Comings and Goings

By Vanessa D. Overbeck

    In 1988 I spent seven months in the most dangerous place in America. I was just 8 years old.
    “Something has happened at your Uncle’s place,” my father said. Lying on the floor, head in my hands watching afternoon cartoons on my first day of summer break, I barely glanced up at him in response, but that was long enough to see that he had his stern Indian face on. I reluctantly switched to a more attentive posture.
    “Something bad and your cousin Jonathon must come away before something worse happens.”
    Jonathon? I remembered the tall, brooding boy much older than me who only smiled when others were not around. I remembered my father described him as playing the silent Indian too much. Still not seeing what this had to do with me my eyes flicked back to the antics of Tom and Jerry.
    “Vanessa Dawn, this is serious. I need you to do something for the Family.”
    Oh, no. We only invoked the FAMILY when death or disaster struck. I froze in my crossed-legged position and waited for the bomb to drop. My father picked me up off the floor and I marveled, as I always did, at how easily he swept my little self up so high. He sat me on his lap and wrapped his arms around me. Skin to skin we looked like coffee and cream and I wondered again if mixed together if we would taste like comfort on a cold day.
    “Your cousin has gotten into some trouble and Uncle Red Cloud asked if Jonathon could come here to get away for awhile. He offered to have you and your sister stay for the summer in exchange and go to the school’s summer Lakota culture camp with your cousins.”
    I knew there was no way my mother was going to let my baby sister go anywhere without her, so this was really about me going to the reservation to protect my uncle’s pride. This transaction had to look like a fair trade and not a request for charity. Seeing my skeptical look my father smiled.
    “You know your sister doesn’t do change well, she has too much of the Indian in her,” he laughed tweaking my freckled nose, “but I know you’ll see this as an adventure. And who knows, maybe being around all your cousins for awhile some of that Indian may rub off on you.”
    I looked down at my lightly tanned legs and hoped.

    So there I was, not 15 years after the Wounded Knee Incident, on my way to the Pine Ridge Reservation which boasted the highest murder per capita rate any where in the nation. My Great Uncle Red Cloud, the patriarch of the South Dakota branch of the Overbeck family met me at the airport in Rapid City with my cousin Jonathon in tow.
    I was excited to see him despite the fact that he was the reason I had to leave my lazy summer vacation plans behind in California. I remembered how much he’d babied me when last we visited the family ranch. He had carried me high on his shoulders everywhere we went. I hardly walked a step. And when it was just us he never seemed to stop singing and laughing. But when we returned from one of our adventures his eyes would become dark and cold and he seemed to retreat away from the world. I remember being confused when my aunt complained that her little songbird never laughed or sang anymore. He always sang with me. He told her that at 17 he was too old to play the entertaining Indian. But when no one was around I could always convince him to tell me a story. He never seemed to run out of tales about the crafty but foolish Iktomi and I loved the way the Lakota words rolled off his tongue, sounding both familiar and foreign. He called me his little porcelain doll and I loved it. It was a nice change from being expected to be the son my father would never have.
    When I saw him walking a few steps behind the ramrod-straight bearing of my ancient uncle I rushed away from the stewardess loosely holding my hand at the boarding gate. My uncle’s big smile cracked his wizened, wrinkled face and he bent down to scoop me up, but it wasn’t to him that I was running. I started to brush past him headed to the Jonathon I remembered when I saw his heavily bandaged arm hanging limply in a sling. I slowed, catching a glimpse of his face under the hood of his sweatshirt I stopped and retreated behind my uncle. This was not the Jonathon I remembered.
    His right eye was completely swollen shut and angry, dark, purple bruises covered his entire face. His lips were split and puffy and I knew that it would be a long time before music would come from his mouth again. He had six staples along his hairline and it was then I noticed that all his beautiful black hair was gone. I started crying. I couldn’t help myself. My uncle picked me up and I burrowed into his jacket, breathing deep the comforting smell of tobacco, sage and naturally cured leather.
    “Grab your bags Jon and let’s go get your cousin’s things. It’s time to get you out of here.”
       
    After we put Jonathon on the plane we climbed into my uncle’s infamous ancient white truck. It was the only thing on the ranch that looked older than my great uncle who had served as a tribal leader for more than 35 years and as an AIM activist for nearly 20 years. The front fender of the 1950 Ford had more dents than smooth silver curves and it was tied to the car with a tattered piece of heavy rawhide. There were so many layers of dirt and grime covering the grill I couldn’t tell where the layers of earth ended and the chrome began. Patches of rust spread out like Rorschach blotches all over the body of the truck and one headlight was completely smashed. I looked at my uncle quizzically and noticed his glasses had gotten thicker since I’d seen him last, too.
    “Still a doubter I see Chikala Apawi,” my uncle said, using the pet name the Family had given me — a term of endearment for Dawn, meaning Little Sun. “Don’t worry this truck has plenty of miles to go before its last rest. We’ll get you home.”
    I reluctantly climbed in. What I really wanted to do was run back to the airport to the last phone I would see for weeks and call my father and tell him I didn’t want to be a brave little Indian, that I wanted to go back to the home I knew. But I didn’t. I thought of the emptiness I’d seen in my battered cousin’s eyes and I thought of those staples holding his head together and I climbed into the truck.
    The truck sputtered and complained to itself as we began the 120-mile drive to the ranch, located some distance north of Martin. I tried to not let my uncle see me crying and to protect my pride he let the silence drag. After awhile, captivated by the rolling plains my tears stopped. Even browned by the summer sun the plains were as beautiful as I remembered. The land seemed to stretch away forever until earth and cloud met. I said as much to my uncle.
    “Actually all of this land was lost to us long ago. Our home used to stretch from sunrise to sunset, but now we hold such a small part.”
    We turned off highway 90 (the only highway running east to west through South Dakota) and headed south down a deeply rutted dirt road towards the heart of southern South Dakota. Over the next hour my uncle pointed out the tracts of land that belonged to local ranchers and farmers versus the land held in trust by tribal members like him. He said the ranch was actually recovered land he had bought up piece by piece over the years and would be ranched by the Family as long as they were interested in doing so. Then it would be returned to the Sioux nation. I remembering telling him I didn’t understand how something so big could ever be lost. He said he didn’t understand it either.
    “I have a map in the glove box I’ve kept up to date over the years that shows Shannon, Todd and Bennett counties. That’s where Pine Ridge, Rosebud and the ranch are. Pull it out and see for yourself.”
    It was a ragtag thing and an ample use of scotch tape was barely holding it together. I was careful to open it slowly so as not to tear the yellowed pages. To the east and west red pencil clearly delineated the borders of the Pine Ridge and Rosebud reservations, then something happens in between them. In Bennett County, where the ranch lay, the map was covered with dark red splotches, signifying lands held in tribal trusts. Dozens of oddly shaped red splotches dotted northern Bennett County. They lied everywhere and anywhere with no rhyme or reason. Some of the lines on the map had been drawn, erased and redrawn many times over so that the eraser marks were embedded in the paper. That made it difficult to tell whether the red spots were connected to others, or if they stood alone, surrounded by tracts of land owned by white farmers and ranchers or the U.S. government. My uncle’s ranch was one of those.
    “You will need to stay on the ranch. People have been restless around here. It happens when the wind takes a holiday. People complain of it blowing them around all the time, but when it’s gone they’re irritated by its absence. Just keep your cousins in sight and do as they tell you,” my uncle said as we turned onto the long drive leading past the schoolhouse to the ranch house about another ½ mile down.
    I remembered feeling confused and scared. How was I suppose to tell what was and wasn’t the ranch? Maps are supposed to be so clear and concise with their neat boxes and straight lines, but holding one I felt nothing but uncertainty.
    We pulled up to the schoolhouse and I was greeted by the sound of children loudly singing, “You put your whole self in, you put your whole self out, you put your whole self in and you shake it all about …” then some of the younger children broke off laughing as they came running to the truck having seen my ancient uncle who always brought them sweets after a trip into town. They swarmed him greedily while my older cousins Michael Hot Feet, 14, and Jacob Chayton, 16 sauntered over more slowly. I hung back shyly by the truck. I wasn’t sure how they would remember me.
    “Hey pale face, so you came back,” Michael joked pinching my cheek.
    “So is our little California Sioux happy to be back in the homeland,” Jacob said shooting a challenging look at my uncle who shot a warning look back. I tried to ignore the tension even an 8-year-old could feel and I told him I was glad he remembered me.
    “We’re happy you’re here cousin,” Jacob said giving me a reassuring hug. “And since I’ve been charged with your protection and entertainment we’re going to do all the fishing and swimming you can stand.” I smiled. I did so love my cousins.

    The next day my cousin was true to his word. As it was Sunday, after morning chores the children on the ranch had a free day so we headed to the creek that meandered its way through Buffalo Ranch, home of a large tribal band of Oglala and Sicangu Sioux that tend one of the largest privately owned herds of bison in the country. My cousins Jacob and Hot Feet, and his friends, the twins Samuel Little Elk, 14, and Aaron Storm Cloud, came with us. We lugged our poles and picnic lunch, burgeoning with treats carefully packed by my Great Aunt Kat, down to a place Jacob said the creek widened and formed a deep pool where we could fish and swim. It was a walk of several miles and by the time we got there I was out of breath and my little legs were aching with trying to keep up with the loping strides of my tall cousins and their friends.
    They quickly stripped off their shirts and shoes and ran into the water. I marveled at their dark skin and embarrassed by my whiteness I just took off my socks and shoes and stuck my feet in the water. I didn’t want them to laugh at the white daughter of their proud Lakota uncle. But with the hot summer sun beating down my hesitation only lasted a few minutes. I stripped down to my swimsuit as surreptitiously as I could and slipped into the water while they were busy dunking each other. But teenagers miss nothing and my embarrassment did not go unnoticed.
    “Don’t worry cousin. After a summer in the South Dakota sun you’ll look just like us,” Hot Feet said laughing at my discomfort.
    “And why would she want that Hot Feet,” Jacob said. “As it is she can go to school, maybe even college, get a job and have a life that doesn’t have anything to do with mending fence posts or shoveling shit and she doesn’t have to join the military to get it. This gets to be a summer adventure on a ranch at Lakota camp for her.”
    My cousin’s words stung me deeply. They hung in the air above us, pressing down with a muggy heaviness that left me struggling to breath. I was hot and dizzy with embarrassment and for a moment no one moved. Then Jacob’s scowl cracked and his embarrassment matched mine.
    “Cate Sice, Chikala Apawi,” Jacob said switching to formal Lakota to apologize. Shoulders slumped and head hung low Jacob got out of the water and sat on the rocky shore looking away from us over the rolling plains towards the life he wanted.
    Hot Feet put his arm around me and pulled me towards the now splashing twins who had more quickly shrugged off Jacob’s gloom. Hot Feet whispered in my ear that Jacob wanted to go to school at St. Francis on Rosebud so he could get his GED and enlist in the marines. That morning Uncle Red Cloud had given Jacob the Family’s decision. He said that with the brucellosis scare reducing the market for buffalo meat there was no money to board him and pay for another man to work in his place. And tensions with the surrounding white cattle ranchers were running too high to consent to regular travel between the ranch and the nearest city with a high school, Martin, which sat 45 miles away.
    Despite the bright sun the rest of the day’s pleasantries were dampened by Jacob’s disappointment. He tried to snap out of it, sitting close to me and telling me the story of the time Iktomi tried to catch a fish. I wiggled excitedly hoping a great grandfather fish would grab my line too and drag me down to the bottom of the pond and show me what life as a water creature was like. Instead Jacob swooped me up and jumped into the water pulling me down till we touched the cold rocky bottom and then we shot up towards the hot summer sun. As we broke through the surface together I didn’t feel like a blonde, green-eyed girl who slept under city lights and knew neighborhoods and schoolyards and movie houses and shopping malls. I felt like Jacob’s family — sad to see him hurting, sad to see him longing for something I couldn’t give him.

    When the picnic basket had been empty for some time and my teenage companion’s stomachs had begun to rumble we packed up our things and began the long hike back to Aunt Kat’s cooking. Now in a hurry my cousins took turns carrying me on their shoulders as they raced back to the ranch house down the narrow hunting path that led through the tall grasses. We had just crested the top of a slight rise when Jacob suddenly stopped and started scanning the horizon.
    “Do you smell that?” Jacob asked turning to Hot Feet.
    “Buffalo,” Little Elk and Storm Cloud said together as they dropped down to hide in the high grass.
    I caught a glimpse of several dark brown masses off in the distance as Jacob dropped me down off his shoulders. He pulled me down alongside the others and we peered through the grass at the shaggy shapes moving steadily towards the trail that led to the watering hole.
    “We’re down wind so we’ll just have to take the long way around them,” Jacob said as he turned west away from the trail, pulling Hot Feet and I along with him.
    As we moved away I kept my eyes on the behemoths that used to rule the plains. At one point the small group of buffalo passed within just 30 yards of us and I was enthralled by their lumbering power. It was then Jacob noticed that Little Elk and Storm Cloud were not with us. They had dropped back and were lying on their bellies in the tall grass just off the side of the trail. The buffalo would pass them by mere inches, which was exactly what the quietly snickering twins seemed to intend. Frozen in horror we watched as the buffalo moved past the twins seemingly unaware of their presence. Just as the last of the great beasts passed by Storm Cloud slowly stood and reached out to touch her. Then there was a flurry of dust and movement, screaming and pounding of hooves as the buffalo raced away towards the creek.
    Too frightened to move I huddled where I was with Hot Feet as Jacob ran to Little Elk who was bent over his writhing brother. Jacob kneeled over Storm Cloud for a moment then turned to Hot Feet and yelled, “Run.” Hot Feet who had earned his name for the speed his feet gave him dropped my hand and took off for the ranch house lying less than a mile away. Jacob took off his shirt and pressed it to Storm Cloud’s right side where the horn of the buffalo had grazed him before bolting away. Red quickly soaked through Jacob’s shirt, so Little Elk and I gave him ours. There was so much red. It spilled onto the dirt, caked the grass and covered Jacob’s hands. By the time Hot Feet returned with help the bleeding had slowed but Storm Cloud’s face was the color of ash. My uncles William and Thunder Spirit quickly lifted him into the back of my Great Uncle’s truck.
    “Take Little Elk and Dawn back to the house,” Uncle Red Cloud instructed Jacob sternly, disappointment already coloring his words. “We’re going to take Storm Cloud to the emergency clinic on Pine Ridge.”
    Little Elk fought to get into the truck with his brother, but Jacob roughly pushed him back. “They’ll have to go through Marshall’s property to get to the clinic. It’s the fastest way. You know what happened to Jonathon the last time they caught us on their land,” Jacob said holding Little Elk tightly. It was then I noticed the gun  in the cab with Uncle Red Cloud and the loaded shotguns in the truck bed. Little Elk looked scared before but now he too was gray with fear and I began to cry. 

    It was a full day before my great uncle returned with word about Storm Cloud. They had traveled through neighboring rancher Scott Marshall’s land unmolested. Storm Cloud had needed 17 stitches to close the wound and nearly 3 pints of blood, but he was stabilized and on his way to the regional hospital in Rapid City. My Great Aunt Kat nearly fainted with relief. After making his report my uncle pulled Jacob aside. When my cousin returned he was red with anger and his fists were balled up tightly at his sides. Later Jacob told me that Uncle said he was disappointed in him as he was responsible for us when Storm Cloud was hurt.
    Jacob spent the rest of the week in a sullen and angry mood. He went about his work with a military efficiency that I admired given my awkward and bumbling attempts at assistance. By the end of my first week on the ranch I had begun to figure out how to be of some use and my comical mishaps with mucking stalls, feeding chickens and milking cows had created enough cracks in Jacob’s cool reserve that he became himself again.
    After the incident at the watering hole Jacob had kept me pretty close to the ranch house, but that Sunday he was charged with driving me to Martin so that he could pick up a handful of supplies and so that I could use the phone at the market to check in with my family. When Aunt Kat recommended the excursion I could tell she thought she had delayed me from telling my father all about my exciting first day as long as she could.
    It was assumed Hot Feet, ever his older cousin’s shadow, would tag along but Little Elk joined us as well, also hoping to use the only phone for 60 miles to reach out to his brother. The two had never been apart and the weeklong separation had made him listless and distracted, which only further angered my uncle who had been hard on him, as well. Little Elk and Storm Cloud’s foolishness had not gone unnoticed.
    As my uncle handed over the truck keys to Jacob he hesitated, giving him a stern look. The wrinkled crevices around his eyes deepened and his mouth tightened into a paper-thin line before he reluctantly dropped the keys into Jacob’s waiting hand. My 16-year-old cousin was nearly wriggling with excitement. A brief smile cracked my ancient uncle’s stern expression as Jacob happily ushered us into the truck, quick to get away before my uncle changed his mind. The truck sputtered to life and off we went to run a few simple errands that for me would become a defining moment in my life.

      The trip into town was uneventful. We passed the hour-long drive telling stories, but this time it was my turn. Jacob and Hot Feet asked me about the movies I’d seen, the school I went to on the Chumash Reservation where I lived, what the ocean smelled like and how often I got to go to a mall. At first I was reluctant and embarrassed, but they were relentless, thirsty as they were for contact with a world not made of earth and sky and wind.
    Before I knew it the dirt road had ended and we turned down a narrow paved two-lane street that marked the edge of Martin. Jacob turned in to the Martin Market less than a ¼ mile down the street and I grabbed Aunt Kay’s grocery list from the glove box. The market was housed in a small converted barn and from the outside looked like any rural market with produce filling wooden bins lining the covered porch. The middle-aged woman at the counter near the door immediately lifted her eyes to a man sweeping at the back of the small store as we entered. He came up to the counter and stood beside her as we filed down the short aisles looking for the things on Aunt Kat’s list. The couple’s eyes were cold and hard and they bore down on us mercilessly. Jacob, Hot Feet and Storm Cloud grew quiet and I could feel their tension rising as they moved quickly to grab what we needed.
    We laid the dozen or so items Aunt Kat had requested on the counter and the couple glared at the three boys.
    “We also need 10 pounds of flour,” Jacob said and I was surprised his voice didn’t shake under the weight of their leaden gaze.
    They didn’t move. They didn’t say anything. They simply stood there and looked at Jacob with disdain. Hot Feet and Storm Cloud shifted uncomfortably. Jacob turned and quietly whispered to them to go back to the truck. Then he bent down and put the money Aunt Kat had given him for the groceries in my hand and asked me to make sure I got the flour. Then with all the pride he could muster he turned and walked out the door, leaving me standing there at the counter.
    Shaking and unsure of what exactly was going on I stood there staring at the glaring couple. They seemed to tower over me, and their red-hot anger made me shake with fear. I remember how desperate I was to get out of that frightening and confusing place, so desperate that somehow I managed to shakily ask for the 10 pounds of flour. She slowly grabbed a bag and scooped the flour into it all the while looking at me with a puzzled expression on her face. She loaded the rest of the groceries into another bag took the money I handed her and gave me the change all with that pained questioning look on her face. I grabbed the bags anxious to leave, but as I turned to go she grabbed my arm and asked, “What are you doing with those people?”
    Shocked and scared I stared at her trying to make sense of her words. Then it dawned on me that she didn’t see me as the little Lakota girl that I saw inside myself. She couldn’t see that proud Sicangu girl I wanted to be. All she saw was the white skin that matched the hand painfully gripping my arm.
    I pulled away and replied, “Those are my people.”
    The ride home was again quiet and strained. My proud Lakota cousins were fuming and they sat on either side of me in an uncomfortable silence. It was then I realized that I was something different from them. Something not completely of the world where sky touched earth but also not totally of the world of city lights and malls and movie theaters. I lived somewhere in the middle and flowed between the two separate spaces. I snuggled up next to my cousins, content to be between them, but also happy that for me there was another world to which I could return.