I once wrote about the statistics that you see on our reservation.  I pleaded for someone to tell me how to change this.  You can google it on the internet.  You can find it in old media files or articles.

Pine Ridge Reservation...blah, blah, blah etc.

High School drop out rate-blah, blah, blah.

Infant mortality rate-blah blah blah.

Diabetes rate- blah, blah, blah.

Alcoholism rate-blah, blah, blah.

Unemployment rate-blah, blah, blah.

Poverty rate-blah, blah, blah.

Ok, maybe I went too far.  Maybe the unemploymet rate will never change.  Maybe because the government wants us to have a high rating there.

But sometimes I think we focus so much on the bad and negative that we have no room for improvement.  As a tribe we all want to fight among ourselves as if it was the LNI and one family member's kid was on one team and another family member's kid was on the rival team.  We act as if we the Oglala Lakota will always hate on each other and never work together to improve ourslves as a society.  Where is the Lakota way of life in that?  Why fight?  Why put each other down?

Are we so far gone into greed and this need to be better than the neighbor that our Lakota values have demised?

You do remember these values and what they stand for, right?

Somebody prove me wrong.

 

 

 

..

*my son Jalen in my car

I am watching him cruise....right now.

Now granted, I am not one of those controlling parents who gives them time outs and a real good talking to.  I just whipped their asses.  The thing is, I never have to, hardly ever had to, and I have some well behaved kids.

They are not perfect, they fart, half kill each other and can make a hangover worse.  They get lazy , get allowances taken away and have to be screamed at to pick up after themselves.

But I never controlled them with religion, politics, or the ratings of a movie.  I monitor the computer very closely and although I do talk to them about politics, religion and what not, they are encouraged and entitled to their own opinions.  In the midst of the democratic primary, while I was a stern Barack supporter, my boys decorated their playstation with Hillary stickers. hmph.

The other day I noticed that in the year before high school, I have yet to hear them cuss.  Even my siblings who are their age, told me they don't cuss when inquired.  So I told them, the other day because I am such a great mom. "You know, you're gonna both be in high school, so I think it's ok for you to cuss, now."

They looked at me like I was up to something, and I am sure Jalen tasted the soap from when he was 5.

They both looked at me and laughed "I don't want to." Ty said "Because you sound stupid doing it, and I never did get used to the idea of cussing."

"Well, I was just saying, go for it.  I don't mind as long as you don't do it in front of other adults.  Give it a try...say bitch once."

"Mom you're so stupid.  Imma tell everyone you are trying to force us to cuss.  You know, being a kid is a priviledge we only get once.  I am not going to ruin it by tryin to be an adult and sound all stupid like you."  said the 14 year old Jalen.

So maybe I was testing them.  Seeing if they would, but I wasn't going to get mad.  I just wanted to see, if I did an ok job so far.  I think I did. 

So then we get home and I tell them that they have to learn to drive, because I hate driving and then they can drive their uber cool mom around.

Then tonight I worked really late for inventory and I sit on the couch eating pizza while watching Ty play San Andreas GTA.

He hit the side of a rail on a bridge while driving a motorcycle.  He flew over 100 yards and landed on his face on the curb below.  So he jumps up and out of mid air a jet pack appears.  He flies up to his bike and gets on, therefore causing 3 wrecks and what seemed to be 7 certain deaths on arrival.  All the time I hear the police and am ready to point him out if they appear.  I can't believe my son turned into this monster.  Just when I think things can't get worse, he flies down this cliffs and gets hit by a truck.  Now I know there was no way he can survive that!  Then he open fires on some dude he didn't know, and not even to steal his car.  The dude is laying outside his car a bloody mess and Ty runs over his poor broken leg and then backs over it laughing at my shock.  He looks at me and say oh yeah watch this, at that point I get up and walk over to the computer to tell you this.

That boy will never drive my car.

Random Writing Challenge number 17

I am soo late on this but I had to do a little research.  Carol did it different this time, by making us all say one word and then grouping the words for us to make a story out of.

I took on the group number two because no one else did.  Plus I think I threw it off by adding the word waterbird and everyone is like HUH?

Here are the words from group 2

Chocolate

Secretary

Waterbird

Perfectionist

Rain

Here is my challenge entry.

Waterbirds.

Rain always has that effect on me.  Here I was a lowly, mousy secretary in the city, trying to be depressed about a little rain.

I needed to get away from work so I took the afternoon off.  I decided to go see a local exhibit at the museum.  I moved away from the reservation right after high school and had been living n a walk up apartment for the past year.  I hadn't made any friends yet and sometimes I wished for the reservation life.  Sometimes.

I threw the wrapper to the chocolate bar in the trash when I got off the bus downtown.  I ran in the rain towards the museum.  It took me all of two minutes to get to the front door, but in that two minutes I wondered what would become of my life.  I felt like I had no purpose and was in limbo.  Why was I here?  I was always the perfectionist who thought she had her life planned and now,...well, now what? 

I opened the heavy door and was given a program on the new exhibition of Native American history and culture.

I looked at the regular collection first, wandering in and amongst the beautiful fabrics and textiles and paintings that someone had made their mark in life with.  Why can't I make a mark like that.

After an hour of being amazed by the sheer beauty some people can create, I wandered to the Native American exhibit that was going on for the summer. 

I wandered amongst other people in awe of the history around us.

Then I saw it.

A ghost dance shirt.

It was beautiful with the paintings of waterbirds and stars on it, made with pigments from the earth.

I remembered one time seeing a waterbird with my grandma.  She told me the story of how a waterbird repesented renewal of life.  How the waterbird meant so much to our Lakota people.  She told me of Wounded Knee and how so many people believed that the government was scard of Lakotas dancing to bring the ghosts back to help them carry on with their way of life.  No, it wasn't that, she said.  It was retalliation for Little Big Horn.

But don't let that truth take away from you the fact that the waterbird will always have meaning for us.  It is always a renewal of life to us.  Maybe that way of life ended but the waterbird brings us hope that the ways of the Lakota will live on.

Then she sang a song to me....and made me pray with her as we offered tobacco to the earth.

I must have looked at that shirt for an hour with tears in my eyes.

I knew what I had to do.  When I left the museum, I went to the nearest magazine stand and bought a pack of cigarettes.  I walked to the park and enjoyed the fresh smell of rain.  I prayed and offered the tobacco to the earth singing the same song my grandma taught me all those years ago.

When I got home, I searched though my things that I had in a shoebox under the bed, then I found it.  It was a quilled waterbird lapel pin that my grandma made and gave me.  In it, I saw my future, I saw my destiny.  I made arangements while holding that pin.  I called my grandma last of all.

Grandma I am moving home to go to the tribal college.  I think I want to teach the youth our ways.  Our Lakota ways.

Come home takoja, she said.

(the above story is fiction, and it was inspired by a quilled waterbird pin that we have at work.)

 

 

For Paco

There is a strength in my people

We seem quiet, reserved

Some mistake it for feeble

We are just waiting for what we deserve

We were supposed to be swept away

The forgotten holocaust

There was supposeed to be a day

When our ways were lost

Don't underestimate

The way the dice rolled

Our forgotten fate

Shines like a picture show

You can't forget us

There's no ashes to ashes

There's no dust to dust

We are here in masses

Maybe you can forget

the attempted genocide

Mister Goverment

But we are still here for this ride

Our ways carry on

Our pride held dear

The Lakota live on

Fuck yeah, we're still here.

Don't underestimate

Our love for this land

This time fate

Is in our hands

You call us savages

Never knowing our ways

While you tried to ravage us

By trying to take it away

We prayed for better days

Those days are here now

We fight with the written word

We still have no fear no how

We need to be heard

You can't push me away

I refuse to disappear

There will come a day

You will have to listen and hear

That this country

My people still serve proudly

Broke every treaty

I will tell you loudly

We are Lakota, baby

We will not go down without a fight

I need no one to save me

Read what I write

We are still here

We will carry on

The ways, the strentgh, the pride

It's an unbreakable bond

Shining from the inside

We are Lakota

And today is a good day to die.

Hoka Hey!

We will carry on

Our ways held dear

Oglala Lakota are strong

Fuck yeah, we're still here.



You hear?

there was a little man who thought everything was about him, even that one song by carly simon.

all he did was talk about himself.

so much so, he even put himself to sleep.

he talked about himself so much

 

 

he ended up alone

 

 

imagine that

I read the news last week online.

I usually avoid Rapid City Journal online, because I get too fired up when I see anonymous commenters say anything online that pertains to Indians. But a friend called and told me to look it up. Like I said before, I am not the brightest bead on a pair of moccasins and I won't pretend I know more than the average ina just because I write for this paper. I could easily sit here with a thesaurus and change my writing to words I don't even understand, but then who would understand it? No one would read it and my point would be lost. My strong point when I write is not how political I can get, or how well I write technically, or sometimes, even if I have a point. My strong point is how real I am. I write to you all like this is my personal journal, but I write for you.

So, instead of writing to you and explaining what the deal is with the Black Hills,because the average hoksila probably knows more facts and numbers than me...I am breaking it down this way, just sit back, read, and listen.

I know who we are, as Lakotas. I know what we stand for and fought for. These are my people and I am proud to say that because if given a choice and if reincarnation is true, I will only be Lakota.

I always remember that old song about Craxy Horse that says "When you see the Black Hills, remember me." Everytime I pass Red Shirt table and get closer to Rapid, as soon as the Black Hills appear on the horizon, I think of Crazy Horse and what he lived and died for. That is our people, our ancestors, and he gave us this pride inside us that shows on the outside, to this day.

So, without explaining the gaboobabillions amount of money owed to us and without naming the names I saw in the paper of people saying they need that money because they are raising children, I will break it down this way.

I wasn't there when Custer was defeated in Little Big Horn or when our people were massacred in revenge at Wounded Knee. I wasn't there in the 73 stand-off. But I am here now. I am alive now and we still, to this day have not accepted payment for the Sacred Paha Sapa. I want my kids to know this and to realize why. It was our ancestors that fought and died for those Black Hills. It was our people that won't sign the Hills away for help in raising our kids. It is our people that suffer in poverty on this reservation because we are that defiant.

We could easily tap into that money, but for what a moments of greed? A new car? No. We are Lakota and we don't sell out. So to the lawyers who are trying to be bottom feeders off the tribes that weren't even there in any of the battles and struggles for the Black Hills, justbehave. The Paha Sapa will always belong to Lakotas and will always be stolen.

I drove through the Black Hills last weekend. I thought long and hard about everything I read in the past two weeks. As my friend and I drove through Custer State Park and I saw the buffalo, the prairie dogs, the eagles, the deer, the antelope, the rabbits, the magpies, the turkeys, and the squirrels all be able to live together. I thought of how, that in a protected state park, that would be amazing to some tourists, when long ago, that was just life.

As Lakotas, we honored that life, we honored the Black Hills, and we honored our ancestors.

Today, I write this in honor of the life of the people, plants, and animals, in honor of the sacred Paha Sapa, and in honor of our ancestors. The Black Hills are not for sale, it would be nice if other Sioux tribes would recognize that.

And to the anonymous commenters of the Rapid City Journal online, maybe you do live there amongst the beauty and tourist traps, and maybe you pay taxes and maybe you have to comment anonymously because you feel like you paid for that land and it is yours. And also because you know Custer got his butt kicked, you won't print your name,but you are living on stolen land, the governmant recognizes that, but it was never for sale.

There was a song by Pink Floyd playing on my way through the Black Hills as I was in awe at the beauty of the stolen land, it is called "Wish You Were Here." It reminded me of my ancestors and how I wished they were here, to see what some of the other Sioux tribes are trying to do. I will leave you with the lyrics, just remember, it was our ancestors that lived and died for those Hills. When you see them, remember Crazy Horse, and remember your people. The Black Hills are not for sale.

"Wish You Were Here"

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.



"He Sapa Kin waken yelo, oheniya kik suyapo." Translation: "Always remember the Black Hills are sacred." -RST Tribal President Rodney Bordeaux


all> 

that song also goes out to u no hoo

Where do I start writing this?

A few weeks ago, a lady was looking up her long lost grandmother’s grave here on the reservation. I didn’t say anything or judge because heck, one day you might see me all clueless wondering around France or the Philippines looking for my ancestors graves.

Anyway, as we talked, she said something that struck me as odd.

"Well, your people didn’t like Crazy Horse anyway. Why so many books about him?"

I stopped in my tracks and had to count backwards from 137 to 1.

"Huh?" Was all I could say.

"Well, you know, he was the end of your people." she said.

"My people are still here, ma’am. Crazy Horse was a great man and chief. A warrior. Our hero." I said, still counting backwards.

 "If he was your hero, why do I go to Custer to see a tribute?" she asked.

"He fought and died for us, even in this day, I know that. Even my children know that, their children will know that." I said.

I let it go at that and walked away.

I started thinking about when I was 12 years old and my step-dad was a speaker at Korczak Ziolkowski’s funeral. I looked at him in his casket and thought of how he lived his life, always dressed like a mountain man, bulldozing away and moving that mountain with sticks of dynamite. This man had so much passion for the life Crazy Horse lived, he begin carving a mountain a few years after he was approached by Chief Standing Bear, who told him;

"My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know the red man has great heroes, too."

Work on the mountain has been going for over 60 years. When I worked there, people would say "What is taking so long?"

I would have to say "Did you see the size of it? Mount Rushmore can fit in the head alone."

So I have been thinking, why don’t we have a monument to Crazy Horse here on the reservation? We can go see the pile of rocks at Fort Robinson or a mountain being carved by non-Indians near a town called Custer, which is an oxymoron itself. Do we fight amongst ourselves so much that we can’t honor one of our greatest Chiefs? Other tribes honor their chiefs for less.

It makes me sick to see strip bars, malt liquor,clothing companies and other such things named after our hero. Our hero inspired a Polish American sculptor from Boston to move a mountain, why can’t we honor our hero with something. I’m not saying we have to carve a mountain or mark a grave, because his parents wanted it undisclosed and the mountains Chief Crazy Horse fought and died for, were stolen by the government, but a tribute would be nice.

Or as people that are still proud because of him, do we let others build memorials and let the spirit of Crazy Horse live on through our hearts, our minds, our spirit, and in our song, like we have been.

"An eagle seeks the bluest part of the sky because of truth and honor " -Chief Crazy Horse ..

When I was a little girl I used to dip my toes in puddles.

I used to chase paper boats down the street after a storm and inhale the wet rain smell.

I used to play in the snow for hours and not even realize how cold I was until I went inside.

I used to walk on the prairie for hours and pick wild flowers.

I used to wade in dam water and pretend I was in the ocean.

I used to swing so high, I would slightly panic.

I used to lay in the grass and watch the clouds go by wondering what part of the world they were going to and what they would do when they got there.

I used to rake leaves into a huge pile, just to jump in them and throw them in the air again.

I used to get up early to watch cartoons on a Saturday morning and eat cereal on the living room floor in front of the console tv.

I used to eat cherries and plums from the wild.

I swore I was going to marry Chachi or Danny Zuko.

I used to break geodes open to gather the crystals and add to my rock collection.

I used to pretend I could control the wind with my thoughts and that I was always in a movie.

I used to draw pictures and write stories to go with it and the stories never had an ending.

When I was a kid, my childhood was ok and it wasn’t hard for me to say that. I grew up ok.

Sometimes I wished I could dip my toes into my childhood again.