I look in the mirror and wish that I saw a face that America could love but I am not fair skinned with blond hair and blue eyes.
I do have a strong passion for coffee though. You can walk in just about any home on any reservation in America and you will find one thing for certain – the coffee is always on.
I remember my grandpa and grandma would make their coffee “cowboy-style” in an enamel pot on the stove. I remember the hard wood floors that my grandpa built with his own two hands and the floors they had to replace one year – I walked up on the stripped floor and nearly fell through.
I remember Crow Fair one hazy August morning and the Teepee Capital of the world.
I remember family picnics and playing in the grass but I also remember my grandpa was a hard working man who took care of the family.
That was before I had to go to school and learn about this “great nation” that had conquered a savage race.
That was before I learned that our town was looked at with a sense of anguish by neighbors who thought that we were getting free checks from the government.
That was before I knew that I had to work twice as hard to prove myself to the rest of the communities who felt as though it was their duty to “help the Indian.”
Being in a pressure cooker for the first part of my twenties - because society said, “You are Native American. You are Noble Savage Civilized. You must walk the red road or you are not Indian enough. You have to do it or no one else will.”
I grew up in a very tiny town on a large reservation in western North Dakota. My grandparents would drive us to town nearly every other day (maybe?) to shop for groceries, have a nice lunch and pick up supplies. I never really thought of it but my grandfather didn't look like your stereotypical Indian – for instance he was bald, had silverish-gray hair and he owned a considerable amount of land.
I used to like hanging out with my grandpa Allen – he was a mechanic, carpenter, rancher, a patriarch coexisting in a matrilineal society. When my maternal grandmother died of renal failure and diabetes-related complications – he followed her the day after she was buried. I remember Grandpa Allen stood there by grandma Annie's grave and he cried like I had never seen a man cry – ever.
Long time ago – pre-contact days for you anthropologists and Indian studies professors taking notes – we would go and visit one another traveling vast distances over many days. To put this into perspective – remains of the Mandan and Hidatsa villages are located all along the Missouri River from Wakpa Sica on up to the convergence of the Yellowstone and the Missouri – MY people would make annual visits to their distant relatives – the Crow – whose homelands are located near the Prior mountains in Montana.
During these visits – which lasted anywhere from one to two weeks – we would exchange stories and ideas and we would also talk about business, politics and Creator. At the end of our visits the people would come together usually with a feast and exchange of gifts and ceremonies – not the new ager, centeredness and focus types of “ceremony” — I'm talking true individual communion with all things.
There are stories handed down that speak of menfolk crying and showing true emotion with one another – this was a time when the anglicized view of machismo only existed “across the pond.”
The other day I had a conversation with my uncle and he said, “We need to start getting back our own views and sharing them with our young ones.”
Disclaimer: I would like to take this time to excuse myself and apologize for saying anything out of line or cross - if I have said anything wrong I say this from my heart forgive me. I ask that creator take my words and make them right.
Gowidz!
