From the Shenandoah to South Dakota

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.