From the Shenandoah to South Dakota

Back at Bob Bear Killer's house, painting. The sun was out today and the wind less dominant, making the cold feel more-or-less like a disgruntled uncle - you can't stand it when he's around, but are strangely comforted by his presence.

My first discovery was that what I had mistakenly considered a pile of junk two days prior was actually Bob's current home. He lived in there. Bundled up tight in my down jacket, fighting against the wind, I had just glossed over the tiny trailer in my repeat trips to and from the Re-Member van. If someone hadn't pointed it out to me, I may never have even known it was there. (Note: scroll back to my earlier blog post, No Orphans on the Rez. Did you notice the trailer when you first saw it?)

I was embarrassed. Here I was, another interloper coming to help "the poor people." I had made this man, an elder of the community, invisible - just as the rest of America has been doing to him his entire life. And the junk car sitting beside the trailer? The one I assumed was sitting inoperable in the mud and commented on - loudly - two days ago? That was his transportation. Upon our arrival, he quietly got in it and drove to the neighboring house at the top of the hill. Avoiding our presence out of shame or discomfort, I don't know, but neither do I blame him.


New house under construction vs. current trailer


So-called "junk" car - photo by Bryan Banville

The floor and the walls of the house had been completed the day before by another group. Our accomplishment today was to paint the walls and ceiling while Jerry, Re-Member's long-winded electrician from Nebraska, worked on the wiring. He sang us showtunes and told us how he met his newlywed wife on e-Harmony. I forgot my earlier faux pas and found a soft spot instead for Jerry, for deli lunches lightly coated in sawdust, and for this wicked cold Hell called South Dakota.

I can see now how my individual actions here this week are actually part of a larger, nebulous system. One group leaves and another takes their place, forming a continuous entity that moves with force like a timeless assembly line. You lay the floors today, I'll paint them tomorrow, and by next month, we will have built a house. We will have changed lives. It's comforting to think about the volunteers set to come after me, caring after these projects when I'm back home.

After spending several days trying various ways to embed a recording of Larry Swallow chanting the Lakota Creation story (hence how quiet it's been on this blog lately), I have given up and decided to do this the old fashioned way. Well, technically it's the new way, since Lakota stories come from oral history, but you get my point. Larry came and performed for us on Tuesday during our trip. He brought along his sister, a former Black Panther who I later found out was not a blood relation, but had been bound to him through a Lakota ceremony that turns dear friends into relatives.

It's been a few weeks since I heard him tell the story, but this is what I remember, with a little help from Larry's book, Tiikceka Tokaheya (The First Common Home). In my very American way, I've stripped out any part that I don't understand or doesn't seem to fit in the linear story. To purchase a copy of Larry Swallow's book along with a CD of his chants, call 605-441-1045 or write to P.O. Box 697 / Allen, SD 57714.

In the beginning, Iyan Tokaheya turned himself inside out, creating the world. He covered himself with the Ozone Layer, and from his blood came the oceans, from the rock of his body the earth. So the world was created half land, half water, born to satisfy His desire to create something beautiful from Himself.

And as Iyan Tokaheya created desire, the first creatures that inhabited the Earth were also selfish, driven only by instinct. These were dinosaurs and Neanderthals. So the lightning came down and struck down these first inhabitants, acknowledging that selfishness and desire would be forevermore part of the natural world. In their place, greater beings were created that had the capacity for compassion, intelligence, and prayer.

Among the four-legged beings was the buffalo, intelligent and powerful, formed in the heart of the Black Hills.

Among the two-legged were four races of man: Black, Red, Yellow and White. God gave each a prayer. To the Black people, He gave the prayer of water, for they are His blood, fluid and strong. To the Red, the earth, for they are His heart and healers of the land. To the Yellow people, he spoke the prayer of the air, so that they might be His breath. And to the White people, the fire, for they are His spirit. God spoke each of these prayers, and people came into being.

For a time, the people of the four races lived in harmony. But soon, selfishness began reappearing. People began to fight among themselves, each believing they had the better culture, or language, or prayer from God.

So Iyan Tokaheya sent the rain, and it rained for 40 days and 40 nights. The skies opened up. The Earth shook. At the end of the Great Flood, where there was once one land, now it was separate, with each race given a continent to develop their societies and keep the laws of God as they saw best.

And thus the world and its people came into being.

I feel compelled to mention Uncle Will at this point, since I know he inspired many of our students when he came to speak during the after-dinner cultural program. He came in sporting bright blue feather earrings, a Bob Marley tee and a large turtle tattoo on his arm representing the Lakota origin myth. A motivational speaker and mentor to young men on the reservation, his obviously prepared speech was largely geared toward that particular audience. Not being an at-risk adolescent boy, I got little out of it from a personal perspective, but I could tell that many of our students were moved by his message of respecting women, rising above adversity and preserving tribal traditions. He's a man of great charisma and just enough machismo to make young men want to emulate him, and I truly wish him well in his endeavors.

All photos by Kristina Snader

The days go by slowly here. One-and-a-half workdays in, and my body is tired, my mind is tired, and I miss home. We woke up yesterday to find a dusting of snow on the ground and drove one hour away to the home of Bob Bear Killer, a Lakota elder. He had been in the process of building a house for his father, until his father died and he simultaneously ran out of money. There it sat for six years until a member of the community discovered the house's plight and Re-Member picked up the task of completing the house.



With deep ruts in the driveway threatening to trap us in the mud, we parked our van and trailer about 150 yards away and hauled all the lumber and tools to the house, the bitter cold making our steps ache and skin burn. The wind out here is a demon when angry, whipping our steps and mocking the spirit of anyone who dares to venture forth in it. My arms trembled under the weight of the lumber as I strained to pick my way through the wind and frozen mud, tripping on ruts and stepping gingerly over dog feces left by the resident pack of Rez dogs watching us with curious, intelligent eyes. My toes were frozen on impact, stung with every step. I faltered, I doubted, but I persevered.


Photo by Christina Freeman Nielsen



My reward was to spend the next few hours installing flooring in the unheated house, the cacophony of our beating hammers our only protection from our thoughts, mine which had begun to stray to warmer days and home. Gusts of sawdust assailed us from within the confines of the one-bedroom house as the weather made cutting wood outside impossible - or at least, inhumane. I coughed up dust from my lungs and thought of the people of this land.



On top of the hill visible from the house was a little shack with plastic covering the openings were windows should be. By last count, we were told, 18 people all lived there together. Life expectancy here is the lowest in the Western Hemisphere except for Haiti - with parents dying in their early 50's. And yet, there are no orphans on the Rez, and the homeless are invisible. It's a common occurrence, we learned, to have three to four families living together in the same house, despite the abject poverty. In this land where no one hears the cries of their children or the agony of their sick, the people have done as they have always done - taken in others as members of the same family under the Creator. Thus it was ordered at the beginning of time, and thus it remains today. I looked at the floor where four of us were hammering, adjusting our bodies as we went along so we could all fit in the small area together, and wondered how many would live here after we were finished.

To the right of the podium sat a young girl, at first glance around 16 or 17 years old. Pretty and petite, her silence was almost a punctuation as she focused on unraveling cases of beaded jewelry, nodding occasionally in agreement as Minerva spoke.

It was revealed that the young woman was Minerva's granddaughter, and she was selling handmade jewelry for the youth group. After the presentation, a swarm of students rushed forward to look over the wares. I took advantage of the commotion by stealing a moment for myself, quickly jotting down the journal entry preceding this one. I re-entered the fray a few minutes later to find the crowd had migrated from the central table to where Minerva stood answering questions and providing her post-presentation insights. Our young visitor stood alone on the opposite side of the room, invisible except for the few buyers making late purchases.

I mentally pushed aside the grim stories I had just been told regarding the youths of her culture. Gang activity, teen pregnancy, drug abuse, high school truancy, feelings of hopelessness - I fought to put it aside and see the person standing before me. With a friendly, open face, her most distinguishing feature was the outfit she wore: a knee-length, green pleated skirt and white open-toe heels - by far the most formal attire I had seen anyone wearing since I arrived at the airport the day before. She felt out of place somehow, like she should have been hanging out with my younger cousins back in in Northern Virginia rather than the cold, muddy plains of South Dakota. I offered her some nicety about her skirt, truly more flattering than anything I could hope to put together with my misplaced sense of fashion.

"Thanks," she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up, "I haven't worn it in a while because...you know, I'm pregnant, and I think it makes me look fat. Like, I walk into a room and everyone is staring at me."

I hid my surprise, barely. I glanced down for a fraction of a second and noticed the slight, but visible baby bump.

"Oh? When are you due?"

I slid easily into pregnancy babble, well-practiced with my friends at home. We talked about the difficulty buying good baby clothes on the Rez (you can't), whether she wanted a girl or boy (boy), when she was due (September), and other topics I hadn't expected to encounter on a trip full of college students. She asked me about my family, asked me my age.

"Twenty-six," I told her.

"And do you have any children?"

"No," I answered, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Really?" She asked, her eyes widening in wonder. "Wow, you don't have ANY kids? You're like, the only person in your 20's I've ever met who hasn't had kids yet."

A sadness swept over me then, coupled with an overwhelming urge to explain to her how, in my world, women chose the most opportune time to have children for them - after marriage, college, careers and careful planning. Other options exist! There's another way! I screamed silently.

We continued talking on other subjects. She told me how she was half-Lakota, half-Mexican and grew up in various places before joining her grandmother on the reservation. Her father had just been released from prison and her mother, Minerva's daughter, is an alcoholic. She talked about her disappointment in her mother's inability to parent, forcing her young siblings to turn to her for a nurturing presence. It was difficult for her as a nineteen-year-old to fill this role entirely, as she was young and wanted the freedom to to go out with her friends. No, the reality of her current condition was not lost on her. When her child came, she said, she would have to do as her friends do - wait for the babysitter to come before she could go out and party.

"I felt like, the fact that I was not pregnant, that made me stand out and made me different. And now that's gone. I always looked down on people for getting pregnant...like...I tried not to show it to their face, but I kinda did. And then it happened to me."

Our conversation continued for several more minutes, ambling along from her pregnancy to her experiences as a multi-racial person living on the Rez, to social norms when addressing one's elders and similarities between Vietnamese and Lakota culture. I had made a friend. When Minerva finally motioned to her that it was time to depart, she looked at me and said, "Oh. Well, I hope I get to see you again!"

"I hope I do, too," I responded, knowing that I never would, but very much wishing that I could.

The Lakota language has no word for "goodbye," simply, "see you later." And so until then, for my young friend out here on the reservation, my thoughts and prayers will stay with you.

Just got back to Virginia, with an overnight stopover at my uncle's house before heading to Harrisonburg tomorrow. Many insights and revelations, and not at all related to my expectations or anxieties before the trip began. Overall an AMAZING trip - which I will begin to share once the road dust begins to settle. Mitakuye Oyasin.

7:30 in the morning, I've said goodbye to my big fluffy bed, everything is packed into ONE bag and I'm ready to go (it's amazing how much room you save when you aren't allowed to bring iPods, laptops, PDAs, or cell phones). See you on Monday, March 16! Harrisonburg-ers: take care of Tim for me.

Watch my video recorded at 7:30 that morning.

Sitting in bed last night - on top of my overstuffed, king-sized bed, playing online games via my wireless connection while Food Network provided background entertainment from my 32" LCD - I began to contemplate the reality that in the next week, I would be living in a dormitory with 11 undergrads, eating meals from a mess hall at night and painting, staining, and roofing during the day. In South Dakota.

A sudden thought hit me then: WHAT did I sign up to do??

I've always viewed myself as someone who performed service as an integral part of my life and belief system. Those who volunteer with local children's hospitals, collect donations for a charity auction, rebuild houses after natural disasters, jump out of helicopters to put out forest fires, spend two years overseas in the Peace Corps -- yeah, I belong to that club. We're all "volunteers," right?

Hmph.

It was a jarring discovery to learn that I wasn't one of those people...you know, who actually DO stuff. Sure, I write a blog for a non-profit organization and supervise a student organization. Once I even handed out food at a subsidized apartment complex for the mentally handicapped. But to leave my comfort zone for a significant period of time, immerse myself up to the elbows in a philanthropic cause -- that's not me. That's not even idealistic me from my college days. What did I sign up to do?

It'll be an adventure, and one that's long overdue. I owe it to God, to whom I've made plenty of promises if He would ONLY pull me through this or that in my life. I owe it to my family, who came to this country with nothing and did everything in their power to make sure we would never want or know poverty. Heck, I even owe it to idealistic me from college. I still can't quite understand what I'm up to and picture myself actually IN Pine Ridge, but I'm open to the lessons that I'm sure await me there.

A few weeks ago, I put out an SOS to my friends, family, and co-workers asking for donations for our trip. With only two airports in the entire state of South Dakota (that's right, TWO), and increasing gas prices, the cost of the trip was beginning to skyrocket. JMU's Community Service Learning (CSL) office pays for learning partners to attend, but for the most part, students are expected to cover their own costs. At an early estimate of $800 per student - an amount rivaling other trips with international locations - Kristina and Liz were having difficulty getting people to sign up. Who wants to go to South Dakota when you can go to Jamaica for the same price? You see our problem.

Here is where private support came in. My husband Tim and I donated $350 of our own money, and I set a personal goal of raising another $350. I got $1,035 $1,490.

I am extremely grateful to everyone for their support, which, combined with other fundraising efforts from the team members, helped offset the unanticipated expense of renting a van and provided scholarships worth about $200 per student! As far as I know, nobody in my circle has a great interest in Native American issues...with the exception of Tim's uncle Boyd, who I'm told may have some Indian in his bloodline. :) I am thankful to those who always demonstrate generosity with their time and money. But I am also thankful to those donors who generally don't support philanthropic causes related to poverty, or object to giving money to JMU specifically - but did so this time because of their desire to support me. A fundraiser by profession, it's been a humbling experience to have so many of my loved ones partner with me on this journey. Thank you.

Alternative Spring Break is a program sponsored by James Madison University's Office of Community Service Learning. Coinciding with the university's Spring Break, students contribute their own money to attend these drug- and alcohol- free trips, performing service in communities around the globe. Nearly 200 students will be deployed this Saturday - and as is characteristic with the ASB program, many more who wished to go were turned away due to high demand.

Having become a full-time JMU staff member in June*, I learned through a colleague that I was eligible to accompany students on Alternative Spring Break trips as a "Learning Partner." Each trip would have two student leaders assigned with extensive training in leading their groups. Rather than serving as a third trip leader or mother hen, Learning Partners instead act as a mature voice to help guide the students as they make their own decisions, learn and grow throughout the week. As it was explained to me during an interest meeting for potential Learning Partners, my job would be to allow the students to walk to the edge of the cliff - but not jump off.

After an application and interview process, I was selected by trip leaders Kristina Snader and Liz Toms to accompany them on their trip to a Native American reservation in South Dakota. Liz and Kristina are amazing individuals whose infectious enthusiasm can turn the heart of the greatest cynic regarding the plight of Native Americans, and I'm honored to be their Learning Partner for the week.

My next post will focus on the background of the Oglala Lakota Nation and our host agency, Re-Member. For now, with two days left to go before the trip, I've got to get back to finishing off some last minute work projects and packing!


*I work as a marketing program coordinator in University Marketing. For the past 3.5 years I have also worked on a part-time basis as a radio announcer on WMRA 90.7, the university-supported NPR station.