One String Guitar

by Mona de Vessel

  Grey’s story filled me with rage. It wasn’t anger; it wasn’t something I could control. It was like a wild fire that could burn down the entire prairie.

  Turns out, the cops didn’t keep Grey in jail long. Just enough to humiliate him, to kick his face into the ground. I knew that night that I couldn’t sit around no more and do nothing.

  **

  After that, I saw Grey almost everyday. He’d usually come and pick me up from my parent’s place, swing by Felicia’s house and we’d drive right up to the Billy Mills Hall. People had finally had it with the corruption in the government on the res and Dicky Washington’s impeachment was scheduled for 10 a.m. on the morning of February 22nd. We hooked up with a caravan of cars and pulled into the hall’s parking lot raring to have the man step down. Our boys had drums, and brought a peace pipe and we had singers ready to sing a song of victory. But when we got in, they said that they weren’t going to let us in and just filter the news out through some television. They said it was a private meeting. Hundreds of us started yelling and talking all at once and after a while, they figured they’d better let us in so they did.

  Like any ol’ court, the room was divided into two sides, Dicky Washington’s side and the rest of us. We all sat away from Dicky, all 600 of us packed like sardines. While only a handful of people filled up Dicky’s side. They were getting underway and then they postponed the meeting again until the afternoon and they played this movie for us called Anarchy, USA. This was this crazy old movie about blacks burning and looting cities. I guess they were trying to brainwash us into thinking that nothing good can come out of rioting. I watched the movie and thought that when you got nothing to lose, anarchy is the only road to change.

  Felicia and I sat together the whole time. I hadn’t let go of her hand since that night of the accident. In that moment, I imagined for a second the madness of losing my wife. Things were coming back to me from the crash. Strange thoughts that’d been erased started filtering back. Thoughts like: If she dies, I’ll die too. Thoughts of suicide, thoughts of vengeance. Thoughts of wanting to go for payback. I’d also been thinking about goons a lot. Thinking about them being Indian, just like me, just like Felicia. I could see them at the court now with their crew cuts and their dead eyes, standing there by the door, guarding us. Guarding their own brothers and sisters.

  I wanted to understand how our people could lose their way and turn against Indians. How did this happen? And then I remembered how easy it was to lose your way growing up on the res.

  The goon is a boy turned on his head with nothing to do. The goon is the boozer at the corner. He’s the boy playing in the village dump. He’s the kid counting cigarette butts on the ground. He’s my brother and your son. He’s the one no one remembers until it’s too late. He’s your broken and forgotten boy. Using native against native is as old as time itself. Not the time of the prairies and the mountains. Not the time of the rivers and the fields. It’s not the time of the spotted eagle. This is the time of the crucifix throwers, this is the time of the carriage builders and the sacred fire throwers, the time of the white man who came to live on our land like it’d just been discovered. We were here when there was no time. Our people were here when there was only lightning coming out of the west and mornings coming out of the east. We were here before all the spring times where the whitetail deer returned to feast on young violets at the first sign of spring. We were here before any of the seasons, before the white of summer, and the elk grazing on the earth Grandfather had created. We were here before the last trail of winter ever started and the buffalo roamed in search of better pastures. We were here before the swallows and the darkness of fall and the dance of the blacktail deer at the foot of the hills.

  Our time dips into the rivers where the waters run mad with the thawing of glaciers. Our time flows with the course of the wind in the path of the pipe’s smoke, before there was a pipe. In the moment when the eagle and the last woman on earth conceived their babies together on the highest peak. Our time comes and dances around the return of rains after long seasons of drought. Our time is the fall of the lightning and the crack of the thunder on young vulnerable shoots.

  The goon is a boy of wandering spirit. A boy whose šicun has already left his body even before death comes. When spirit leaves the body before its time, it drifts to the far corners of the world in search of a place to rest.

  Seeing these goons in the courtroom made me think of crazy Jimmy when we were growing up. We were kids still and we were playing by the side of the road racing chickens. The thing about chickens (and this is what made it fun for me) is that they don’t listen. They just run all over the place like crazy little fuckers. Jimmy had a chicken that was his and I had mine and we’d place bets on whose chicken would make it to the finish line first. The key was to stay behind your chicken the whole time and yell like crazy so it’d keep running in a straight line. But chickens never ran in a straight line. The last race I ever did with Jimmy, my chicken crossed the finish line first and I was jumping up and down cheering when all of a sudden, I saw Jimmy pick this huge fucking rock. It was more like a boulder and he held it up above his head and smashed it down on his own chicken. It was the craziest thing I’d ever seen. The chicken just exploded and lay there all body, a pulp of flesh and bloodied feathers. I stood there in shock just staring at Jimmy when I heard him say: “This shit game is for dirty Indians and I ain’t doing it no more.” And he ran off.

  That day, I didn’t understand what had run through Jimmy’s head. It would take me until that day in court to understand the poison of the government on young Indian minds. We’d been left in the prime of our youth in the poorest, most deprived piece of land in the whole nation with nothing to learn and nothing to do. We were left there to rot. But youth doesn’t rot, unguided youth goes mad, it turns on itself like a scorpion biting its own body. Like a mad wolf trying to kill its young. Crazy Jimmy and the goons and all of our brothers had been lured off the res to big cities, only to find there was no place for them out there had all gone mad. For some, the madness happened in a 40-ouncer; for others, it was in cheap whisky or weed; for others still, it was in pulling a gun on another Indian under the white man’s orders. It was easy to go mad in the poorest corner of this country. Staying sane was the challenge.

  In the afternoon, we took a vote on whether or not Washington should be impeached and everyone voted yes. The next day, we came back for the actual trial. The problem was we needed a judge to act in Washington’s place. Dicky yelled out,

  “What’s the matter, nobody want this hot seat of mine?” Washington was accused of stealing money from federal funds meant for programs on the res and using them for his own use. He was accused of not being for his people. They brought in a referee, some bought-out, brainwashed puppet. Every time a witness came in to testify against Washington, the referee would cut them off after three minutes and go on to someone else. It was clear the whole thing was rigged. After this charade went on for about an hour, Dicky Washington was voted back into office with a 4–0 vote based on the lack of sufficient evidence.

  As soon as the verdict was pronounced, all hell broke loose and someone yelled out: “I’m taking this to Federal Court.” Everyone started hollering and yelling and all the people on our side stormed out. Felicia and I took one look at each other and we ran out of there.

  Caravans of cars drove off to the Calico Community Center six miles north of Pine Ridge to have a meeting. We wanted to talk it over to see what we needed to do. Felicia and I rode with Grey, Jerome, Juan, and Lea. When we got out of the car, I looked up and saw that there were dozens of marshals up on the roof pointing their guns at us. They were waiting for an excuse to shoot us down.

  Inside, Grey and Jerome Bean said we should figure a way to stay calm. Others jumped in and yelled obscenities about Washington and his goons. The whole time, we were being watched. Four or five goons came in while we were talking. They were drunk as skunks and banged the door wide ope
n when they came in.

  Taking one look at them, Lea Fight Wolf yelled, “Get the hell out of here.”

  The goons zigzagged around the place for a few minutes and saw how many we were and they left.

  “Listen, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sick of sitting around and doing nothing about this. Us women are going to go to Wounded Knee and stay there until we find a solution.” Lea told the entire room.

  Voices rose around us like waves. I heard someone say, “That’s a good idea!”

  Then I heard Felicia’s voice in the crowd: “Let’s go back to the place where our ancestors were killed!” She had her arm raised up in the air to mark her words, our pride carrying us right to the pages of our history.

  Chapter 24 – Owl

  A caravan of 54 of our cars meandered down to Wounded Knee—the land where our ancestors had been murdered one hundred years earlier. Felicia and I drove up with Grey and the others, packed right into his Cougar, all eight of us. Grey had a police radio scanner in his car so we could hear the marshalls on the BIA radio reporting on our progression from the Calico Community Center to Wounded Knee. With each mile, we heard the voices announce over the radio: they’re coming down the road, they’ve passed the jail, they’re driving east, they’re not stopping! You’re damn straight we weren’t stopping. Nothing was going to stop us now. Today, as I look back on what took us to Wounded Knee, it’s hard to pinpoint the exact straw that broke our backs. Maybe it was the Wesley Bad Heart murder and how his mother had been beaten and jailed because she had come to Custer to seek justice for her son. Maybe it was having Washington voted back in for another round of corruption. Maybe it was the feeling that our time was running out for good and if we didn’t move now, we would all be wiped out for good. It’s hard to say but all I know is that we weren’t turning back.

  It was real late by the time we got there. I saw a long line of cars lined up bumper to bumper all the way to the Sacred Heart Church. We all piled up into the church like we were home. Some people had carried drums with them and began to play. We moved the pews out of the way and tried to make ourselves comfortable. It was cold but mild for an end-of-winter night in South Dakota.

  Felicia and I huddled in a corner and decided we’d try to sleep. We were both exhausted from all of the excitement of the previous days. I wore a thin wool jacket that let in the wind while Felicia had worn her overturned sheep’s coat; we huddled together to stay warm. The moment that followed is permanently engraved in my memory. I pulled Felicia towards me that night; looked into her eyes and made a promise to her I would not be able to keep.

  “No matter what happens here, I will always protect you.”

  I remember the look of trust in her eyes. The way her body pushed into mine as if she were saying, I know you will always protect me. I wanted to be strong for Felicia but truth is I was scared that night. Scared the goons would come and shoot us; scared I wouldn’t be able to protect Felicia. I knew Dicky Washington wanted one thing and one thing only: an excuse to shoot us all down. I remember thinking something bad was going to happen, something real bad. It was like I could feel the future unfolding in my body. But I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and watched Felicia as she fell asleep in my arms.

  It was cold in the church. Felicia pressed her warm body against mine pushing her head into the curve of my chest like a wounded duckling. I don’t know why I thought of her as a wounded bird. Thought of us both that way. Like we were trapped in some clearing waiting for hunters to get us.

  That night, there was more than just fear in that church. I could feel the energy of the others rising like some kind of strange storm. Grey Stone was full of something I couldn’t name at first. It was like the rage from before had given into a new life force.

  Later, I realized that the energy that coursed through Grey’s veins that night was pride. Pride in the land we were reclaiming, pride in the unity of our people, pride in our strength and our courage. Pride. That’s what we been missing all this time since our people had fallen.

  The next day I woke up real early when the light was just beginning to filter into the church. Many people were still sleeping. Some were gone. Felicia’s head rested on my lap, her body folded in the fetal position. It was cold, real cold and when I coughed, I saw my breath in the cool morning air. I moved slowly pulling my legs from under Felicia, leaving her with my small bag propped under her head as a pillow. She didn’t wake.

  The bad feeling I had from before hadn’t left, nothing had changed but this time I ignored it. I wanted to talk to the guys. They’d know what we should do next.

  When my fear hit the mix, everything got garbled again and I thought for the first time that staying maybe meant dying. Were we all going to die in this place? I thought of Felicia and the babies inside her and the fear grew. But something had shifted for me in the middle of the night. The fear was still there but a new feeling had planted itself at the center of my chest—hope, like a strange young tree taking root. I could feel it tugging at me.

  Outside the light had brightened from a pale rose to a muted blue, a young light promising everything a new day can offer. Grey Stone sat outside the church with a group of guys. They had made a fire and were sitting around it talking. When I walked up I saw Grey Stone with a stick in hand marking the ground with large strokes.

  “They’ll try to enter here, here and here,” he said, each time marking the ground with an X. “And it’s up to us to guard our posts and make sure no one enters.”

  I sat down on the ground by the fire making myself small. Grey Stone looked up and nodded at me in acknowledgement and went on talking. Broken had fought in Nam, he’d fought for the government and now he was fighting against it.

  “We’ll need ammunitions, and food and other supplies.” Grey said.

  “What if we just go out, get the stuff we need and we bring it back here?” Broken Arrow was looking at Grey Stone waiting for an answer.

  “We can’t. It’s too risky. If we try to leave now, we’ll weaken the camp and they’ll come in and take over. We can’t let that happen.”

  “I know how to break out of here and back with supplies.” Broken insisted.

  Everyone grew quiet. I could hear a rooster crooning in the distance. I warmed my hands over the fire waiting for someone to speak.

  “There’s a trading post down a couple of minutes from here. We should talk to the owners and see if they’ll agree to give us supplies.”

  Jim Catches Crow spoke out:

  “Give us supplies? Yeah, right. Those white bastards ain’t never gonna give us shit. I say we just break in and just take what we need.”

  I silently agreed with Jim but didn’t want to say nothing. I was watching not knowing what would happen next. And I wasn’t about to speak out and make myself known.

  I’d heard Grey say to us before that our war on the res was not to fight the white man but to fight his evil ways. It had never been a war of races for Grey but a war of principles. For others whose suffering had run its course, the war had turned into a blood war.

  “We’ll ask them, and then if they won’t give us the stuff, we’ll do as you say.” Grey said. But Sammy wouldn’t have it.

  “This is bullshit man! That trading post hasn’t been about our people. It’s been owned by those white folks making money off our suffering. Have you been in there? You been in there Grey?” Grey nodded like he understood.

  “There’s pictures of our bloated people killed in the Wounded Knee massacre a hundred years ago They’re charging fucking money to tourists so they can see that shit! Pictures of fucking soldiers grinning over the bodies of our women and children. And you want us to ask them to give us supplies?”

  “I just want us to give off respect, even if we’re not getting it in return. You know everything comes back in the end,” Grey said. But Sammy he couldn’t hear a word.

  “That ain’t right. It ain’t Grey, and you know it.” He walked off shrugging his shoulders
.

  Broken Arrow, Billy Joe, and I just looked at each other. I’d never looked at Billy Joe up close till that morning. His hair was parted in the middle and his two black braids pulled tight on either side of his face, I realized that he was as scared as I was.

  I walked back to the church and found Felicia still sleeping. I caressed her head gently. She looked like an angel sleeping with the morning light streaming down on her face from the church window. She opened her eyes and smiled like she was both surprised and happy to see me.

  That morning, we held a meeting in the church. No one was really in charge, we all were. We pulled our heads together only I stayed silent and watched it all spin around me. By the time everyone had woken up and gathered in the church, I saw that there were many of us there that morning. Some people had gotten word of our gathering and had come during the night. There must have been almost two hundred people piled up in that church that morning.

  Everyone took turns talking about what was on his or her mind. Some people were getting ready to leave to get their things from home. Grey tried to discourage them saying it wasn’t safe but they wouldn’t listen. Others said they’d come back later with some of their things. Later we found out that those who left had all been arrested and held in jail for no reason.

  “I think it’s time to stay on our land and reclain our nation,” Felicia yelled out. Everyone cheered.

  “Reclaim our nation, that’s what I came here to do. What about you?” She yelled like she was trying to reach every last person in this large church. I heard some voices yeahing and uh-huhing. People were on her side. Many people were thinking like her. That time again, I stayed silent and prayed that we would all be all right.

  I kept thinking about the babies that night. I remember wishing real hard that Felicia and I would leave this place and move to a small house on the plains and raise our children quietly. This is what I wanted. As the others kept on talking about getting the revolution on the way, I thought about the games I’d play with my little boys. Little boys is what I wanted and nothing else mattered. But Grey Stone he had other things in mind for us.