Poor Brown Bear...
When I first started to research my trip to the Badlands and Pine Ridge, I came across the book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by the author Dee Brown. Page after page the words, oh my god and what on earth repeated out of my mouth...
Born in California, my understanding of US indigenous history was limited to Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean. blue in 1492.. and something about the pilgrims learning about how to grow corn. The history lessons in this book would be different, it would certainly be a gut punch to the narrative of how the west was won. Growing up with a story that I was Cherokee related to William Weatherford, once I started to dig into my past I found out that the actual true story was that I was in fact part Creek. My grandfather didn't want anyone to know that he, (we) were part Indigenous and so the stories were never told. Having been raised with my parents working on reserves throughout British Columbia I would get asked the question, are you Indigenous and the truth is I don't really know. I know I have a story, but are stories really the truth?
Arriving in South Dakota, I wanted to drive out to Pine Ridge and understand for myself what reality looked like today for the Lakota people. This was the second largest reserve in the United States and by statistics online one of the poorest demographics of people. The stories sounded so familiar... poverty, unemployment, suicides... The land of the free and home of the brave, why were things still so bad?
Driving in my rented SUV, the road became broken and the grass a deeper shade of brown.... This highway signs indicated this was Indian Route... we're not in Kansas anymore. As I pulled up to the gas station on the reserve, I looked across the street at an old two story brick building, It reminded me of the residential schools I've stood in front of before in Canada. The American flag flying on a pole nearby I thought to myself, I don't remember this story. The one of Indian Agents and residential schools...
As an elder walked across the street I asked, "excuse me Sir. can I ask what that building used to be over there"?
"Are you lost"?... he replied. "No sir, I'm on my way out to Wounded Knee and I wanted to take the long way around."
"Where are you from"?... he asked. "I'm from Canada".
"Ah, Sitting Bull... he spent some time up there".
I smiled, knowing the story. Understanding that for a while, Canada and the "Grandmother Queen" was a little kinder to Indigenous people than Custer and his scouts down south.
"That building there was the apartment for the Indian Agents. You see that building beside it, as he pointed to the one with the flag pole...That's the Bureau of Indian Affairs. They still keep an eye on us here". As we stood in the warn South Dakota wind he went on to share... s"o you teach people to drive you say"? "Yes Sir"...
"My grandson needs a license. So many kids here are getting caught up in gangs. It's hard to find a job here and without a license you can't get off the reserve. Folks here might drive unlicensed and get a ticket. It's not really the end of the world. Until of course they try to leave the reserve and then there is a warrant out for their arrest. When they go to court they have two options. They can either pay the fine or pay it off by sitting in jail. To a lot of young men without money that's the better option".
As he spoke, I could feel my breath shorten and my lungs tighten.... it was the same story I had heard a hundred times.
"Do you have a Lakota name"? ...I asked.
He turned to me surprised and smiled... "Yes I do. I'm also known as Red Tail. When I was younger I went a bad way. Coming back to a good path the elders sent me out on a vision quest. Once you are finished you are given your name". As he spoke, I also thought of William Weatherford, Red Eagle... Truth Teller.
I thanked the elder for his time, got in my SUV and proceeded down the highway. With the GPS notifying me that I had arrived, I pulled over to the side of the road and walked up to the sign. A small man with deep lines in his face was waiting for me. "You're here for Wounded Knee like the others right"? "Yes, I replied"... "it's on the other side of the highway. Over there... this arbour here, we built for shade. For the elders to sit when we are in ceremony."
"I hate to ask this but I'm in need of money for the bus to go into town to get gas to mow the lawn"... "You don't drive do you"? ... I asked.
He shook his head from side to side... "No, I never had anyone to teach me". "I'm sorry sir, I don't have any change to help". As I looked past his small frame to the trailers on the reserve... "I'm so incredibly sorry for what has happened here".
The corners of his mouth turned up, "you heard what happened here... Those bullets still ricochet through our stories and our culture today."..
Across the street, I stood at the mass grave. prayer ribbons blew in the wind. I could see that a family and guide were walking close by. "It's okay", he said... "you can join us if you like. These folks are here from Texas to join us for Sundance. Where are you from"? "Canada", I replied...
"My name is Poor Brown Bear... I'm from the reserve over there". His long salt and pepper hair fell down to his waist...
"That camera in your hands... Is that your job"? "Not yet, I smiled... I teach people how to drive".
Both men turned to each other with wide eyes... "do you want to come meet our people"? I kindly declined... As the family walked away, I was approached by another Elder and her granddaughter. We hadn't even said hello yet before she pulled the art portfolio out of the car. "My grandfather", she started... "he's away for diabetes treatment and we are fundraising to bring him home. Would you like to buy one of his paintings"? She placed his painting in my hands...
it was a couple standing together, in the corner a turtle.... I can imagine for turtle island.
Behind the people was the Declaration of Independence...
As I looked at the young woman, I understood that I had been here before.
It would be an honour to hang this on my wall.
"Thank you for sharing with me... your art, your story, your territory".
Treat all men alike... give them all the same law. Give them all an even chance to live and grown. You might as well expect the rivers to run backward as that any man who is born a free man should be contented when penned up and denied liberty to go where he pleases. We only ask an even chance to live as other men live. We ask to be recognized as men. Let me be a free man ... free to travel... free to stop... free to work... free to choose my own teachers... free to think and talk and act for myself.
Dee Brown ~ Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
