Letter from South Dakota

Government Housing circa 1950
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

Almost two weeks following my New Orleans return, and thanks to very generous donors, I was able to join another Habitat build in South Dakota. One of the reasons I love volunteering for this organization is the opportunity for true cultural immersion and Eagle Butte was no exception. The experience opened my eyes to something completely unexpected.

Before arriving, the team leader suggested we read Ian Frazier’s On the Rez, his account of the Pine Ridge reservation, infamous for the battle of Wounded Knee in 1890 and the AIM/FBI occupation in 1973. Frazier is one my favorite contributors to The New Yorker, often chronicling ridiculous, factual accounts of say, the growing population of wild boars in red states. But On the Rez was quite different in tone, painfully human in fact. And while Eagle Butte sits on the Cheyenne River Reservation, due north of Pine Ridge, he seemed to channel the same place. Noting the numerous death markers sprouting from both the sides of Interstate 212, belatedly claiming “You Don’t Have to Die”; a warning against drinking and driving I began to keep a mental list of similarities which grew throughout the week.

When our caravan stopped at the locally owned DairyQueen, I picked up the Eagle Butte Newspaper and flipped through the pages, stopping at an op-ed column titled “Letting Go of the Past”. The simple editorial urged people to put resentments behind them, enjoy their lives and move forward. A bitty smirk escaped before I could reel it back in. I thought of South Dakota’s blighted history, the massacres at Wounded Knee, broken treaties in the name of gold leading to an ongoing dispute over the rightful ownership of the Black Hills, decades long in litigation. Huge expanses of the original Great Sioux Nation have long since been dispensed to share croppers and suburbs of Rapid City, resulting in its own little development bustle on the perimeter of Wal-Mart’s Super Store. In Eagle Butte, water continues to be diverted from the Cheyenne River in order to power southern states. We all can agree that the government owes Native Americans big time. And it’s my belief that the ambivalence reigning over the recent cropping up of Indian casinos belies a silent act of contrition; atonement for the brutal acts of departed kin.


According to the last census, Eagle Butte has a population of 700, of which 48% live below the poverty line, making it one of the poorest communities in the country. I probably saw about 17 people during the week, including the counter girls at DQ. There is no doubt about it, this is a corner of the world without much reason to visit, unless you happen to be one of the thousands of bikers that trek through every August on your way to Harley Week in Sturgis or a devout follower of the Lewis & Clark trail. A handful of cinderblock buildings line Main Street. Food choices are limited to cheese balls, fried chicken salads, hamburgers and the like. Cell service is very limited unless you catch a passing satellite, and email, if you find access, is good old dial up.

The Habitat affiliate is led by Jerry Farlee and the first thing he tells us is that although he is light skinned, he is Cheyenne Lakota Native American. He is very candid about his shortcomings and lack of perfect English, but his energy is brilliant and we find ourselves wanting to spend as much time with him as we can. He is pretty much single handedly keeping the Okiciyapi Tipi Habitat office afloat, in operation since the 1994 Jimmy Carter blitz build. Among his numerous activities, Jerry runs about 100 head of buffalo on his 33,000 acres on the Southeast corner of the reservation, about 45 minutes away from any of his neighbors. He is constantly invited to speaking engagements, operates a camp on his property encouraging people to embrace the earth and each other’s differences, works with at-risk teens by challenging them to participate in sweat lodge ceremonies with him, a sacred ritual that was outlawed up until 1978 when the Native American Freedom of Religion Act was passed. He is committed not only to being a leader in his community, but keeping the community together as well. When it comes to owning a decent house, Jerry tells us that while it is fairly easy to get a car loan, it is near impossible for Native Americans living on reservations to obtain mortgages on land that is not foreclosable, making organizations like Habitat extremely vital.

There is a different time frame on the Rez, but even with the late starts in the morning and the longish lunches, we managed to get an enormous amount of work done, sheet rocking 95% of one property, and completing finish work on another in Bear Creek. The houses are pretty simple in layout, but Jerry has added character here and there by raising the ceilings and designing built-ins. Tin roofs top Harley board siding in colors of purple, red, and tan. These are pretty three-bedroom homes, a definite upgrade from the shoddy 1940s government housing that surrounds it.

After our last day of toil, the group piled into rented Suburbans and drove into the grasslands towards Cherry Creek for their 117th Pow Wow. Kids ran about the circle throwing dirt at each other. Young men and still younger boys took the helm at big, beautiful hand crafted drums. An elder at the mic cracked jokes while puffing on his cigarette, George Burns Sioux style, encouraging everyone to sit down, line up, and get ready for the procession. The drums hit a steady beat and a beautiful parade of beaded and bedazzled women entered the circle, led by four veterans, acting as color guard for the tribal celebration. The Pow Wow was small and not very impressive, but I was moved that in this small, out of the way, hidden town of trailers and struggling farms, people laced up their intricately beaded boots, packed their drums and jingle dresses and headed out on a Friday night to honor their past, include their children in ancient traditions and perform historical dances and songs. But mostly, I was stunned by the presence of the four vets proudly wearing their uniforms and medals. I recall from On The Rez, the fierce patriotism among tribal nations. Wasn’t this the ultimate act of absolution? To serve a country that almost successfully annihilated an entire race?

Seeing those four men gave me pause; inspiring thoughtful introspection of the dead weight we carry around with us. I realized I was resentful on behalf of the Lakota I was working alongside. Embarrassed that my own ancestors hunted Indians and had forts in Iowa outposts named after them. I don’t even know exact details, it’s something whispered during family reunions when the maternal side gets together about every twelve years, but it’s been in my personal history for as long as I can remember. And while I am not personally responsible for those actions, perhaps I can make reparations of my own by volunteering my time and sharing this experience with you.


To view more photos from my trip,Click Here

Kitty Kat's New Car

kat-kar
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

In February, the Benz lost its transmission in the left turn lane at Victory and Alameda. It was a Saturday and I had just left my mechanic who informed me to sell the car right away. The knocking I had just reported hearing was something serious. I took this as a sign from God and sold the car to a retired couple who planned to convert my old friend into a bio-diesel sedan. I watched them tow it away. Aside from its failed transmission, the car was immaculate, my chariot for over five years. It had 300,000 miles on the odometer.

In June, I purchased the Element and took off across the country. Can you believe this is the first new car I have ever owned?