"Raining at Wounded Knee" © 2007 Stu Jenks
Never been to
Nebraska before. Northwest Nebraska is a pretty place. Rivers, some
hills, and acres and acres of farmland. Saw a field of Sunflowers,
ready for harvest, that wasn't just acres-big, but sections-large. No
yellow petals but hundred of thousands of seed-heads stretching to
the western horizon. Very impressive. I saw a cattle ranch named Stuart's, advertising 'Bulls and Females'. I laughed loud, thinking that's what I'll call my next CD, 'Stuart's Bulls and Females'. I stopped and shot an image of a long-closed
service station that had the pattern of a Star Quilt painted on two of
its doors. That was in the small town of Crawford, Nebraska. People going and coming from church. Sunday in October in
rural Nebraska. I liked what I saw of the state. But I was sad too, for Buffalo where once all over these plains, back in the day. Not now, though. I could feel the ghosts of those Buffalos everywhere. The cattle and the crops don't fill the void with me at all. (And that feeling of No Buffalo was with me for a whole week, while I drove through South Dakota, Montana and Wyoming.)
Had breakfast
in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Eat an Everything Omelet and drank some weak coffee. Then
back on the road and drove in the snow for a while. Snow turned to drizzle, then back to snow. Good tires and 4 x 4 if I needed it. No worries.
Made the decision to hit Wounded Knee before Deadwood, hence the drive into Nebraska.
Crossed into
South Dakota and into Pine Ridge Reservation. I've heard talk of the
abject poverty of Pine Ridge for decades. Mile after mile passed,
little town after little town and I'm not that shocked. Lots of
government housing, some rusted cars, plenty of open prairie and many low
ridges with Pine trees snaking across them. It's poor but it
doesn't feel destitute, nor hopeless. No different than Navajo town of Tuba City or the Tohono O'Odham town of
Sells in Arizona. I felt like home, their home. They have been here for way over a hundred years.
Sometimes, I wonder if all the hoopla doesn't come from an Urban East Coast prejudice, of middle class and rick folk who don't ever drive through the
working class neighborhoods of their own hometowns, and only see poor
and working class people when they are on vacation while making their tours
of Indian Reservations in the West.
The rain is steady but light. The sky's gray but the clouds are high, leaving lots of space overhead.
Big sky even when it rains.
I find the
crossroads of Wounded Knew but am confused. My map is ambiguous. I see
a Pine Ridge Lakota policeman in his SUV, parked near me. He begins to
drive away, but I flag him down.
"Excuse me. Can you tell me where the Memorial is?"
He is a young
cop, with a soul patch on his chin. He smiles and pointed toward what looks like a
church on a hill, just a couple hundred yards away.
"It's over there," he says.
"Over there?"
"Yep," he says.
"Thanks. By the way, how's your day?" I say.
"Long,"
"Well, I hope it ends soon."
"Me too."
"Well, have a good day, officer."
"You too." He has a light in his eyes, everyone is home. No fear and bluster like Officer Ercole D'Ercole in Trinidad, Colorado last night. Another story, but I bet Ercole D'Ercole still get teased about his name, even though he is a officer of the law.
I get back in
my truck and the Lakota Policeman drives away. I look at my map. I look at where the cop
pointed. Doesn't seem right. Looks like just a church, not a memorial to one
of the worst Indian Massacre in history. I look at the map again. Maybe
down that road. I put the truck in gear and leave the crossroads.
After five miles of driving on a very well maintained but very muddy
reservation road, I begin to have doubt about what I'm doing and begin
to have less doubts about what the cop was telling me. I turn around.
I get back to
where I began, where I talked with the cop and I find a rough two-lane
track that heads up the hill toward the church. As soon as I crest the
hill, I realize that it's not a church but a cemetery. The cop was
right. Well, I guess he would be. He does live here you know. Jeez. I shake my
head. So much for listening to others.
It's still
misting. An old white couple's walking between the stones in the cemetery. A black marble obelisk with all the names killed on that Winter day stands near the middle of the graveyard. Stones and crosses, new and ancient are here and there. It's the town of Wounded Knee's graveyard now it seems. I nod my head.
I take some
shots, and look for a place to leave a prayer bundle of my own (Tony, a Navajo friend,
instructed me on how to make a prayer bundle. I have a number of individual
ones and three short strings of prayer bundles with me. Mostly
I've made the bundles for Bear Butte tomorrow, but I have plenty of
extras.)
I thought I'd feel sadder but I don't. I just feel cold. I just think about the
Lakotas living here today, hoping that they don't hold onto too much resentment about what was done to them a hundred plus years ago.
I know some of my Southern brethren are still pissed off about The War Between
The States, and it doesn't seem to do them any good. I know I have some
old resentments that I still carry, and they just seems to cloud my view of the Path I'm on.
No, I'm just hoping for the Lakotas, and for all of us really, Red, White, Yellow, Black and Brown, that we just be ourselves, know ourselves and be the best we can be. Advice mostly for myself, that for
any unknown Indians near by. But I still pray for a lifting of
resentment and an atmosphere of forgiveness for all of us. Just kind of how I'm built these days.
I get back in the truck, and head down the muddy two track to the wet two lane and drive North. I hope to get to Deadwood by dark.
