grace at spirit lake - unknown lodge
Post on 06-Apr-2016
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Unknown Lodge
Be it a curse or a blessing, I often wondered to myself. A mixed-
blood, a half-breed, they called me. It rolled off the tongue as
naturally as the cry of a newborn babe. It became every part of the
natural order of things and yet could ever and only be unnatural.
Still, it was unquestioned, it was undisputed, it was an
afterthought. If an Indian was a savage, if an Indian was
subhuman, if an Indian was without rights, than a half-breed was
an abomination. He was a creation of ill-fate. He was never meant
to be. The half-breed is a whole new kind of being. Though useful
in bridging and navigating the gap between languages, cultures,
and religions, we are shunned and deplored. It goes without saying
that we are somehow different and so we live as an outcast of
fraternity. It is not as if we are pointed out and cast aside, rather
there exists an unsaid stigma against those of mixed blood. It has
crept into the hearts and minds and context of these times so
thoroughly, so adequately, that it emanates in every manner of
feeling and doing and being. This prejudice, if you will, has been
branded into society and is so overwhelmingly accepted and
practiced that even those with the aforesaid stigma do not argue its
definition but rather take shame in their distinction. I and my
family have fought hard with this distinction of owning the blood
of both Indian and white, but it is something with which we have
yet come to terms. Yes, we make our living and we get along, but
not without the inescapable notion that we are somehow
unwholesome, unwanted, and disregarded. My very own wife,
Mary, has kept hidden her identity as a Cherokee mixed-blood.
She would rather live a life of disguise than to face the negative
intercourse that comes with being known as both Indian and white.
My sisters too, have sought to hide or change or manipulate who
they are. Both Madeline and Harriet have married and both have
transformed their names so they sound more white: Madeline’s
from Rassicot to Roscoe and Harriet’s from D’Yonne to Young.
And I am no less guilty than my sisters or my wife. I can recall as
a boy my grandmother saying, “Remember always, you are an
Indian.” How she might shudder and cry to know what has
become of my identity. It is not that I am shut off from my native
heritage. It is not that I do not find pride, respect, and curiosity in
my background. Indeed, I share familial ties with the great Chief
Little Crow. Rather, the white way is the only acceptable way.
The way of the wasichu seems the only way to live and succeed
and thrive. The native tradition is looked down upon and thrust
aside in the name of progress and so-called destiny. And so I live
in the manner of the whites. Not with pure intention, but in a
somber conciliation of what must and can only be.
My reminder of this disparaging reality visited me last
night while among the fun and folly of that effervescent Indian
lodge. What a gift I can say it was to so be so freely associated
with my native kin in such an atmosphere of amusement. Here,
with the Dakota, I feel unencumbered by what ought to be and
what not ought to be. There are no expectations to live up to, no
manner of dress or speak that is unacceptable, and no standards on
how to live. There is instead a circle of living and a certain
unspoken respect and dignity for everything in that circle. Thus I
find a feeling of being unshackled whence I never realized I was
imprisoned. With my Indian brethren I am made full of life,
cheerfulness, and sociability. Not the less, the struggle continues
in my innermost being not knowing how or if to embrace my
Indian blood.
July 26, 1857 - - We made our way cautiously that morning in
search of the forewarned lodge. It is not as if one hundred
mounted warriors with an ox team and a load of materials could
move soundlessly over the prairie, but there was an unspoken
understanding that inconspicuousness was necessary. Even the
elements seemed an ally in our mission. The air was brisk and
calm, almost autumn-like. And the cloud cover was thick and grey
allowing little light to pass through. The birds too cooperated and
were less numerous that morning. The entire scene felt strangely
ominous.
We came within striking distance of the lodge just before
mid-day. “I need six men to make a charge on the lodge,”
announced Little Crow. A brief meeting was held between Little
Crow and the other chiefs or band leaders. They conferred for
several minutes in what appeared to be a passionate discussion.
But before long they agreed upon the six men to advance upon the
lodge. The six included three of Little Crow’s advanced guard
while the others were young men of varying loyalties.
The lodge was within a small grove that grew alongside a
creek bed. The plan was to surround the lodge and leave no place
from which to escape while the six men crept upon the camp in an
act of surprise. And so we moved silently and spread ourselves
along the edges of the grove. From my vantage point I could only
catch a glimpse of the lodge and could detect no real movement.
The six chosen warriors also spread themselves out so that they
might come from all directions. Like snakes they slithered along
the ground without so much as breaking a twig. We simply waited
as the stealthy warriors went to work. We were instructed to wait
upon the war cry at which time we would descend like locusts
upon the lodge of unknown Indians. The time passed slowly as I
waited to hear the war cry. There was not much to feel nervous
about, for we greatly outnumbered our potential opponents and we
had the advantage of surprise. Still I could not avoid a feeling of
apprehension. I would not describe it as fear, only as uncertainty.
“Heee!” came the loud shriek of the war cry as it echoed
like a ball bouncing off the trees. In a snap the warriors pushed
ahead holding their rifles high in one hand and screaming in such a
manner to strike fear in the heart of any man. In and out and
through the long shadows we descended quickly upon the lodge.
Little Crow, being the first to enter the open area, came to a sudden
halt, and like a chain reaction, so too did all who followed. There
we were, a tight knit circle of over one hundred warriors primed
for conflict while leaving no means for escape. But the scene, as I
came to realize, was anything but threatening. The six Dakota
warriors who went in advance had the unknown Indians
surrounded and huddled helplessly together. These men, women,
and children appeared frightened and rather harmless. One of the
warriors began asking questions. “Who are you? Are you
associated with Red End? Why are you alone from your band?”
But there came no answer. The small huddled group was too
startled to reply and all that could be heard were the cries of the
young children.
“Lower your tomahawks,” said Little Crow.
The tension was broken and the warriors backed away.
Everyone became relaxed like a tight string suddenly being
released. Little Crow approached the frightened group as they
began to console each other as any family might.
“From what band do you belong?” Little Crow asked
bluntly.
“We are Sisseton,” cowered one of the men, still huddled
next to his family.
“What brings you to this region of the Yankton?” Little
Crow continued his questioning.
“The trade,” answered the man quickly. “We have traded
goods with the Yankton and we are returning to the homeland.”
“Pardon the intrusion,” said Little Crow with a change of
tone. “We seek another.”
Little Crow turned away with a sigh in his expression. It
was somewhat of a disappointment to make such an extraneous
discovery. We had been traveling many days and we were anxious
for results, though we knew it was too soon. But it was also a
relief, at least for me, to know that we avoided a potential conflict.
In reality, I do not think anyone as a part of this expedition sought
a great battle which might risk or claim lives. We had a duty to
fulfill and it went little further than that. For the Dakota it was a
matter of survival; something that must be endured in order to
provide for themselves and their families. We had to hide our
disappointment, apprehension, and frustration. We had to press
on.
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