Tasunka Witko

Where do I start writing this?

A few weeks ago, a lady was looking up her long lost grandmother's grave here on the reservation. I didn't say anything or judge because heck, one day you might see me all clueless wondering around France or the Philippines looking for my ancestors graves. Anyway, as we talked, she said something that struck me as odd.

"Well, your people didn't like Crazy Horse anyway. Why so many books about him?"

I stopped in my tracks and had to count backwards from 137 to 1.

"Huh?" Was all I could say.

"Well, you know, he was the end of your people." she said.

"My people are still here, ma'am. Crazy Horse was a great man and chief. A warrior. Our hero." I said, still counting backwards.

"If he was your hero, why do I go to Custer to see a tribute?" she asked.

"He fought and died for us, even in this day, I know that. Even my children know that, their children will know that." I said.

I let it go at that and walked away.

I started thinking about when I was 12 years old and my step-dad was a speaker at Korczak Ziolkowski's funeral. I looked at him in his casket and thought of how he lived his life, always dressed like a mountain man, bulldozing away and moving that mountain with sticks of dynamite. This man had so much passion for the life Crazy Horse lived, he begin carving a mountain a few years after he was approached by Chief Standing Bear, who told him;

“My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know the red man has great heroes, too.”

Work on the mountain has been going for over 60 years. When I worked there, people would say "What is taking so long?"

I would have to say "Did you see the size of it? Mount Rushmore can fit in the head alone."

So I have been thinking, why don't we have a monument to Crazy Horse here on the reservation?




We can go see the pile of rocks at Fort Robinson or a mountain being carved by non-Indians near a town called Custer, which is an oxymoron itself.

Do we fight amongst ourselves so much that we can't honor one of our greatest Chiefs? Other tribes honor their chiefs for less.

It makes me sick to see strip bars, malt liquor,clothing companies and other such things named after our hero. Our hero inspired a Polish American sculptor from Boston to move a mountain, why can't we honor our hero with something.

I'm not saying we have to carve a mountain or mark a grave, because his parents wanted it undisclosed and the mountains Chief Crazy Horse fought and died for, were stolen by the government, but a tribute would be nice.

Or as people that are still proud because of him, do we let others build memorials and let the spirit of Crazy Horse live on through our hearts, our minds, our spirit, and in our song, like we have been.

"An eagle seeks the bluest part of the sky because of truth and honor " -Chief Crazy Horse

Random Writing Challenge #15

Carol issued another Random Writing Challenge, I decided to write it from another viewpoint. The first line is what I had to write it off of. Why am I getting so green lately?

She was too tired to lift her head. She felt stupid, she should have known better. But she was so hungry and tired of eating the same, old, dried out prairie weeds.

The morning started out beautiful. Even though she lost her mother and brother to the poison oats the night before, she also gave birth that same night to 3 beautiful babies. She named the girl after her mother, Keelee, the boys after her brother and father, Akicita and Hoksila. she had lost her father to the poison the week before and her babaies father two weeks before. Just when she felt as if her world was slowly dying around her, then she has the babies. Life was beautiful this morning.

She woke to the sun streaming down the hole that now, only she lived in. She heard the chatter of the few that were left in the colony. they were saying that it was a fat man in an orange vest that comes around. Run fast when he comes and don't take anything from him. She had no milk left for her babies and they awoke. She didn't want to leave them and wished again for her mother to be here and teach her how to be a mom. But deep in her blood, she knew, her maternal instincts kicked in.

She crawled to the surface and noticed a few measly weeds far away. That would not be enough. Somewhere in the mindless gossip she heard others talk of a snake that has been lurking. In the neighbors abandoned hole there was a pile of oats that made her stomach growl. She heard her babies cry and ran over to the oats. She surprised herself by eating them all at once.

She hurried back to her babies and realized that with each step her feet begin to drag. She knew then, she had done the same as her mother, brother, husband, and father. She had eaten the poison. Now her babies would grow without her. Or die.

Unless she nursed them while she could. Then they would take the journey with her where the prairie is green and her parents awaited, dancing. She slowly made it over to them and lay by her babies to feed them.

I wrote this story because prairie dogs are the enemy around here. Ranchers pay Indians to poison them and gun freaks shoot them for free. I doubt they will ever be endangered but you never know. when my brother and I was younger he saved one at a sundance one year from a terrible beating by a bunch of kids. Risking his own ass getting beaten, for the sake of a prairie dog. He named the prairie dog Peteyful because he was pitiful. Today he kills them for fun. What a shame, I hope he reads this.

Dipping My Toes

When I was a little girl I used to dip my toes in puddles.

I used to chase paper boats down the street after a storm and inhale the wet rain smell.

I used to play in the snow for hours and not even realize how cold I was until I went inside.

I used to walk on the prairie for hours and pick wild flowers.

I used to wade in dam water and pretend I was in the ocean.

I used to swing so high, I would slightly panic.

I used to lay in the grass and watch the clouds go by wondering what part of the world they were going to and what they would do when they got there.

I used to rake leaves into a huge pile, just to jump in them and throw them in the air again.

I used to get up early to watch cartoons on a Saturday morning and eat cereal on the living room floor in front of the console tv.

I used to eat cherries and plums from the wild.

I swore I was going to marry Chachi or Danny Zuko.

I used to break geodes open to gather the crystals and add to my rock collection.

I used to pretend I could control the wind with my thoughts and that I was always in a movie.

I used to draw pictures and write stories to go with it and the stories never had an ending.

When I was a kid, my childhood was ok and it wasn't hard for me to say that. I grew up ok.

Sometimes I wished I could dip my toes into my childhood again.

This land is my land

I don't like that corny song but I was thinking about it this weekend. There's this comedy due named William and Ree a/k/a The Indian and the White Guy.

Anyway I remember seeing them on TV once and they were singing a messed up version of that song where the indian dude would sing "this land is my land ...it always was my land, will never be your land" And the white dude jumps in with "this land was your land until my people cam and took it away and now its my land, will never be your land again." Anyway it was very funny in a tongue in cheek kinda way.

But I was thinking about the song this weekend as I watched trash blowing around the reservation. I was thinking of how usually when spring comes it's very green and pretty and things start to bloom. but here when spring comes and the snow melts trash blooms.

Then I started to think of how years ago my people were self sustaining and lived off the land how respectful they were to the Earth. They recycled everything, used everything in a hunt and didn't take more than needed. It makes me sad to see how times have changed.

How greed has changed a whole tribe over generations. I am not saying everybody is greedy but it's a damn shame people care more about themselves and how they appear to other people when in all reality they should be caring about the land they walk on, the water they drink, and the air they breathe. this land is our mother and needs to be treated that way.

I don't know exactly what went down years ago when the government fucked us over and put us on this reservation that is a piece of shit land good for nothing. I don't know what went down after we were forced to stay in one spot and give up a nomadic lifestyle. I don't know what went down when we were forced to quit hunting and providing for our own and take handouts of food that caused a whole diabetic epidemic. I don't know what went down with my people back then.

But I do know this now, maybe I have to live here in one spot and work for the man, but this is still my land and something has to be done now to get that respect to Mother Earth back.

Some shit has got to go down now.

I saw the sun rise today

It was beautiful and I smiled.

This Lady

I met this lady over half my life ago. I was the high school sweetheart of her son, who was the quarterback while I cheered him on. She was fiercely proud of him no matter what. She was pregnant when I met her and a year later her baby girl was taken by SIDS. I saw her live through that.

She was already a grandma when we met. And the grandkids didn't stop for awhile, with 4 being born in 1992, including my oldest, Ty. She was always proud to be a grandma. She would show off her grandkids to everyone and introduce them as "my grandbabies" even when they were taller than her. She loved my daughter and sure didn't help when it came time to get rid of her nickname, Emma Beans.

She used to tell everyone that before Emma Beans became a teenager, she would have to buy a shotgun to scare the boys away. Emma hung around her so much, she started to act like her grandma. We used to tease her that she became a drama queen like her and scared of spidas.

She developed a southern accent from her husband who was born and raised in Alabama. I never realzied how deep her accent was until sge sent my teenage son to the convenience store for a "bag of ass." He said "What?" She said "Ass." he said "Ass?" And everyone laughed.

Her husband used to say she was as bad as one of the kids. Every get together would include her chasing the kids around and around like she was 12 years old. About 3 Easter's ago, I blogged about a hard boiled egg fight in the park. Yup, she was the one who started it and then laughed through the whole thing.

She helped me out so much when I was her neighbor, she babysat, washed our clothes, helped cook, clean and everything you could ask for in a mother in law. Even though she hadn't been my mother in law for years. She still introduced me to everyone as her daughter in law.

Out of everything I remember the most, I remember when my step dad died. I hadn't talked to her for maybe three weeks or so over some stupid reason. Which goes to show, life is too short to not talk to people. The day after he died she was knocking. I opened my door and she just hugged me and it was the first time I felt like I could cry. She held me while I did.

"When you need bread, let me know." That's how it is around here. Every wake and funeral is filled with food and people come together. The night before his funeral we made bread. I watched her make the dough. She has a method that could be considered an art form. I noticed this a few years earlier when she made pies for Thanksgiving. She treats the dough with such care and heart, no wonder it always turned out perfect.

Today I will remember that when I make bread for her. All my heart will go into it, the way she showed me. And I will make bread for her.

Rest in Peace Grandma KK. You will be missed.

*might submit for my column*

Grandpa Rusty

Have I ever told you about my grandpa?

Well first off let me tell you the inspiration for this blog. Last night I was holed up at home trying to relax. There was a knock at my door. It was a friend of mine and her three kids. She was running from an abusive relationship from the two youngest kids' father. I let her sit and figure out what she was going to do because I had no room. She called the grandfather of the oldest girl and he came right over to see the granddaughter he never gets to see.

When she saw her grandpa, her eyes lit up and she jumped into his arms. He sat and visited for a minute and held her the whole time. She was smiling, looking at him with love in her eyes like he could take on te New York Giants himself. I watched them with adoration in my eyes and remembered...

My grandpa was actually my mom's step dad. He babysat my brother and I while my parents both worked. I would watch from my counter height view as he would whip me up "panty cakes" and eggs and bacon. He would sing old standards the whole time he was cooking. He would go out and kill a meal,bring it home and butcher it all while I watched. My grandpa would sit under shade behind the house with another Korean War Vet, Melvin and they would drink wine and sing old military songs. My grandpa could take on the world. My grandpa was a retired BIA cop from another reservation, yet he worked and made his life here on the toughest reservation. My grandpa had blue eyes and red hair and was known as Rusty, yet he was fluent in Lakota. He told me stories of giant animals and little people. My grandpa started my passion for antique glass hunting. Whether we was in an abandoned farm house or second hand store. He had a huge part in making me the woman I am today, started me on many of passions in life: cooking, nature, standards, antiques and just an overall appreciation for life and respect for others.

He conquered the world in my eyes, because he was the best.

A wonderful and positive male role model and influence for me early in life.

I miss him.

This is for him.