Pine Ridge - a visit to Wounded Knee on 9-11

One my first trip to Pine Ridge, I drove up the hill to the Wounded Knee cemetery.n the center of a standard cemetary was a chain link fence with a locked gate.  I was there alone and it all looked sad, neglected, unkept and full of "trash". 



I visited the place again just a few weeks ago. It was on 9-11- the day that Americans mourn the attack that killed so many of our innocent citizens.  At Wounded Knee our group stood on a grassy hill just beneath the cemetery and listened as a Lakota man pointed out where the teepee had been set up for the families. His ancestors had been escorted to that spot by the US Army.  







He pointed to the bluff above the meadow where soldiers waited with four light cannons. As soldiers moved among the men to disarmed them, a deaf Lakota's weapon discharged and chaos immediately ensued. One of the few Lakota eyewitness was our guide's grandfather. As a young teen, he hid on the crest of a nearby hill and watched with his grandfather while their people were slaughtered below.  From where we stood on a beautiful fall day, we looked down into the ravine where the women and children had fled.  More soldiers followed and massacred them. 

Wounded Knee is another nation's Ground Zero, this is their Pentagon and Pennsylvania field. This is where their dead lie buried in a crude, mass grave.  The gate was open this time and we entered sacred ground. Sage was burnt to ask for forgiveness and purification. We stood silent as our guide prayed in Lakota and we dropped small pinches of tobacco to remind us of the sacredness of creation.  Then, one by one, we filed around the mound covered with wildflowers and grasses.  The fence was strung with prayer clothes, some bright, some faded.  Bundles of tobacco in fabric had been left as an offering- a remembrance, a prayer for healing.  A water bottle wasn't trash, it was left for the journey. 






Outside the mass grave, gravestones from years ago to yesterday mark the resting places of the dead surrounded by the tufts of prairie grasses. Some are marked with red, white and blue. These American flags are on graves of those who had served in the United States military.  

Native Americans serve this country at the highest per-capita rate of all the races in the US. 

There are no fancy, expensive interpretive sites here. There isn't the manicured lawn of Arlington or a solemn soldier standing guard over the Grave of the Unknown Soldier. A non-native eye would dismissed the old cemetery, as I first did.  But here lie the finest native warriors and chiefs the Army ever faced. Chiefs who in desperation brought their women and children to the meeting fields for peace talks and were mowed down by superior military weapons, not by superior men. The white soldiers weren't content to use greater firepower- they chased down the women and children and used bayonets on them as well. 

One infant was found under her mother and anArmy officer claimed her as a war prize.  He displayed her as a savage and she died at a young age after what must have been a gruesome life. http://americanindiansandfriends.com/main-feed-news/lost-bird-the-sad-story-of-a-baby-taken-from-wounded-knee

We humans build monuments to remember our dead, 

we need to remember the stories that make up our identity.  

Most Americans would be up in arms if Al Qaeda or Isis told us to "get over the past, move on, 9-11 happened a long time ago". And many white Americans do consider the atrocities committed against the previous residents of this country as a long time ago.  After all, they lost the war. We say if not with words, with attitude- " Move on, forget the past, get an education, make something of yourself, follow the American dream."

The attackers, the oppressors don't get to say when the victims or the oppressed 

have had enough, have healed, have moved on.  

That's not he right of the "victors". 

The victims get to make the memorials and the pilgrimages. 

They get to say when their wounds are healed. 

Every war has its monuments but the genocide perpetrated on the indigenous people of North America has no visible monuments, only wounded hearts and scarred souls. Even at Wounded Knee, the granite monument with the names of the known dead  looks like it could be in any American cemetery. We were told they decided if they made something in a more traditional Lakota style, it would be vandalized. 

After 9-11, most Americans were shaken to the core but still alive. Most were able to return to their new normal or start new lives. But we still remember. If we compare what happened to us as a nation on that day to the years of interaction with First Peoples, we weren't subjugated, starved, or stripped of our children, our language or culture. Our children weren't forcibly removed to boarding schools- many who never saw family again.  We weren't sold alcohol that subdued our spirits but released our rage. We weren't given handouts for so long we didn't know how to live as free people. 

In this month, for me, the breaking of a nation's spirit didn't feel so long ago. As I drove past dilapidated trailers that speaks of the worst poverty in America, I felt despair.  It didn't feel like a healed nation as its ragged children played outside in the dirt and junk cars. It didn't feel like ancient history when you learn 80% of the current Lakota population still isn't employed.  And due to the complicated land policies set up by the conquerors, industry can't come in to build commercial infrastructure. Lakota people can rarely build or own houses since they don't own their own land.   According to some records, no one expected the natives to survive the reservation experiment so plans weren't made for the generations to come. Or even worse....

(A)young newspaper editor L. Frank Baum, later the author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, wrote in the Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer on January 3, 1891:

The Pioneer has before declared that our only safety depends upon the total extermination of the Indians. Having wronged them for centuries, we had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up by one more wrong and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth. In this lies future safety for our settlers and the soldiers who are under incompetent commands. Otherwise, we may expect future years to be as full of trouble with the redskins as those have been in the past.^[37]

I know much good has been done on Pine Ridge and I know many of my fellow South Dakotans have tried and been disappointed in their attempts to help. I know my words may not make a difference but I need to say them for my own witness. What did make a difference for me in how I viewed Wounded Knee  this time. 

This time I visited with a man for whom this isn't ancient history. 

His grandfather witnessed this massacre happened. This is part of his family story. This is his 9-11. This is a story I want to respect and honor and witness to the truth of what one nation, my nation did to another.  

Forgive us, help us forgive ourselves 

and may we all move forward 

in wisdom and mercy. 

Pine Ridge- first look

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In the seven years I've live in South Dakota, I've put off going to Pine Ridge. I didn't want to be another do-gooder, white  and clueless American woman. I was nervous about going, reluctant to offend, unsure of my safety.  This past week I went to the reservation for a cultural immersion program and it was powerful.  We joined with a group from Colorado because only three of us, including our new pastor, wanted to go from our town just two hours from the rez. Sadly many South Dakotans want little to do with Pine Ridge- they've had years of frustration and many have washed their hands of the "situation". 

Once before I drove north from Nebraska on to a bit on the rez- it was windblown, brown and desolate. The housing is substandard to say the least and I remember lots of chain link fences around all the government offices.

Maybe it's all the rain we've had this summer but as we drove south and east from the Black Hills, the rolling hills as far as the eye could see were still green.  By September almost all of the west is dry and brown in an average year. The green is unusual but it felt like a sign of hope. Despite the obvious recent damage of a hailstorm, the whole ride had a feel of expectation, not dread.

There was the hard, bitter reality of the rez. It's in the poorest county in the United States and it looks like it. The shabby mobile homes looked even worse the closer we got to the town of Pine Ridge. A month ago,  golf ball size hailstones tore the siding off the north and eastern sides of most structures. It was all I feared- sadness, hopelessness, drunks and poverty.  

But we also met amazing artists like Joe Pullman who is maintaining the traditional art of leger painting on old ledger pages from the Army days and the Bureau of Land Management.  We heard elder Basil Braveheart say the most important duty was forgiveness and shared how he integrates traditional Lakota ways and his Christian faith. He has healing circles for addicts and vets with PTSD. Kevin Poor Bear sat in a wheelchair, his legs missing from the knees down.  As he told stories that made us laugh, he drew beautiful pictures with charcoal. He attends a gospel church and proclaimed his love.  Will Peters taught us games and laughed as we struggled- he teaches math at the high school. He started a flute group and they were just nominated for their first Native American Music Award.  Valerie wove porcupine quills around leather strips and told wild stories of storing dead porcupines in her apartment!  We played with children and they let us dance with them at a nursing home.

EVERY adult Lakota we talked with this week is a recovering alcoholic and told that part of their story with a dignity that comes from overcoming.  I have never met such resilient and ultimately hopeful people. Despite the despair and tragedy, I left Pine Ridge in awe of the people.  I have a deep respect for their need for healing in their own way, in their own time.   All our speakers honored their grandmothers and spoke with passion of protecting the next generation. It was powerful and full of hope for the future, despite the outward appearance.

I can't wait to go back and I'd love to take any and all who would like to join me. 

https://www.aaanativearts.com/pine-ridge-indian-reservation

 What are your thoughts and feelings on Native Americans? Mistreated or looking for handouts?  I'll add more stories of my week and let's see what we can learn together. Blessings, Kathryn

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In the end.... the words of Love

I never considered myself a feminist- I was trying to fill out a bra when other women were burning theirs. But recently I came face to face with patriarchy in all its assumed power and I was really pissed off. My intuition and research and thoughtful words spoken into a touchy family issue of elder care were all dismissed. After a quick one-time visit, the men in the situation were convinced that all was well. The man in charge has it well in hand, his records are orderly, the apartment is clean- "Butt out, sister". In this case, it's more "butt out, cousin", because I am not actually a daughter or a sister. I was informed that even if I were a daughter-in-law, I "wouldn't get a vote". Just writing that paragraph gets my blood pressure up and my stomach in a twist.

Informing me in this particular confrontation is my knowledge of the history- family disputes, alcoholism, greed, cognitive decline and the like- all quite irrelevant to my heart's response. I was hurt. I was dismissed. I was not valued. I was put in my place. And I dug into past occasions of being dismissed- by my father ("Learn to type, at least you could be a secretary.") and my husband ("You don't know anything about fiances. What will you do after I'm gone?"). I'm not enough, I'm not one of "them", the powerful, the knowing, the competent.


In my new writing discipline, I examined  my thoughts as they flow out and I write on the emotions under the thoughts.   For this entire week I kept writing- "Did I do enough? Could I have said it in a more winsome way? Do I have any rights to be part of the solution?" Why aren't my thoughts and points valid even if I'm only a cousin. Why should these dysfunctional men have all the rights even if they're the sons?"

My first conclusion is this isn't worth it. I'm going to quit trying, Maybe I'm wrong anyway, maybe I didn't see what I thought I saw.  I'm going to keep my thoughts to myself next time. I'm going to protect my feelings.

I doubt myself so quickly. I'd rather be blissfully ignorant hiking in my Hills than attacked and emotionally wounded. Clearly I'm not articulate or I would have been listened to. Why can't I defend myself?

Can you see my thoughts spiraling down, down? I can think myself right into a dark hole. A hole of self-doubt and regret and anxiety. I wasn't sleeping- my thoughts were dominated with what happened, why, and more why. When I'm down and out and confused, I need someone who can hear my heart, I need my sister. My sister- the rational voice into my jumbled thoughts. The brain of my heart. As usual she cut to the crux of the matter.

"He doesn't deserve anymore of your energy.

This is an emotional pinball machine and he's pulling all the levers.

Take your ball and leave."

Wisely she asked,  "What was your intent for the visit? Did those people hear your voice, need your words?  Did you support another woman  who was also trying to help?  The important message was the word of Love and you spoke it."

Yes. Yes. Yes. I spoke love and concern and "I'm on your side. I'm here if you need me." I supported the other woman even closer to the situation than I am. To her my words and actions said, "I support you. I see your heart. I know your intentions."  To my elderly cousins- much loved, more like a dear aunt and uncle, I'm the daughter of their heart since they only had boys- those two dear ones know I love them, know I care, know I am watching and cannot be dismissed. My words were heard, my message was received.

The patriarchy can continue in my extended family, the men can think they know best and make the best decisions.  But I know- words and actions of love and compassion trump any attitude of dismissal. I wasn't dismissed by the ones I went to love, I wasn't ignored or demeaned.  I was loved in return, I was heard and I heard them.  In the end, the ones who dominate and determine can continue their ways, I stand strong and more confident than ever that the word of Love wins in the end.

Talking to Myself

Proprioception, from Latin proprius, meaning "one's own", "individual," and capio, capere, to take or grasp, is the sense of the relative position of neighbouring parts of the body and strength of effort being employed in movement. You say it- prō prēəˈseptiv

My daughter sprained her foot and ankle at age seven and continued to "turn her ankle" for years. In college she ended up at a orthopedic clinic for yet another injury and they discovered her ankle no longer "talked" to her brain. The connection was lost by stretched ligaments and torn nerve endings. She had physical therapy and eventually, her ankle was once more connected to her brain. Amazing.

Turns out our feelings and emotions can be disconnected from our bodies as well, we bury feelings and refuse to feel that hurt or that betrayal or that rage. Then we too are constantly "turning our ankle". Unexpected anger trips us up, spikes of betrayal without true provocation surprise us and moments of pain overwhelm us. Just a flash, a glimpse and our self-protection jumps in and slams the door to our emotions closed. We are disconnected from our own interior.

In my daughter's sore ankle there are wounded ligaments receptive to physical therapy and healing. In my soul those spikes of emotions and flashes of pain are calls to wholeness and healing for my inner life. I can train my emotions to release, I can exercise with tools that strengthen the pathways between my past experiences, my emotions and my body. For it's my body that reflects all those buried injuries. It was clear Abby's ankle was the injured member; my elusive soul would rather hide behind the walls of self-protection than be exposed- even to myself. But only with risk and vulnerability will there be healing. Otherwise I'm just coping, just getting by, just "Doing fine, thanks."

The newest tool in my soul toolbox is Proprioceptive Writing- I'm linking to a blog site that gives a long and lovely explanation. Why write what someone else has written so well? I will add the pronunciation- prōprēəˈseptiv

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http://morenewsfromvg.blogspot.com/2015/04/proprioceptive-writing.html

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When I do my Proprioceptive Writing, I find some Baroque music on my computer- usually a slow cello piece, light a candle and set my phone to twenty-five minutes.  As I write, I ask myself- what do I mean by that word?  Now what does THAT mean? and wander off with my thoughts and emotions. It's harder than I imagined. I want to edit, I want to "get to the point" or find a take-away. But this isn't writing for an audience, it's writing for me. It's designed to expose me to my own thoughts and think about why those thoughts come up. I'm reconnecting my ankle to its ligaments, so to speak.

After I write, I answer three questions-
What thoughts did I hear but NOT write about?- that one always throws me.
How do I feel now?- that's helpful, I can assess just what the emotional effect has been. I like that.
What larger story is this Write part of?  Marriage, community, depression, transition.
What ideas do I now have for future Writes? I usually have more ideas I want to explore.

Simple, yet hard. Short but thought provoking. It gets my pen to paper- no computer work here, just my thoughts and my body.

I had a stressful trip out of town and this has really aided my processing of the events and people I visited. I came home emotionally drained and this has recharged my batteries.  I'll write more about a specific topic for the next blog- for now, this is the introduction. As for me and my body, we talking just fine. Thanks!


http://pwriting.org/?page_id=2905  Another web site- the back story of and official website of Proprioceptive Writing. 

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