From Thursday, March 12
Today was equal measure feeling ready to go home and wishing I could stay longer. Yesterday was our last workday, and I packed up our tools with a sense of giddy anticipation that my time as an unskilled laborer was over. I breathed a sigh of relief as we finished loading the Re-Member van and hopped inside to its waiting warmth. I didn't think about the little girl we saw earlier in the day with no jacket out in the freezing cold. Instead, my mind was occupied with the buffalo we had hopes of sighting on the hour-long trip back to Re-Member.
So today, to reward us for 3 1/2 days of hard work, we toured the reservation. I am surprised to admit that I would have rather been working. Seems a shame now that I have finally hit my stride at Re-Member, it's time to go home.
The tour itself was an odd blend of culturally significant sites interspersed with "rest stops," i.e., thinly-veiled opportunities for us visitors to spend money. Not that I could blame them for wanting to help the local economy. And the students bought in droves from every site, from souvenirs to snack foods.
Our tour guides were John Her Many Horses and Darryl Red Cloud, the fifth generation grandson of the great Chief Red Cloud. There is something about the men of this culture, their weather-beaten faces, their easy laughter and sorrow-touched eyes, that reminds me of the men of my culture. All week I've looked on the Lakota men and seen my father, my uncles, my grandfather - weaned in the days of the Vietnam war and raising their families under the flag of a foreign government. I strained to listen to the faint, tinny whine of the bus PA system as John proudly pointed out the wind turbine that the reservation radio station had just acquired. The metal structure standing no taller than my house was the tallest turbine on the whole reservation, he announced.
"Over there, you can buy lots of good stuff to eat," referring to a large gas station with a several fast food stations and a seating area inside. "Companies are starting to locate here in Pine Ridge!"
"Here is the hospital. If you get sick? Good luck," he joked, Darryl snorting his agreement. As we passed the modest structure, he explained how preventative care was non-existent, despite the diabetes epidemic of the last decade and high infant mortality rate. The so-called cancer center, he explained, was a room full of beds and no equipment.
I was taken aback by the large homes surrounding the hospital with their well manicured lawns placed in suburbia-like rows. The neighborhood was a marked difference from the trailers and one bedroom shacks dotting the rest of the reservation landscape. The nurses and doctors live there, I was told. The visiting doctors, of course. There are no permanent doctors on the Rez.
The noise level in the bus rose higher the longer the day wore on. The students were abandoning the pretense of being able to hear the tour through the tired PA speakers, allowing their minds to relax. Despite sitting directly behind John, I could barely discern every-third word and had given up trying to listen myself. Still, about 10 miles from the Re-Member site, I watched him reach for the mic and leaned in with interest. He pointed to the northwest, towards an unseen destination. The first part of his explanation was lost to me, though he was speaking in the same frank, companionable tone he had used all day. But I could make out the meaning of his last remarks clearly.
"When people ask you where your people are buried, you reply they are buried in cemeteries. Over there, that's where my people are buried: at Wounded Knee."
Model of Crazy Horse monument being built in the Black Hills. More a metaphoric tribute than a literal likeness, it depicts the warrior's true response to the derisive question, "Where are your lands NOW, Indian?" Crazy Horse replied, “My lands are where my dead lie buried.”
So today, to reward us for 3 1/2 days of hard work, we toured the reservation. I am surprised to admit that I would have rather been working. Seems a shame now that I have finally hit my stride at Re-Member, it's time to go home.
The tour itself was an odd blend of culturally significant sites interspersed with "rest stops," i.e., thinly-veiled opportunities for us visitors to spend money. Not that I could blame them for wanting to help the local economy. And the students bought in droves from every site, from souvenirs to snack foods.
Our tour guides were John Her Many Horses and Darryl Red Cloud, the fifth generation grandson of the great Chief Red Cloud. There is something about the men of this culture, their weather-beaten faces, their easy laughter and sorrow-touched eyes, that reminds me of the men of my culture. All week I've looked on the Lakota men and seen my father, my uncles, my grandfather - weaned in the days of the Vietnam war and raising their families under the flag of a foreign government. I strained to listen to the faint, tinny whine of the bus PA system as John proudly pointed out the wind turbine that the reservation radio station had just acquired. The metal structure standing no taller than my house was the tallest turbine on the whole reservation, he announced.
"Over there, you can buy lots of good stuff to eat," referring to a large gas station with a several fast food stations and a seating area inside. "Companies are starting to locate here in Pine Ridge!"
"Here is the hospital. If you get sick? Good luck," he joked, Darryl snorting his agreement. As we passed the modest structure, he explained how preventative care was non-existent, despite the diabetes epidemic of the last decade and high infant mortality rate. The so-called cancer center, he explained, was a room full of beds and no equipment.
I was taken aback by the large homes surrounding the hospital with their well manicured lawns placed in suburbia-like rows. The neighborhood was a marked difference from the trailers and one bedroom shacks dotting the rest of the reservation landscape. The nurses and doctors live there, I was told. The visiting doctors, of course. There are no permanent doctors on the Rez.
The noise level in the bus rose higher the longer the day wore on. The students were abandoning the pretense of being able to hear the tour through the tired PA speakers, allowing their minds to relax. Despite sitting directly behind John, I could barely discern every-third word and had given up trying to listen myself. Still, about 10 miles from the Re-Member site, I watched him reach for the mic and leaned in with interest. He pointed to the northwest, towards an unseen destination. The first part of his explanation was lost to me, though he was speaking in the same frank, companionable tone he had used all day. But I could make out the meaning of his last remarks clearly.
"When people ask you where your people are buried, you reply they are buried in cemeteries. Over there, that's where my people are buried: at Wounded Knee."
Model of Crazy Horse monument being built in the Black Hills. More a metaphoric tribute than a literal likeness, it depicts the warrior's true response to the derisive question, "Where are your lands NOW, Indian?" Crazy Horse replied, “My lands are where my dead lie buried.”
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