Post by Okwes on Dec 22, 2005 22:05:35 GMT -5
Native American ceremony stirs emotions
By Bryce Lambley/Guest Columnist
While spending Thanksgiving weekend in the Panhandle, my wife and I had
the opportunity to accompany my mother-in-law Susan Phillips to the 8th
Annual Lakota Red Nations Powwow in Gordon, just down the road from both
the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota and the notorious
Nebraska village of White Clay.
At 1.7 million acres, Pine Ridge is the second largest reservation in
the United States and home to the Oglala Lakota. With perhaps the
highest rate of alcoholism in the nation, unemployment on “The Rez” can
run about 80 percent, with life expectancy hovering around 48 for men
and 52 for women. A 10-minute drive to the south, Gordon lists 15.4
percent of its residents as full-blooded American Indians according to
the 2000 U.S. Census.
My wife’s mother is a member of the Lakota nation, her
great-grandfather, Hubert Ruleoux, marrying White Buffalo, an Oglala
Lakota of Red Cloud’s band, in the mid-1800s. In fact, a surprised
Susan, a frequent contributor to the Lakota’s welfare and visibility,
was the only “white” honored as an “elder” on the second night of the
powwow.
We attended the previous night’s festivities and I found it to be a
striking, yet melancholy occasion. Walking into the Gordon City
Auditorium, we left our world behind and entered an entirely different
one. I’d venture that 95 percent or more of those attending were Native
Americans, with only a few whites present despite advertisements
encouraging our attendance.
I’ve always been intrigued by Native attire (don’t dare call it a
“costume”) and it was even more impressive up close and personal during
this ceremonial occasion. The beads, shells, furs, and hides of the
regalia made the prom dresses and tuxes of our teens look pale by
comparison.
The ceremonial entrance of the dancers and the haunting yet engaging
rhythm that sprang forth from the several small corps of
drummers/singers conjured in me a very strange emotion.
I won’t call it guilt, as I refuse to feel guilty for acts that I did
not commit. But it was a strange brew of sorrow nonetheless.
I was sorry that a proud culture was reduced to such small numbers
dancing in a dingy, run-down city auditorium. I was equally dismayed by
knowledge that the local paper’s court proceedings had such a
preponderance of Natives listed in its roll of shame, with most of those
downtrodden not in attendance on this evening when they might have felt
uplifted to some degree.
The contrasts were striking. Alongside Natives of all ages adorned
beautifully in the traditional style, there was a teen-ager hawking
Native-made jewelry, yet dressed in the distasteful rap-gangster look we
see back here, with a cockeyed hat and baggy pants exposing his boxers.
Such was not a representation of how this mighty Lakota nation once
carried itself and had to be embarrassing to the majority of those in
attendance. Like the rest of our country, perhaps it is a sign of a
culture at a crossroads.
I was again wistful for a window into life 200 years or more ago, when
Lewis and Clark were “discovering” lands already occupied for centuries.
And long before the near disintegration of those cultures culminated in
a valley just a few miles north of Gordon called Wounded Knee.
And I was struck by the feeling that our overall society would be much
better off if these various sub-cultures were more prominent and
revered. Minority populations have almost as a rule been very loyal to
the United States (for instance in time of war), and the American flag
and references to veterans were very much a part of the proceedings. We
are missing a great deal by not having more recognition of what these
proud people can bring to the table of our melting pot.
My own hunting and fishing often provides me with time to reflect, and
the following day’s hikes with my stickbow onto prairies once trod by
bison and Indian horses gave me food for thought. Solid conclusions
would have to wait; some things take time to distill.
Time has diluted the Native ancestry in my own daughters now to 1/32nd
Lakota with a whole lot of different European mixed in there too. I do
know that I aim to never let them forget even the smallest slice.
Copyright © 2005 Fremont Tribune
By Bryce Lambley/Guest Columnist
While spending Thanksgiving weekend in the Panhandle, my wife and I had
the opportunity to accompany my mother-in-law Susan Phillips to the 8th
Annual Lakota Red Nations Powwow in Gordon, just down the road from both
the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota and the notorious
Nebraska village of White Clay.
At 1.7 million acres, Pine Ridge is the second largest reservation in
the United States and home to the Oglala Lakota. With perhaps the
highest rate of alcoholism in the nation, unemployment on “The Rez” can
run about 80 percent, with life expectancy hovering around 48 for men
and 52 for women. A 10-minute drive to the south, Gordon lists 15.4
percent of its residents as full-blooded American Indians according to
the 2000 U.S. Census.
My wife’s mother is a member of the Lakota nation, her
great-grandfather, Hubert Ruleoux, marrying White Buffalo, an Oglala
Lakota of Red Cloud’s band, in the mid-1800s. In fact, a surprised
Susan, a frequent contributor to the Lakota’s welfare and visibility,
was the only “white” honored as an “elder” on the second night of the
powwow.
We attended the previous night’s festivities and I found it to be a
striking, yet melancholy occasion. Walking into the Gordon City
Auditorium, we left our world behind and entered an entirely different
one. I’d venture that 95 percent or more of those attending were Native
Americans, with only a few whites present despite advertisements
encouraging our attendance.
I’ve always been intrigued by Native attire (don’t dare call it a
“costume”) and it was even more impressive up close and personal during
this ceremonial occasion. The beads, shells, furs, and hides of the
regalia made the prom dresses and tuxes of our teens look pale by
comparison.
The ceremonial entrance of the dancers and the haunting yet engaging
rhythm that sprang forth from the several small corps of
drummers/singers conjured in me a very strange emotion.
I won’t call it guilt, as I refuse to feel guilty for acts that I did
not commit. But it was a strange brew of sorrow nonetheless.
I was sorry that a proud culture was reduced to such small numbers
dancing in a dingy, run-down city auditorium. I was equally dismayed by
knowledge that the local paper’s court proceedings had such a
preponderance of Natives listed in its roll of shame, with most of those
downtrodden not in attendance on this evening when they might have felt
uplifted to some degree.
The contrasts were striking. Alongside Natives of all ages adorned
beautifully in the traditional style, there was a teen-ager hawking
Native-made jewelry, yet dressed in the distasteful rap-gangster look we
see back here, with a cockeyed hat and baggy pants exposing his boxers.
Such was not a representation of how this mighty Lakota nation once
carried itself and had to be embarrassing to the majority of those in
attendance. Like the rest of our country, perhaps it is a sign of a
culture at a crossroads.
I was again wistful for a window into life 200 years or more ago, when
Lewis and Clark were “discovering” lands already occupied for centuries.
And long before the near disintegration of those cultures culminated in
a valley just a few miles north of Gordon called Wounded Knee.
And I was struck by the feeling that our overall society would be much
better off if these various sub-cultures were more prominent and
revered. Minority populations have almost as a rule been very loyal to
the United States (for instance in time of war), and the American flag
and references to veterans were very much a part of the proceedings. We
are missing a great deal by not having more recognition of what these
proud people can bring to the table of our melting pot.
My own hunting and fishing often provides me with time to reflect, and
the following day’s hikes with my stickbow onto prairies once trod by
bison and Indian horses gave me food for thought. Solid conclusions
would have to wait; some things take time to distill.
Time has diluted the Native ancestry in my own daughters now to 1/32nd
Lakota with a whole lot of different European mixed in there too. I do
know that I aim to never let them forget even the smallest slice.
Copyright © 2005 Fremont Tribune