The Return Home

Breakfast. Coffee. A quick plunge into the bathroom to clean out our mess. A last minute dive into the crevice between my bed and the wall to grab my phone charger. And then it was over.
I've found that, when you spend enough time with the Lakotas, time becomes extraneous and irrelevant. 8pm is no longer the signal for nighttime - the setting of the sun is. You don't HAVE to leave at 10:30pm - you leave when Uncle Floyd's story is finished or Aunt Natalie is tired. This haphazard way of perceiving time stuck with me even as I had to get up at 9:00am and do the aforementioned things. It was still slow yet productive; calm yet efficient. In the end, I enjoyed my overly-sweetened coffee and left the bathroom utterly spotless by the time 10:00am rolled around.
The car ride back to Denver went by faster than I thought it would. Maybe that's because I wasn't paying attention to time. It could also be due to the fact that we hit the interstate and kept to the strangely fast 70mph that seemed so foreign to us now.
A hotel - the same Super 8 we stayed at when we first arrived. An hour of time to ourselves - something we hadn't had in a while. Then came a trip to downtown Denver for some dinner at a Thai restaurant (though I can't recall the name, I'm always going to remember how delicious that Thai baked chicken was). The climax of the day came when we arrived at the Denver Coliseum for the 38th annual pow wow. The colors of the ceremonial costumes, the jingling of the bells, and the beating drums were mighty catalysts in a massive sensory overload as we watched Indians from several tribes dance in the great pit of the arena. The outer circle of the coliseum were a vibrant patchwork of shops and stalls representing different tribes and independent artists wanting to sell their wares. Jewelry, pottery, clothing, and all manner of other trinkets were sold (at incredibly awesome prices, too).
We left at 10:30pm. When we had to wake up at 4:00am to catch our flight, though, the rush of European American society finally returned in full force. Rush through security! Dash to the terminal! Okay, we're all in the plane...relax...Quick, get off and run twenty terminals down! Okay, we have ten minutes to grab food...Wait, where's Justin?
At the very end of it all, however, we finally made it back to a crisp, sunny 70-degree day in North Carolina. Our sudden lunge back into American lifestyle stopped as we pulled into the North entrance of Warren Wilson College and stepped out to stretch and reflect on our journey.
I, for one, was exhausted beyond all belief after coming home. As I lazily dragged my roller-bag up the soft hill to my dorm and up the stairs to the third floor, I half-collapsed into my partner's waiting arms. Some of us relaxed - some of us plunged straight into running or some other activity to keep our minds up and awake. But I can say with relative certainty that we all shared the same effect inside: the echoes of words from our elders ringing into the chasms of our hearts, pushing us to speak those words to another someday. If there is one thing that the citizens of Pine Ridge could ever want from us, it would be that...another voice to speak against their oppression and speak up for the longevity of their beautiful culture.

Last Day in Pine Ridge

    Its safe to say we all slept remarkably well after our sweats and woke up happy to have another day with each other and the Lakota people who so generously let us be with them and listen to them. After our usual stop at Uncle Floyd's, we took a drive to the Red Cloud Indian School. We were immediately reminded by Aunt Natalie that it was at this school that many Lakotas, including Uncle Floyd, were taken away from their families to be re-educated in the European, Christian way. At this place children were beaten for speaking their own language and taught that their traditions were backwards and worthless. Now, however, the school has become a model of education on the reservation, run mainly by capable and passionate volunteers.
     Inside the school we visited the Red Cloud museum and heritage center, where a number of works of modern Native American art was being showcased. Some paintings expressed confusion between tradition and the modern world, while others put its efforts in portraying old ways in a new light. There were paintings that acted as a reminder of the tragedy of the Lakota's story, pieces that seemed to search for a new identity that remained unique, and traditional pottery which showed a craftsmanship I wish I could really appreciate. There was also a number historical artifacts: desks from the original school, photographs taken at Wounded Knee, a rifle used by Red Cloud.
     Before we left, we walked up a short hill to the grave of Red Cloud. Red Cloud was a Lakota chief who led a coalition of several tribes in war against the united states from 1866 to 1868. After the Battle of a Hundred Slain, when a decoy party led by Crazy Horse drew an 81 man detachment into an ambush of 2000 Lakota, the United States granted the Lakota "permanent" ownership of the Black hills, along with hunting and land rights to much of South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana. Red Cloud lived to see Americans find gold in the Black Hills, the Lakota's most spiritually important place and the last area of land they would want to lose, but did not join Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull in the Lakota War that followed. To this day, many Native Americans see the loss of the Black Hills as the reason for high rates of depression, alcoholism, and suicide on reservations.
    We then met up with Aunt Mary Ann, who helped us make pillows decorated with an eagle feather, a symbol of bravery and strength. She expressed her hopes that when we left these pillows in our rooms back home they would inspire questions, which would give us chances to spread the word of what goes on in Pine Ridge. Aunt Natalie asked that we tell those back home about what we had seen and heard. It seemed to me that more than anything else, that was why we were here. In a week of packing boxes, cleaning up trash, and working on a couple community centers, we wouldn't solve or even hardly help to solve any problems. But we could show that we care, we could show that we are thankful to have the chance to care, and we could be what Pine Ridge needs more than anything else, a louder voice. Too many people don't know that there are reservations, let alone reservations trying to reclaim their rights and get back what was taken from them.
     We spoke again with Uncle Floyd for the last time that week. He reminded us not to take what he told us too seriously, or believe everything he said. He then was given one of his drums, and gave us a prayer for our safe return and our understanding of what we had experienced. We then left for the retreat center, each saying our goodbyes and giving a handshake.

Day 4 - Of Hemp and Sweat

Wednesday was probably the most emotionally and spiritually powerful day for all of us. A handful of events happened that opened doors for many of us. Some we wanted to open but never could. Some we forgot about. Others we purposefully hid.
But more on that later. The morning began like any other - breakfast at the Retreat Center, coffee, and a logistics meeting. Eventually, we left to go meet Uncle Alex White Plume. The task at hand was to help him repair his building; however, this building is special. It's almost completely made out of hemp. While some of us hopped onto the roof to repair it, the rest stayed inside to listen to the elder speak on traditional matters, treaties, and his struggle with the US government. Then it happened.
The men of the group were called away to help prepare the inipi - the sweat lodge. Supposedly one of the most ancient spiritual practices on the planet, our job was to clean out the erected hut and build a fire to heat the ritual stones (called "grandmothers"). Hours later, the women walked out to the clearing by Uncle Floyd's house where we worked to enter the inipi. Aunt Natalie led them in while Uncle Benedict sang and smudged the area. We the men sat there for what felt like an eternity, waiting for the women to emerge. When they did, we greeted them with soft handshakes.
It was our turn. Uncle Benedict led us into the darkness and sang many songs while we prayed. The dark was absolute, and the heat was smothering. After a while, though, I began to forget the heat. The steam tore into me, and the steam pulled me into myself. I felt something leave me then - baggage I had carried, negative energy that thinly coated me, and fear that hovered around me. Gone. Then the flap opened. The steam rolled out against the dark twilight sky like a heavy mist. Silently, we crawled out as purified children leaving the womb of Mother Earth.
Dinner came late that night. Most of us were quiet, still shocked or overloaded from the jarring religious experience. Uncle Floyd's typical cheer and Aunt Natalie's kindness (and superb cooking) roused us, though. We thoroughly thanked them before heading back to the Retreat Center.
After a fairly long debriefing and reflection, we finally retired to our personal agendas: showers, journaling, and reading children's books in ridiculous accents. Our little group was growing closer still.

Day Three

       Woke up this morning to a barrage of high fives. There is no better way to wake up. We all ate breakfast quickly and packed into our vans as usual, and left for Uncle Floyd and Aunt Natalie's house to begin the long process of unloading 25,000 pounds of food brought from Conscious Alliance. It began slowly, laying down pallets for us to walk on over the mud, people not knowing where to be, figuring out how to pack boxes and where to keep things out of the way, but soon things began moving. One group began carrying everything out of the truck, carrying it into the garage built on Uncle Floyd's yard to serve as a food bank, another group unpacking and sorting food, and another unloading the food bank into separate boxes to be given out to families.
      Soon we began to work with each other, understanding where to be and how to be out of each other's way. Soon what-can-I-be-doing's became "sweet corn!" and "Get some more boxes". Eventually we became so good that cans would be thrown from the food bank to the short driveway where the boxes where being filled. More work needed to get done at the community center, however, so me and Chuck volunteered to go with Mike. I was happy to get a chance to do a little bit of the electrical work needed and to be able to talk to Mike some. Its nice to around someone who knows his work so well and is so ready to let us sometimes make it harder on him by helping. He also has a genuine concern for the reservation, as a white man, and, if it were possible, would prefer the world return to the Lakota's traditional way of life, rather than the alternatives.
     Me and Chuck finished up and returned to the rest of the group for lunch. Eventually we packed the family boxes into all of our vehicles and drove to Henry Red Cloud's property. There he was building and training others in renewable energy devices. Using the internet and a few other resources, Uncle Henry had built a windmill generator and a number of solar air heaters for his office and workshop. He also had a number of solar arrays and a straw bale house. Uncle Henry showed us around, using each generator and heater as an example of a big part of the future of his people. He has been installing these energy alternatives on the reservation and elsewhere, giving people a chance to save money on heating and become a little less of a burden on the earth. He also talked about the training and internship programs he offered. Listening to him talk about his goal, we could tell how important to him it was to bring this gift to his people and find the most efficient, cheapest way to do so. He returned constantly to ideas of "always moving forward". The day before, he had taken a backhoe to the yard next to the creek in order to drain where it had flooded four feet on his property and the surrounding community. Unless he had mentioned it, it would have seemed like a normal day. There was evidence of the destruction it caused in the surroundings, but not in his attitude of moving forward.
      After that we drove past Oglala to a school on the other side of the reservation. There a grant had been given from a music foundation in Nashville to teach young boys the art of traditional drum making. These kids had spent months tanning and scraping hide. They were all pretty nervous to speak and perform in front of us, but you could tell in the craftsmanship of what they had made that they were proud of what they had done.
     So, at the end of another long day, we returned to Uncle Floyd and Aunt Natalie's to enjoy a dinner and talk, and then back to the retreat center for much needed sleep.

Day Two - Chuck's Perspective

I remember waking up this morning to the sound of my phone alarm going off - harmonious church bells blaring in my left ear, reminding me that I had to get up earlier than the others to go get milk. Sure enough, Trey and I were out the door ten minutes later. The chilly 32 degree morning and crisp wind flew into my leather coat and numbed me until we reached the nearby gas station. I remember the stares vividly...a blend of curiosity mixed with apprehension. This is understandable. After all, we were two oddly dressed wasichun (white men) darting in for a gallon of milk and scurrying out.
After coming back and filling ourselves up with some good breakfast, we headed out to what was supposed to be a community hall for the reservation. Only, it was never finished. Our job today was to work with Mike, a very generous and skilled handyman, and begin installation of a bathroom. Justin, my co-author, was sent off to drive Floyd a good hour away to the VA hospital. While he was on a thoroughly enlightening one-on-one trip with Floyd, we began work on marking and cutting up planks of wood for the bathroom walls. Throughout the day, our group fluctuated and rotated members through different tasks, such as delivering lunch and sewing supplies to Grandmother Mary Ann and helping Aunt Natalie put together lunches.
I hovered around Mike and Trey for the most part, popping in where I could with a drill or a saw. It was refreshing to see those walls go up and that ceiling slide into those brackets. We had to stop at a point because Mike didn't have all of the necessary supplies with him, including the equipment for hooking up the lights to the electricity. From there we made our way back to the Retreat Center for a break (whoa!) until the after-school children arrived to play for a while. I had a very interesting experience with one kid named Chris who persistently tried to run up behind me and spin me around. Either that, or he was trying to climb up my back. Regardless, the introduction of another kid led to an energetic game of monkey-in-the-middle that sent bursts of nostalgic adrenaline to my head.
After a while, we went back to Floyd and Natalie's for dinner and more learning. Bob, the current director of Conscious Alliance and a manager for major country music stars, was there and offered various anecdotes and insight into our conversation. Though, as usual, we played the part of eager students and listened to Floyd's words. The group consensus has been that Floyd's manner of speaking - this circular way of talking - may seem repetitive and contradictory to the half-hearted listener, but it's actually quite profound and makes a great deal of sense as time goes on. He speaks in webs, which is to say that he introduces various topics and stories to you at the beginning, and then he tells them again later with more detail and new minutiae. He weaves his way into a carefully drawn circle all the way to the center, which I often find is the, "Aha!" moment for me. What he spoke of yesterday with the evils of the internet, the methane gas that will kill all inhabitants of major cities, the cause of alcoholism on the reservation, and importance of the four directions all came back to us today in a slightly different way that helped to structure the context of what he was saying. It's all a matter of creating "the big picture" for us so that we may understand (or at least attempt to understand) his vision of the future and what needs to be done if traditional ways are to be preserved.
The arrival of Justin and the other Conscious Alliance folk who happened to get their massive truck stuck in the mud (25,000 pounds of food will do that!) signaled the final slice of the night. We left, tired and slightly apprehensive of the imminent unpacking of food from the truck tomorrow. With a good night's sleep and our continuing infectious positive energy, however, I feel as though we'll dash through our jobs with grins and joy to spare.

Day One

          Talking to each other, the first thing we hear is how much there was to take in. Our first stop was Floyd Looks for Buffalo's house, where we had breakfast with him and his wife, Natalie Hand. We talked with Uncle Floyd for nearly three hours, hearing about the potential fate of our world, the application of Preparation H to maintain a youthful face, the poisonous nature of the white man's world view, the struggle of his people to survive while still holding on to the traditions that hold them together, and enough other topics to fill up three more books than the one he's already written. Through all of it we shared a relief in the feeling of welcome that their household gave to us. Sitting in the living room, packed on couches and cross legged on the carpet, I worried a little that I wasn't engaging him enough, or that I didn't ask enough questions to show how much I had researched and was interested in. We'll be returning to their house often this week, though, so I have plenty more chances.
        From there we left to visit the site of the Wounded Knee Massacre. where United States troops had killed more than 150 Lakota men, women, and children. Getting out of our vans and reading the sign recounting the story of the massacre, I couldn't help but notice the word "Lies!" carved over the ending statement "This was the last armed conflict between Native Americans and the United States Military". It immediately brought to mind Uncle Floyd telling us about the second battle of Wounded Knee, when, in 1973, the American Indian Movement was besieged by FBI, U.S. Marshalls, and other Native Americans for nearly three months.
       On the hill overlooking where the Lakota had died in 1890 sat the mass grave where their bodies had been buried. We were told by a man there that it was the site of the artillery that had been fired at them. Its hard to know what to feel when reflecting on another peoples' tragedy, but more than anything I felt a loss. There is the shame for what our nation has done, and still does in other ways and other places, but what I felt most there was a loss of great leaders of a people that has much to teach us, and proof of our inability to listen and live with their different view of the land we need to share.
       From there we drove to the Badlands. Soon the sides of the road began to show the strange shapes of rain sculpted sandstone, what Gina described as "melted sandcastles". Following directions to Sheep Mountain, we turned onto a dirt road that seemed dry enough for our chubby mini-vans to drive on, but the mud soon forced us to stop, once we nearly slid off the road into a muddy stream. There we ate lunch, climbed the buttes, which often crumbled under our feet and showed thin veins of pink quartz, had several brutal snowball fights, and admired the breathtaking views. According to the visitor center, all of the badlands had been covered by an inland sea, but today it would've been nearly completely dry if it weren't for the mud from rain and the streams of snow melt.
       We left, watching the sun set over the hills, to have dinner again at Uncle Floyd and Aunt Natalie's. Then, back at the retreat center, we all quickly fell asleep, which I've got to get doing right about now.

Getting There

            Pine Ridge, South Dakota, is a surprisingly long way from Asheville, North Carolina. To reach it we had to first drive the dull road to Charlotte, where Derek was judged suspicious enough to be body scanned, then fly to Atlanta, where we had to run past 20 gates to make our next flight, to Denver, where we were able to sleep better than we could on the planes. From there we drove alongside the rockies until the land flattened out into nothing but short rolling hills. 

         The landscape from then on is something that takes time to get used to. To be able to see that far, as Chuck's mom would say, "Flat enough to see your dog running away for 2 weeks", means a sky bigger than anything you get in the Appalachians. Here you can see the shadows of clouds moving across tan grass miles away. You can see the rain that smacked the windshield of your van drift away for hours. 

       Drifting in and out of sleep, we finally reached the reservation, walking quietly into the retreat center we'll be staying in this week and getting another much needed night of sleep. This morning we were able to see Pine Ridge in the daylight. What sticks out most about the place itself is the mud. It sticks to the tires of our van, it cakes inches thick to our boots, the splatters of it decorate the hems of our jeans. A lot of the houses we pass are missing siding, and most of the cars don't look like they're driven. The picnic tables in a park we pass are all covered in graffiti. A baseball field looks completely unused. From everything we've heard and learned, though, there's much more to this place than we first see from a car window. We all share the sense that our first impressions will be forgotten once we spend time with the people who live here