Unpacking

 In the wee small hours this morning, I found myself five years ago on our trip West. We drove out as far as Wyoming; we unexpectedly fell in love with Minnesota; and we were spellbound by South Dakota.

The Badlands, moonscapes at night, will haunt me for a long time. 

But something else will haunt me longer.

We made it a point to hit all the National Parks in the state; as it happened, when we were in South Dakota overlapped with the 100th birthday of the National Park system, so we were lucky enough to have free admission wherever we went. (We didn't plan it that way; we're not that smart.)

As we prepared to head south towards Estes Park, we stopped at a visitor center in Wall. The young girl behind the counter kept solicitously asking us if we needed help as we pored over the map.  I looked up. "There doesn't seem to be anything at Wounded Knee. Am I missing something?"

A cloud passed over her features. "No, there's really nothing there."

I simply stared at her. It wasn't that I didn't believe her, it was more like I couldn't believe IT.  I can't imagine what my expression was, only that she hurriedly added, "I mean, there's a sign there, and a burial ground, but here..." She pulled one of the complimentary maps over and started making marks, "You want to stop here, because there's more to see," marking Oglala Lakota College in Kyle, directly south as the crow flies, but no straight way to get there. "This is a good place for you to visit."

I wondered at the weird vibe, but no one else seemed to notice. We piled into the van and headed south. Pretty soon the state roads gave way to BIA roads.

At the time, I flashed back to an earlier time; visiting hubby's uncle and aunt in South Carolina for the first time, the second year we were together.  Zio took us for a drive through Cherokee.  Hubby sat up front, and I sat in the back with aunt and her dog.

"They get to live here and pay no taxes," she sniffed.  I looked around me and was--no other word for this--ashamed at what I saw. This was my first encounter with the first nation, and it made me more than a little sick to my stomach--this. The poverty. The want. It wasn't the first time I was ashamed to be white, since being a city kid introduced me to a whole other level of privations based on skin color and descent.

Driving to Kyle jolted this memory loose;  suddenly I understood the young ranger's mood. The boys were deep in some discussion in the backseat. I glanced over at hubby, who was lost in his own thoughts. 

The thing about being a stranger in an insular community is that your presence is telegraphed quickly.

We stopped off at the College, where elder quickly surmised there were no elevators.  There was a library, and a small museum, and an artist in residence.

But when we came out, there was a local man waiting for us, telling us he had eggs for sale. We told him we were passing through and didn't have a way to cook them. He smiled, and wished us a good day, but I could feel the undercurrent of...I don't know what it was. All I know is that it was dark. Not in a malevolent way--not at all. It was more a low hum of quiet desperation and sadness.

We wended southwest to Wounded Knee.  There was a large sign, and an old woman making and selling jewelry. I saw two young couples and over heard one talking about the movie "Dreamcatcher." I misunderstood what I saw, I would realize a few minutes later.

The old woman talked about the dead in the present tense, including herself in the narrative, never looking up, never missing a beat with her beading. She told us to beware. There were people who meant us harm. She would never harm anything no matter what happened in the past, no matter whose ancestors did what to her people. She waved at the cemetery on the hill and said this was all that was left--this and the two big red signs that described the massacre.

We opted to drive up to the cemetery. There was a young boy on a bike, looking out over the parking lot we had just left below, sort of a sentry. I gave him our last dollar.  He scoffed and rode off. And suddenly, I had a chill.

It was an insanely hot day, and the sun shone brightly. My chill had nothing to do with the temperature. The boys felt it, too. "Mom? Can we go?" I glanced over at my younger guy, who was looking at the parking lot. I followed his gaze.  The boy on the bike met up with the two guys I had thought were with the girls in the parking lot below.  And the three of them were headed our way. 

"Hon?" I glanced over at hubby, whose back was to the lot, taking pictures of the vista stretching out before him. "We need to leave."

"Uh, huh," he said absently. By now the older guy picked up on the younger guy's  unease. "I think we should go, " he said. He, too, was looking at the trio headed toward us. 

"Hon? We need to leave now. Boys, get in the car. Now."

The trio picked up speed as they headed toward us. Hubby finally got it, "Right, okay, calm down everybody." He quickly stowed his camera and handed everything to me. I had already unlocked the car, and the kids were strapped in and ready to go." As we were pulling away, the trio raced up to the car and banged on his window. He smiled politely, waved, and we pulled away. 

And we all sat with this a moment. I looked at the trio receding behind us, then disappearing as we rounded a curve.

We didn't say a word until we reached Nebraska.

Five years later, I'm still unpacking all this.