At Eagle Butte
17/04/15 05:11
Driving highway 212 East between Faith and Eagle Butte there South Dakota “Think” sings that mark the places of highway fatalities dot the road so frequently that they are almost as numerous as the mile markers. Some are just plain. Some are decorated with artificial flowers. Some have elaborate memorials set up next to them with white crosses, flowers, stuffed animals and other mementos that help with the burden of grief for the family and, in some cases, become a kind of spiritual discipline that helps grieving families to feel a sense of connection. In traditional Dakota and Lakota theology humans are always Spirit and only temporarily inhabit earthly bodies. There is a line in the service of committal that I use that shows Christian roots of a similar concept, “We all come from God and to God we all return.”
The markers are just one of the symbols of the burden of grief that one feels when one spends time on the Cheyenne River Reservation. Our meeting last night was in the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe’s Cultural Center at Eagle Butte. This is the first time I’ve been to the Cultural Center for anything other than a wake or funeral. One of the features of the room is a series of life-size or larger murals that depict scenes from the history of the tribes. The Wounded Knee mural is stark and harsh, showing the bodies frozen and partially covered with snow. It is painful to look at, as perhaps such a painting should be. One mural shows beautiful scenes of prairie summer. Another shows elders gathered in Inipi, or sweat lodge. Mounted below the murals are the Cheyenne River flag, the U.S. flag, a POW flag, a portrait of a young man who died in the Iraq war, a mounted buffalo head, and a lot of pictures of significant scenes in the story of the tribe. Strung around the room are cords that are used for hanging quilts for wakes and funeral dinners. The room, even when used for a retreat and a joyful gathering of friends as we had last night, carries a sense of grief and loss and a past that has not always been pleasant.
There is more than enough grief all around the reservation. Despite the singing birds and the beauty of the open prairie, one can’t escape the ever-present reality of hard lives lived in this place. On days when our destination takes us over the gravel roads to Red Scaffold or Frasier or Cherry Creek or Takini School, we see the boarded up houses and abandoned mobile homes of those who once made their homes here and now are gone. The churches and schools and community buildings almost all sport need of repair and signs of age.
In recent years many of our conversations with friends include stories of recent suicides - all too often the deaths of youth - that leave incredible pain in their wake. It is as if the burden of grief is so intense that it becomes unbearable even for the teens of the community. Of course suicide is something that we do not fully understand but it is clear that it carries with it a sense of the loss of the future. If the youth die, who will tell the stories of the people in the generations to come.
But these people are survivors. The word Takini means “survivor,” if you look it up in the Lakota-English dictionary. It is clear that it has a deeper meaning if you listen to the stories that fill the evenings up here. The Takini who walked in the dead of winter from Wounded Knee to the spot on the Cheyenne that is now called Bridger, were survivors of an organized attempt at genocide. They walked with tears on their cheeks from the grief of the death of elders and infants and mothers and children. They walked with depression in their hears that came from a sense that no one cared about them and that they were hunted in a war the origin of which they had no understanding. They walked with dragging feet that came from too little food and not enough warm clothing. And some died in that harsh winter. But others survived to become parents and grandparents again. One great grandson of the survivors told me that the word Takini means “barely surviving” or “just holding on.” Another grinned at me and said, “It means . . . we’re still here!”
There have been many opportunities for the stories of these people to be lost. Young ones move away to the cities. Too many die in too many different ways. Addiction is rampant and affects the lives of too many, clouding the minds and robbing the memories. Domestic violence, unheard of until recent years, has reared its ugly head and left its indelible scars on the communities.
You might think that our meetings in this place would be somber. You might think that they would be mostly sad. But they are not. Coming here is like an invitation to a great family dinner. There is always good food in generous portions. There are always hugs from friends we seen only a few times a year. And there are always jokes. Last night I laughed and laughed as Adele told about Mike trying to get rid of the skunks in the shop, first with his slingshot and later with a rifle. Mike was sitting right next to her and he has a different opinion of his accuracy with both weapons than Adele, but that didn’t deter her from amusing us with the tales of his antics. After a while Mike joined in with great exaggerations about his hunting prowess and the cunningness of the skunks. We all know that in years to come we will need only say the word “skunk” to make each other laugh.
Some folks back home think that we come to the reservation to bring something to people who lack many of life’s luxuries - that our conversations are about what we bring. But that is not why I keep coming back to visit our friends. For me it is about reconnecting with the joy that suffering cannot turn back, the faith that endures the depths that come with this life, and the love that thrives in the midst of tough times. I come here to renew my hope.
Once again, I am not disappointed.
The markers are just one of the symbols of the burden of grief that one feels when one spends time on the Cheyenne River Reservation. Our meeting last night was in the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe’s Cultural Center at Eagle Butte. This is the first time I’ve been to the Cultural Center for anything other than a wake or funeral. One of the features of the room is a series of life-size or larger murals that depict scenes from the history of the tribes. The Wounded Knee mural is stark and harsh, showing the bodies frozen and partially covered with snow. It is painful to look at, as perhaps such a painting should be. One mural shows beautiful scenes of prairie summer. Another shows elders gathered in Inipi, or sweat lodge. Mounted below the murals are the Cheyenne River flag, the U.S. flag, a POW flag, a portrait of a young man who died in the Iraq war, a mounted buffalo head, and a lot of pictures of significant scenes in the story of the tribe. Strung around the room are cords that are used for hanging quilts for wakes and funeral dinners. The room, even when used for a retreat and a joyful gathering of friends as we had last night, carries a sense of grief and loss and a past that has not always been pleasant.
There is more than enough grief all around the reservation. Despite the singing birds and the beauty of the open prairie, one can’t escape the ever-present reality of hard lives lived in this place. On days when our destination takes us over the gravel roads to Red Scaffold or Frasier or Cherry Creek or Takini School, we see the boarded up houses and abandoned mobile homes of those who once made their homes here and now are gone. The churches and schools and community buildings almost all sport need of repair and signs of age.
In recent years many of our conversations with friends include stories of recent suicides - all too often the deaths of youth - that leave incredible pain in their wake. It is as if the burden of grief is so intense that it becomes unbearable even for the teens of the community. Of course suicide is something that we do not fully understand but it is clear that it carries with it a sense of the loss of the future. If the youth die, who will tell the stories of the people in the generations to come.
But these people are survivors. The word Takini means “survivor,” if you look it up in the Lakota-English dictionary. It is clear that it has a deeper meaning if you listen to the stories that fill the evenings up here. The Takini who walked in the dead of winter from Wounded Knee to the spot on the Cheyenne that is now called Bridger, were survivors of an organized attempt at genocide. They walked with tears on their cheeks from the grief of the death of elders and infants and mothers and children. They walked with depression in their hears that came from a sense that no one cared about them and that they were hunted in a war the origin of which they had no understanding. They walked with dragging feet that came from too little food and not enough warm clothing. And some died in that harsh winter. But others survived to become parents and grandparents again. One great grandson of the survivors told me that the word Takini means “barely surviving” or “just holding on.” Another grinned at me and said, “It means . . . we’re still here!”
There have been many opportunities for the stories of these people to be lost. Young ones move away to the cities. Too many die in too many different ways. Addiction is rampant and affects the lives of too many, clouding the minds and robbing the memories. Domestic violence, unheard of until recent years, has reared its ugly head and left its indelible scars on the communities.
You might think that our meetings in this place would be somber. You might think that they would be mostly sad. But they are not. Coming here is like an invitation to a great family dinner. There is always good food in generous portions. There are always hugs from friends we seen only a few times a year. And there are always jokes. Last night I laughed and laughed as Adele told about Mike trying to get rid of the skunks in the shop, first with his slingshot and later with a rifle. Mike was sitting right next to her and he has a different opinion of his accuracy with both weapons than Adele, but that didn’t deter her from amusing us with the tales of his antics. After a while Mike joined in with great exaggerations about his hunting prowess and the cunningness of the skunks. We all know that in years to come we will need only say the word “skunk” to make each other laugh.
Some folks back home think that we come to the reservation to bring something to people who lack many of life’s luxuries - that our conversations are about what we bring. But that is not why I keep coming back to visit our friends. For me it is about reconnecting with the joy that suffering cannot turn back, the faith that endures the depths that come with this life, and the love that thrives in the midst of tough times. I come here to renew my hope.
Once again, I am not disappointed.