I've embarcked upon—funny how going there often
does that to one...
We were
treated to a movie that showed a number of Indigenous elders talking
about the hideousness of the boarding schools, which I was surprised
to know didn't end that long ago. As if the trauma of being beseiged
by forced genocide from one source or another wasn't enough—they
had to deal with being hauled away from their families as young ones,
had their hair cut, made to speak english, give up their spirituality
and ways, their foods, their families, their clothes, and learn the
way of the whites of that time, who thought they were doing them a
favor!
I feel as
if I come away each time with more amd nore information and
understanding that I have been trying to share with folks in the
“mainstream culture”. Many folks have known something of what has
been the history of the First People, but many do not, and seem not
to be able to take in what I'm telling them of the poverty, the loss
to death of Indigenous elders by starvation and freezing, the
alcoholism that has been killing many and causing other side effects,
etc. And a poverty so deeply entrenched with its intention of
weakening the people and each new generation that is
born—simply--cultural genocide. It deeply saddens me when people
cannot take it what I'm saying. I've seen them look first concerned,
then their eyes tear up, as if they just might get it, then their
eyes glaze over, and they usually say--”It's wonderful work you're
doing Soltahr” and go on to the next thing. Except for those few
who get it, and have been generous with their time and what little
money any of us can spare in this harsh economy, there are actually
many who never even bother to ask what they could do.
Yet, I
will continue undaunted, for I've truly come to feel that our lives
depend on the lifting up of the First Peoples—back to their
rightful place in this culture—a place where they are honored and
have their dignity and respect. Because in so doing, we will all be
uplifted.
Wounded
Knee
The morning we were leaving Pine Ridge, I asked if we could stop at
Wounded Knee. I'd always wanted to visit this sacred site, but the
last trip was so focussed on the action, we didn't get a chance to.
The site is such that if you weren't looking for it, you could easily
miss it, but once you're there, there's no missing the messages of
this National Historical Landmark. As you pull up, there is this
large red two sided sign, that gives the story of the massacre that
occurred on December 29, 1890.I think that what struck me the most as
I read the story, is that there is no clear understanding as to why
the people were being held by the 7
th Calvery in the first
place. Yet, the deeper awareness is of course that they saw them as
somehow “savage and dangerous”, especially because there had been
talk that they would do the “Ghost Dance” that terrified the
military and the US government. Sadly, the massacre happened because
of an errant shot that set off the shooting, and when it was over the
numbers vary between 150 and 300 men, women and children were
massacred (as well as a number of the soldiers, who were killed by
“friendly fire”--what an odd name—friendly fire!)
As I started walking across the street, I realized that even though
it was up a rather steep and snowy hill, I knew I had to go there. A
very thin young man who was out walking his dog, sort of showed up
all of a sudden and started walking with me. We introduced ourselves,
he said his name was Daniel. As we passed a round brown building
housing the “curio” shop (pictured below), he pointed out that
the roof had rocks on it to keep it from blowing off until they could
get it fixed in the Spring, it wasn't open at the time.
As I turned and looked to the South of where we were, I noticed a
gateway. It opened into the path up the hill, and as I looked up the
hill, there was yet another gateway that stood at the top of the
hill, at the entrance to the cemetary—shown below.. I've always
felt a certain reverance when crossing through gateways, as they mean
that you are crossing into another realm. In a magical way, they mean
that you will somehow be changed after you return from beyond the
gateway. I passed through and gave a short bow with my hands held in
prayer, as is my way of offering homage to the sacred. My walk up the
hill was a little tricky for this elder woman, and though I slipped
a little a couple of times, I didn't fall down. Another thing I've
always felt about gateways, if you pay homage to the spirits that
dwell there as you enter, you will be protected and cared for as you
journey there.
Daniel and his dog had walked a little ahead of me, yet, I noticed he
sort of kept a watchful eye out for me—I guess in respect for the
fact that I was obviously an elder woman, and at one point when I
slipped a little, he quickly reached out his hand. I was struck by
his quiet gentleness—as seems to me to be the way of many of the
folks I've met here on the reservation.
Finally reaching the top (only a little out of breath—thank you
Clay for all the walks...) I again offered homage at the entrance of
the second gateway, and immediately felt, upon entering, that I was
indeed in a very holy and sacred place.
Stretched out in front of me was a chain link fence, that according
to Daniel housed/enclosed the mass grave of those who'd been
massacred.
Just to the right of it, in the picture, you can see the monument
that was built with the names of the people who were buried there. It
was powerful for me to stand there—first looking down at the grave
itself, then to take in and mouth to myself, the names of all of the
people on the monument itself. Inwardly, I felt such a deep sadness
that this had occurred. To the back of the monument was a part of the
fence on which people had put momentos, prayer ties, etc. I searched
in my pockets for something, anything, but found nothing, as I'd not
thought to bring anything. Then, as I was about to leave, I realized
that I could and did simply tear off a piece of the hem of my shirt,
and with sadness and honoring inside, tied it to the fence with a
prayer in my heart and on my lips that somehow, I hoped with all of
my heart, that those buried there would not have died in vain. That
somehow, if there was something I could do, I would...
While I was doing this, Daniel and his dog had been quietly walking
around to other parts of the cemetary, keeping distance in knowledge
of the need to allow someone to be with the sacred ancestors who had
given their lives—originally for no reason whatsoever. As I thought
about it, this monument remains as a testament to the ridiculousness
of what has happened historically to the Lakota, and all of the other
Indigenous peoples of this country, and all over the world. It
ontinues to be impossible for me to think these thoughts without
tears in my eyes and in my heart. I think it is because really, and
truly, I do not understand why. Yet, I do know, on some level we all
do. The First Peoples had to be subdued because they were a threat to
those who did not honor and understand the secrets of the ancient
ways of loving Mother Earth and Father Sky. As we have come to see,
Mother Earth and Father Sky are suffering, along with the Water and
the Air, and all of the creatures and beings that exist here on
Earth. The Indigenous peoples of every land know the secrets, and
others who have learned the devotion that is necessary, can know the
secrets as well.
As I walked out of the enclosed area, Daniel approached me again, as
I was looking at a set of three graves just outside of the mass grave
area. On the first grave was inscribed the name “Lost Bird”.
As I was looking at this grave, Daniel began to tell the story of
how, after the massacre, when they turned over the body of one of the
women, they found, wrapped in a blanket a tiny baby. Apparently, as
the story goes—General Colby took the child as his “prize” and
he and his wife raised her as their own. At some point, the General,
left his wife for another woman. Some years later, he returned after
his wife had died, and impregnated Lost Bird, who had one child that
was stillborn, and another who lived, but no one seems to know what
happened to that child. Shortly thereafter, Lost Bird died of
pneumonia complicated by the disease syphllis, that she'd gotten
from the General himself—at the young age of only 19. His “prize”.
Just the thought of that term being applied to a baby, much less a
young woman, sickened me. I could not even summon the emotions with
which to deal with the depth of sadness I saw on Daniel's face as he
finished this story, that echoed within my own heart...
The story of the next two graves I looked at are interconnected as
they are the graves of a mother and son. According to Daniel, the
mom—Agnes La Monte fought tirelessly after the murder of her son
Lawrence La Monte after his death at Wounded Knee in the other
historical event that took place on this site in 1973. The story goes
roughly as follows.
There
had been internal problems related to the new tribal chairman,
Richard Wilson, who'd been elected, and was seen as being corrupt and
as coorporating with the US Government and the FBI. There was also
great unrest around the conditions on the reservation, (which
continue) one of the poorest in the country. On February 27, members
of AIM (American Indian Movement) and supporters on the Pine Ridge
Reservation began a 71 day occupation on the site of the Wounded Knee
Massacre that happened in 1890. They occupied the town and
announced their demand for the removal of Wilson from office and for
immediate revival of treaty talks with the US government.
Dennis
Banks and
Russell
Means were prominent spokesmen during the occupation; they
often addressed the press, knowing they were making their cause known
directly to the American people. The occupation was surrounded by
roadblocks established by the Federal government for 15 miles in
every direction, and Wilson placed his own police outside of the
boundary—his group called GOON (Guardians of the Oglala Nation)
squad were financed by the Federal Government.
So, my
young tour guide told me a story about Lawrence D. La Monte, a story
that is known mostly, to his people, and Buddy La Monte was again,
another indigenous man that time forgot.
Apparently,
Lawrence “Buddy” La Monte had been stationed in Viet Nam, and
returned home to the
reservation in time for the occupation that was occuring. According
to one account, When Lawrence "Buddy" Lamont, a local
Oglala Lakota, was killed by a shot from a government sniper on April
26, he was buried on the site in a Sioux ceremony. After his death,
tribal elders called an end to the occupation. Knowing the young man
and his mother from the reservation, many Oglala were greatly
sorrowed by his death. Both sides reached an agreement on May 5 to
disarm. With the decision made, many Oglala Lakota began to leave
Wounded Knee at night, walking out through the federal lines. Three
days later, the siege ended and the town was evacuated after 71 days
of occupation; the government took control of the town.
According
to my young friend, there is a fact that is often left out, that
being that Buddy La Monte had been in Viet Nam, and after he was
shot, he received a dishonorable discharge from the military. For
many years after the event, his mother fought to have his
dishonarable discharge removed, she was eventually successful—many
years later, after his death. She died soon thereafter, and her grave
is right next to his. What seems ironic of course is that here was a
man, returning from a very unpopular war, to a war in his own land,
against his own people, and he was killed by the same military he had
served in, and was seen as dishonorable. In the moments after he told
me this, I could only shake my head in sadness, knowing only too well
how unjust the United States has been over time to so very many of
its people, and how many of those same people have served it proudly
and given their lives to protect what little of the freedoms they
actually shared with the ruling/owning class of the country...ironic.
My young
tour guide continued to point out to me, a number of other graves in
the graveyard that belonged to his relations. I took a number of
pictures, which couldn't capture the peacefulness of the small
cemetary, and the power that was there, as I continued to be rivited
back to the sight of the mass grave, and as I often do, when thinking
of the dead, wondered at the strength of their spirits, and felt
clear that they must often show up when they are needed to continue
to aid their people in the ongoing struggle for justice, fairness and
peace.
Finally,
I realized that I'd been gone from my young transportation friends
for quite a while, and that I needed to get going. I bowed, with
hands folded, honoring and thanking my young friend Daniel for
showing up out of nowhere and being willing to give me a “tour”,
and allowing me to understand more deeply the stories of the people
who history mighy not have mentioned. Yet, I got to hear stories of
others who had suffered and died, simply because they wanted to be
free, or as in the case of “Lost Bird” had been innocent and
small, and had been stolen from her people, and still, died in a
hideous fashion like her ancestors before her.
As I
started to begin my journey back down the hill, I couldn't help but
stop for a moment to take a long look at the actual site of where the
Massacre and Incident would have taken place—now a peaceful field
covered with snow...
Yet, in
my mind's eye, I couldn't help but picture people in layers, some in
ancient Native Dress, running for their lives as the shots were fired
that would eventually kill them. Then, another layer of a later
time, AIM leaders, and modern indigenous people, again, on land that
was given them, still running for their lives, but that time into the
fire, into the books of history, into the news of the day—desperately
and still trying to be given just treatment, upholding of treaties
made, and the respect they have always deserved but never gotten as
the Frist Peoples of this land. May they not have died in vain!
