Category: story teller

It was cold on December 29 in the year 1890. And when one thinks about the year, it was only 134 years ago. Not that long ago when you consider that a woman in England, a few years ago, celebrated her 109th birthday. My grandfather was 98 when he died, and that was in 1968; this means he was born in 1866 and was a young man of 24 when the Massacre at Wounded Knee took place. My grandfather was Cherokee, and my mother was at least part Cherokee from her father; her mother was not known to me; both were born in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee.

We are, in many ways, a young country. At least, we are young in terms of the arrival of the Pilgrims and the desecration of an ancient land and its original people. The people who had farmed and hunted the land for centuries before the settlers. People that revered nature and the animals that served their needs. They took only what they needed and would have never polluted the skies or dirtied the waters.

On that cold December day in 1890, 500 troops of the U.S. 7th cavalry, supported by Hotchkiss guns—lightweight, made for travel—allowed the Calvary to surround the encampment of the Miniconjou, Sioux (Lakota), and Hunkpapa. The army had orders to transport the Sioux by railroad to Omaha, Nebraska. The day before, the Sioux had given up their flight with the troops. They had agreed to turn themselves in peacefully at the Pine Ridge Agency in South Dakota. They were the last of the Sioux to do that.

In the process of disarming the Sioux, a deaf Sioux by the name of Black Coyote could not hear the order to surrender his rifle. This set off a fight that left approximately 300 Lakota women, men, and children dead. About 25 troops were killed; many believed to be the victims of friendly fire in the chaos. About 150 Lakota fled, and the rest were left on the ground to die from hypothermia.

After this battle, the most Medals of Honor, the highest recognition for bravery, were awarded to the Calvaery more than any U.S. soldiers of all wars in the United States—and to think it was all because a deaf Lakota could not hear the order to surrender his rifle.

In witness to how little we learned, 83 years later, on February 27, 1973, the town of Wounded Knee was seized peacefully by followers of the American Indian Movement (AIM). The control of the city lasted for 71 days. There is disagreement about whether the town was cordoned off as AIM claims or if the blockade occurred after the takeover. However, the reason that AIM was there was to oppose Oglala tribal chairman Richard A.” Dick” Wilson. Wounded Knee was chosen for obvious reasons.

By the morning of February 28, the police had set up roadblocks, cordoned off the area, and began arresting people trying to leave the town. The equipment brought by the military included fifteen armored personnel carriers, rifles, grenade launchers, flares, and 133,000 rounds of ammunition. There were paramilitary personnel armed with automatic weapons, snipers, helicopters, and armored personnel carriers equipped with .50 mm caliber machine guns.

One eyewitness, a journalist, chronicled…” sniper fire from federal helicopters,” “bullets dancing around in the dirt, and “sounds of shooting all over town.” Frank Clearwater, a Wounded Knee occupier, was shot in the head while asleep and died on April 25. Lawrence Lamont was shot in the heart and died on April 26. U.S. Marshall Lloyd Grimm was paralyzed from the waist down, again by a gunshot wound. AIM claims that the government tried starving the occupants, and the occupiers smuggled food and medical supplies past roadblocks set up by Dick Wilson.

Now, here comes what may be a surprise to the reader: I was an eyewitness to at least a part of the occupation and can certify that the military presence, the roadblocks, and the attempt to starve not just men but women and children as well were real.

On a moonless March night, I took a back road with a jeep loaded with peanut butter and bread. Actually, it wasn’t a road, just an expanse of Prairie, mile after mile of open areas, and somewhere, I had been told there was a well-worn buffalo trail that was difficult to see in the dark; obviously, headlights were not going to happen, never before or since have I wished as much to see a tree or a rock or at least a small hill or dried-up lake bed, anything to remember. I went into the town in and out. I returned while my heart was still pounding and counted 27 bullet holes in my jeep. There was some blood running down one arm and some cuts and blood coming through my jacket, but there was no way at that point to examine myself. I was not about to remove any clothing to determine if they had missed me entirely or not. I figured there was no real pain, and I was vertical, so it was not a problem. Maybe it was Jeep fragments or rocks thrown up from the ground.

I had dropped off my supplies and left the way I came in. When I read about bullets dancing around in the dark and the dirt, I smiled because some bullets were dancing behind, around, and in front of me. You will never see my name associated with this movement. I am sure that none of the occupants of that small town of Pine Ridge, South Dakota, knew my name. That was how I wanted it, and I wanted out as quickly as possible. I do not want to prove any of this; I was also not the only one; a good friend who no longer walks this earth made the same trip on a different day. Most of it can be proven by history. However, I will tell you that I often smile to think that some child ate and lived because of a peanut butter sandwich instead of a gun.

Coda: I have shrapnel lodged in my back. And a few other scares from that night. A few years ago, I was having an MRI on my spinal stenosis, and the technician saw the metal and asked through the intercom if I had ever been shot. I said yeah, maybe, Wounded Knee, he said no, I mean in your back. I didn’t bother explaining.

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