Photo: Paul Wedlake. Graphic Image: De La Vaca

Connor Ryan – the Natives Outdoors wunderkind who’s been making waves across media channels and in the sports world – spoke with Yellow Scene Magazine the same week his new film was premiering in Vancouver. It’s the same week that Natives Outdoors were announcing the winners of their new scholarship to help get Natives, well, outdoors.

Let’s start with the history. He was “born and raised in Boulder,” he tells me. “My grandfather was born on Standing Rock reservation. He was taken by the boarding schools so they, you know, stole him from his family, as a kid. He was sent to an orphanage… served in the Navy, and was a prisoner of war in World War II.” I’m already in pain from the story. As a Native man, myself, I’ve been tracking the boarding school genocide, the horrors of babies and small children stolen – as his grandfather was – and the thousands of bodies found on boarding school grounds this last year.

I recently watched his debuted film, Spirit of the Peaks. In one poignant scene, he says, “If you’re going to be in the present and the future [of the mountain and the land], the only good way to know how to do that is by looking back.” He was talking about knowing how to exist as participants and givers on the land, instead of as takers, but I couldn’t help see the connection to a later scene where a friend sings a Native song on the mountaintop, in full ski gear, and Connor points out that, “someone just like you has stood right there and sang their song. That’s what matters. It doesn’t matter whether they’re wearing buckskin or Gore Tex. That’s what counts; it’s the souls of the people. That’s the victory.” Knowing his family history is part of that victory.

The victory is real. The story of a boarding school baby surviving, a family line surviving, and Connor being one of the first major Native American skiers, fighting to make way for native folks to live beyond the image of Natives as invisible people, who must uniformly embody tradition to be real Natives. We are real, and exist here, in all spaces, regardless of who wants us where or where we’re expected.

Photo: Paul Wedlake

Connor reminds us instead that Natives are diverse, distinct, evolving, and able to embrace the mountains and the outdoors in all ways. “Whatever Natives do on native lands, that’s what Natives do,” he says.

Connor’s mom was raised in Los Angeles, but found her way to Boulder, this beautiful, idyllic base of the mountains town on the edge of “our traditional homelands as Lakota people,” he tells me.

“It’s an interesting place to be Native,” he said, the irony of the fact that it’s his traditional, historic homeland heavy in the spaces between words. “Usually I’m the only Native in each grade, growing up… You get a lot of weird, kinda like, the racism that comes from ignorance, where you tell people you’re Native and they’re like, ‘no, you’re not, you don’t wear feathers on top of your head.’”

Raised without the cultural reference and “traditional” upbringing – never Native enough, never American enough – he learned skiing as a young boy, but it was cost-prohibitive. In his 20’s he felt the call to go back, and he returned to find the spirit of the land, of his ancestors, waiting.

A trip to the Black Hills, with other Lakota folks he met locally, was the first time he really connected with his cultural practices. “They pulled me into ceremony,” he recalls. “Same time I got back into skiing was the same time I went to sweat lodge and started learning my ceremonies, and language, and culture.”

In his 20’s he felt the call to go back, and he returned to find the spirit of the land, of his ancestors, waiting.

While going to fill water in a bucket for the sweat lodge, he realized the connection of his ceremony to the creek, to the water melting from the mountains and flowing down, connecting him to his culture and to the animals and birds that live there. That was at the base of Eldora. “This way that I was falling in love with nature through skiing, it was really about these principles and ideas and themes from my culture. And for me, as a Native person who grew up… removed from the land, it was skiing that gave me the opportunity for the first time to go, ‘oh, this is where I belong. And I had a passion. I couldn’t avoid making that cultural connection. It was also around when I founded Natives Outdoors.”

Natives Outdoors began as people connecting online, and became a Native social media company. They’ve expanded their work. His work with them brought his passion, his culture, and his hope for Native people full circle. The Natives Outdoors scholarship is the outcome. “I feel like I’m so lucky right now…and I just want more native folks to be able to experience that.”

The scholarship is for five children and five adults. It’s sponsored by Ikon Pass, Salomon, Smith Optics, and Patagonia. The goal is to help other Natives who haven’t had the chance, or the resources, to get out there where they belong, to connect and experience what he has, to reclaim Native space on sacred mountains.”

“After all we’ve experienced,” he says in a defining moment in his film, “Indigenous joy – on the land – is radical.”

The post Connor Ryan: Indigenous Joy – on the Land – is Radical | The ACTIONISTS Series appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

More than 1,300* unmarked graves have been discovered in Canada in just the last several weeks. These were Indigenous children,. These graves were on the grounds of church-run schools in Saskatchewan and British Columbia — schools that operated for decades as part of a cultural genocide perpetrated on Indigenous people across this continent.

In the United States, the forced removal of these children from their tribes and families was codified with the Civilization Fund Act of 1819. The act was a partnership between Christian missions — both Catholic and Protestant — and the U.S. government that provided funding for education in order to drive the “civilization process” of Indigenous people. Canada mirrored the U.S. system with the passage of their Indian Act in 1876.

The most generous way to look at any of this is through the lens of compulsory cultural assimilation. But even that belies the actual horrors that were clearly committed in the halls of these schools — horrors that haunt us with over 1,300 bodies discovered almost as soon as ground-penetrating radar was acquired and used.

I have no doubt that we are seeing the very tip of an unfathomable iceberg where this story is concerned. It has all the elements we’ve come to be familiar with in terms of Church-led carnage, up-to and including the stench of cover up.

“In 1960, there may have been marks on these graves,” said Chief Cadmus Delorme of the Cowessess First Nation in Saskatchewan in an interview with Al Jazeera on June 24. “The Catholic Church representatives removed these headstones and today they are unmarked graves.”

Make no mistake, this absolutely will happen here in the U.S. as well. Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland announced the launch of the Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative on a call with the National Congress of American Indians at the end of June.

According to the New York Times, “The new program… will identify the facilities and sites where there may have been student burials, as well as the tribal affiliations of the children… It will also mine records from 1819 to 1969 that were kept by the department, which had oversight of the facilities, working with tribal nations, Alaska Native corporations and Native Hawaiian organizations. A final report will be sent to Ms. Haaland by April 1 (2022).”

Indeed, there are undoubtedly people still alive today who participated in the abuse, torture, murder and cover-ups that occurred in these “schools” — with the shield of the Vatican, other churches and U.S. officials keeping them from accountability. Justice for those perpetrators will be an uphill, arduous battle. And it’s incumbent upon us to deliver it. And I have next to zero faith that this nation will.

Accountability seems to be antithetical to what it means to be an American lately. We are literally fighting an ongoing cultural war internally on this very topic, thanks to the leadership of White Rage demanding an abridged and highly edited version of history taught in our schools that erases the stains of blood, slavery, oppression and genocide from our past. Because there can be no plight of cognitive dissonance if there’s no recognition of what happened at all.

And all this will be just another chapter torn from the margins of our history books and used for kindling. 

#YouAreOnNativeLand

*At the time of writing. Current numbers are nearing 5,300.

The post You Are On Native Land | Duly Noted appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Woven Wisdom vests at Umba. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

It’s a fact that before colonization, the Apache nation, the Arapaho nation, the Cheyenne nation, the Pueblo tribes, the Shoshone tribe, the Ute nation, the Comanche tribe, the Kiowa tribe, and the Navajo tribe inhabited the land that’s now called Colorado.

Yet, while doing research for this article, it was difficult to find many stores that sold Indigenous-owned fashion in Boulder.

When I asked, store owners pointed to traditional Native decor like feathers but told me they weren’t produced by Indigenous people. Therein lies the problem. Many people can admire the art and style of Indigenous cultures, but it doesn’t matter to them if the product is made cheaply from someone who is not indigenous or the branding is misleading.

At the same time, many Indigenous people make a living off of selling their art and merchandise. With the privilege of admiring and buying Indigenous-inspired clothes comes the responsibility to research where those products are coming from and if they actually benefit indigenous people. To this end, we’ve found a handful of Boulder stores that honor Indigenous people by selling their products.  While we’d love to see more – or any – native-owned clothing and apparel companies in the area, we’re in love with buying local and supporting indigenous communities around the world.

“It’s totally cool to honor the styles, but you know you don’t want to be borrowing from another culture without actually honoring the people making it.”

Zuni

This family-owned shop opened in 1992 and partners with artisans of the Navajo Nation, the Zuni Pueblo, and the Hopi Tribe. Members of the Indian Arts and Crafts Association, they only sell authentic items from indigenous communities.

Native jewelry at Zuni. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

Woven Wisdom piece found on the clearance rack. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

Umba

Umba is a family-run business with a mission to celebrate sustainable living solutions. Umba began its business by selling wearable art at music festivals and transitioned to a store. Their profits support their organic farm in Oregon.

Umba carries boots, jewelry, vests, and shirts from Woven Wisdom, a non-profit, conscious collaboration with Indigenous Mayan artisans from Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. Their jewelry line uses the traditional beading technique of the Tz’utujil Mayans. Their non-profit funds education, social entrepreneurship, and health and nutrition efforts in Lake Atitlan.

Umba carries indigenous-made, beaded jewelry. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

Woven Wisdom boots sold at Umba. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

El Loro

Opened in 1977, El Loro is a Boulder mainstay that was founded before Pearl Street Mall was conceived. The couple who started the store wanted to share treasures from their travels with the Boulder community. The store currently sells authentic jewelry from Indigenous communities with merchandise clearly labelled with the community’s name and sometimes the artist’s name.

“We’ve been buying from the same groups for the last 20 to 30 years, and that includes the Native American work,” said manager Angel Brick. “If you’re going to sell Native American work, you definitely want the census number for artifacts. That’s a pretty huge thing to have. If you look at our pieces, they do have that. Anything you have that’s the artist’s name, the area where they’re from, the specific styles that they’re working in is a huge thing with Native work. It’s totally cool to honor the styles, but you know you don’t want to be borrowing from another culture without actually honoring the people making it.”

It’s worth noting that El Loro has some pieces that are in Indigenous styles but are not produced by Indigenous people. An example is their selection of shoes by Minnetonka, a non-Native owned company. Their branding and the fact that they sell moccasins can be misleading to some, and in 2020 the company committed to work more closely with and donate some proceeds to Native communities.

“We can definitely tell you what’s Native and what’s not,” Brick said. “If something isn’t marked as Native, we won’t claim that it is.”

El Loro labels all Indigenous-produced items. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

Art Mart Gifts

Art Mart is a woman-owned and operated art, jewelry, and gifts store opened in 1989. They sell collections of jewelry made by indigenous artists. The Indigenous-made jewelry comes from Peyote Bird designs in New Mexico, Al Zuni Global Jewelry, and Navajo Shiprock Santa Fe.

Art Mart’s Indigenous jewelry selection. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

Fair Trade Winds

Fair Trade Winds sells fair trade merchandise from all over the world. They work mindfully with sustainable and ethical businesses that don’t benefit from exploitation of people or the planet. Their bamboo infinity scarves are hand woven by women in an Indigenous cooperative in Guatemala. Currently the scarves are the only item in the store made by Indigenous people.

Additional items made by Indigenous businesses can be purchased on their online store. The kids knit animal hats, and adult mittens are knitted by indigenous women in Peru and Bolivia. The staff was friendly and knowledgeable on what in-store merchandise was made by indigenous people. New merchandise is always being rotated into the Boulder store.

Fair Trade Winds’ infinity scarves. Photo by Zoe Jennings.

The post Shopping Native On Native Land: 5 Stores In Boulder That Sell Indigenous-made Fashion appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I can’t properly explain to you what it is to be at Standing Rock; not as an activist or as an Indigenous man. While I’ve written recently on the need for you and your privilege to be there, it wasn’t until my loveliest, Evita, remarked that I could talk about my sense response to being there, rather than try to find a millionth angle, which has probably already been covered.

I went to Cannonball, North Dakota, for almost a week through the Thanksgiving holiday, and the plain truth is this: Standing Rock overwhelmed me. I have never in my life been involved in any Native protest spaces, in spite of my long history of involvement in activism. I mentioned to a friend while there that I had never participated in anything like this, that I was feeling overwhelmed by the energy of it all, by the impact of Standing Rock on my own life, on my own genocided blood lines, on Native culture…and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I simply experienced it.

The sounds of the camp were glorious: a constant stream of war cries and songs, drums beating in rhythm with my heart, horses galloping across vast fields with young natives clinging to manes. I came to know the voices that echoed in the morning, calling us to action, warning of raids. I came to know the voice of the announcers at the Sacred Fire, joking about DAPLonia and the camp baby boom, announcing rides, calling out the names of the dancers, singers, and drum groups.

I smelt of smoke and charcoal when I arrived home, my room filled with the remnant scent of burnt cedar, sage, and earth. I remember breathing in the dust after the riders passed, the freezing cold air stinging at my nostrils as I rushed from rest to action, my lungs working to adapt to the climate; the smell of cold storage when we dropped off supplies at the kitchens, the coffee we brewed non-stop, the scent of hope in the exhalations of those we embraced.

The taste of the coffee grinds that overflowed our camping pot remains, like the taste of stew and posole. I tasted the chicken and corn, the tobacco passed to me asan offering. I tasted of a vision of a future I truly believe in, of camaraderie and justice and hope, of an earth loved and loving.

I felt the cold. I felt it deep such that sleep for the first two days eluded me, till I was given a -20 sleeping bag and dreamed so deeply that visions came. I felt hands as old and rugged as the earth herself, and deep hugs. I felt the whip of the winds like the whip of the horse, and I felt pride in my people and our allies. I felt at home, empowered, loved, and, simultaneously, terrified for the future…

…Because I saw hate, atop hills wrapped in razor wire, gripping shotguns and sniper rifles, pepper spray and batons, with flood lights drenching every inch of our time there with suspicion and violent aims. I saw police wrapped head to toe in oily blue and black, their faces shielded from view, their armored vehicles and prison transports always there to tempt our fears.

And yet none of that frightened us. I saw the most serious and powerful acts of individual human strength, of group solidarity, of passion in defense of right. I watched as young people rode a handmade bridge hoisted above our heads and rode it out into the water, surfing it to the far side, to temporarily claim back land currently held ransom by oil company billions and pliant police state agents. I saw the horses stomp into the earth carrying warrior women and watched as ancient-faced elders danced and sang songs older than time.

I once mockingly wrote of the Malheur Refuge standoff and the subsequent non-charges, void of an experience at Standing Rock. I know now it’s much deeper than one group’s allowance and another’s disallowance. It’s about a genocidal for-profit rampage against the earth and anyone, particularly non-white bodies, who oppose it.

If you can see, see that. It’s not over. Even if cities are divesting from banks over DAPL. Energy Transfer Partners is trying to wait for Trump to oust us and our people still stand.

Come from all Four Directions: Bring your Five Senses. And Stand.

The post Voices from Standing Rock: Reflections – Four Directions, Five Senses appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I’m sitting in an army tent draped in string lights. The propane heater ran out as the barrel furnace became operational. A crew of happy hardworking stove fixers extended the chimney another few feet to stop the smoke from billowing back into the room. One of them cut his hand getting tools from the truck, and his blood froze in the open air. The cold is deeper towards the tent walls, where bottles of water sit frozen, useless. By the stove, it can be unbearable. The Goldilocks zone is somewhere between 18?-36? from the barrel, where liquid melts but doesn’t evaporate. This is congruent with our planet’s distance from the sun. Right now, my hands are on the keyboard over Neptune.

As I write, I’m using my hand warmers to soften pieces of chocolate and keep my cell phone battery from succumbing to the freezing temperatures. A Baefeng FM transceiver periodically crackles on the dedicated medical and media channels, telling me stories that are too numerous to capture. Indoors, my nose is dripping – outside, handsome icicles form. Stopping Dakota Access, staying unified, and surviving the elements have all become ongoing tasks at Standing Rock.

Triage

The picture used to describe “triage” in grade school was a soldier hiding behind a log, shooting at Indians. One Indian was leaping over the log with a tomahawk in hand, while the soldier shot at the Indian on a far hill. The question was posed, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

Our triage today is to keep our bodies and our faith warm ahead of stopping Dakota Access, or, what is also called the “Black Snake.” It is not just a threat to water in the minds of Water Protectors. It is also a spiritual threat. As we descend into winter, our fires must stay lit.

The sacred fire was allowed to die yesterday. In a sense, it was the spiritual core of the camp. It was allowed to go out by the native men who had initially envisioned it. Their higher power instructed them to let it die. When I asked the son of one of the men, he told me the fire would be within us. We scrambled in the media room to find a way to report this. My editor asked me to come back from camp up to Cannonball to help in the effort, but before I left, a native woman spoke to me.

“So what?” said rhetorically. “A fire goes out. What does it mean? Another will be lit. I hope you miss your deadline. And what is your faith, exactly?”

“I’m just reporting the voice of the camp – I have no spiritual agenda here. Are you threatened by me writing about it?”

“I’m not threatened. I didn’t say that. Now you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Well, why do you want me to miss my deadline?”

The interaction faded amicably, but I couldn’t understand her reasoning. Non-native reporters are, perhaps, not the best candidates to speak about spiritual matters. But we needed a simple explanation for the website

Every day in Oceti Sakowin Camp Media we wage an under-slept struggle to maintain the voice of the camp to the outside world via multimedia and copy. We clarify the will of leadership to the Water Protectors of Standing Rock, too. Because the media center is located in a gymnasium, mess hall cum emergency shelter, we also double as stewards of the refugees from the camp who have failed to protect themselves from the elements. Cots line the basketball court. Water is filled there by Jay, the water man. Donations are sorted by Kai and Sunny. The kitchen feeds everyone in the building. We even feed the native seniors when their dedicated food donations do not show up. At night, the painful lives of the reservation come drifting in for coffee, sometimes intoxicated, and stand over us as we hunch over our laptops, examining the novel occupation in their town. We also answer emails – thousands of them.

Regardless, I was concerned about the fire going out. Although it was politically incorrect, I, too, prayed with tobacco and cedar there. We all prayed there to collect ourselves and refocus our minds. Not being native, I try to refrain from appropriating traditions that aren’t mine, lest I suffer some kind of indigenous Jerusalem Syndrome. But it mattered to everyone. It was a fiery incantor, a Wailing Wall, friend and ally.

Before midnight, the youth had lit a new fire – the Unity Fire. During the first prayer around it, a dissenter spoke up. This person was one of the original sacred fire inceptors. They told the people not to put prayers into this fire – it had been put out for a reason – and we would be responsible for the Black Snake going under the river if we continued. Then, a new member of Standing Rock spoke up. His name was Chase Iron Eyes. He diplomatically calmed the youth and appeased the elders. The fire should die out, and another lit in ceremony. The process by which a thing becomes sacred in native communities is beyond this author’s expertise. Suffice it to say, it is not a democratic process. As an ally to the movement, I abide by their ways.

When an eagle flies overhead at Standing Rock, the people look up. They see a sign from the Great Spirit. They believe that the Great Spirit called us to Standing Rock to oppose the Black Snake’s attempt to bite the water of life. Fires are lit and consecrated as sacred. A Sacred Fire is a multidimensional object, existing in this world and as something we carry within us. In this way, we align ourselves to the same piece of land for the same purposes.

Stocks and State Policy

When the veterans arrived over a week back, the gym took on a goodly load of eager soldiers ready to serve the cause. I walked out to the bridge where the police barricades are set up, only to be told by one vet to turn around. On his chest was a “Homeland Security” patch (his day job, so he said). When I asked why, he told me, “For your protection.”

That’s what the police had been telling us from the start…

Camp was ill-prepared to accept the 2000 vets, and as a result, their deployment was not easily integrated or successful. The next day, the Army Corps of Engineers denied the necessary easement for Dakota Access to drill beneath Lake Oahe. This was hailed as our victory, for a few hours; then it faded. Some vets remained, but the rest marched out of town to Flint, Michigan, to demand that their water be fixed. Before they left, many dropped to their knees to formally beg forgiveness from the native community. Within a few days, Congress passed a bill to fix the water pipes in Flint.

That brief victory against Dakota Access was compounded when a federal court in D.C. upheld the easement denial. Their next appeal is in February after Trump takes office. They claim to have lost 450 million, and 20 million each week hereafter. It will be close to a billion dollars in losses, which is close to the annual revenue expected from transporting crude to Illinois from the Bakken via Dakota Access. This, too, is another victory. Although their stock has not yet dropped, some advisers are telling investors to avoid investing in Energy Transfer Partners.

Curiously, the helicopter is still flying, and infiltrators still reside in the camp. Recently, the internet cable in Oceti Sakowin was cut by a saboteur. People’s phones still turn on voice recorders and scroll internet sites, possessed by malware and digital interference. The drill is still putting out smoke in a vertical dive into the earth, and satellite imagery over the site is strangely out-of-date compared with surrounding maps.

I had the privilege of talking with an inside man, so to speak, who had worked in the oil industry all of his life. He was privy to the mindset of the men behind infrastructure projects like Dakota Access. These were not simply savage, greedy men who operated without conscience. In fact, their reasoning reached higher than the concerns of the average citizenry. These men believed – to their core – that they needed oil in ample supply in order to maintain the economy, geopolitical stability and domestic security. The crazy part wasn’t that I agreed with that assessment. Worse, I believed they had moral ground to stand on.

But what does that look like, exactly?

I am the descendant of a systematically slaughtered people. On my father’s side, our family came from Russia and Lithuania. Ninety percent of Lithuanian Jews were murdered by Nazi Germany. One group decided another group had to go, either because they believed it or because it helped them control the greater masses by demonizing minorities. My mother’s side are mutts, but her father was the son of two Jewish orphans from New York City. Our people have been scattered and hunted by the greater culture because our story is different. When I see Standing Rock, in all of her imperfect attempts to unify, it breaks my heart in ways most people might not understand. Because it is undeniably a slower version of a genocidal policy.

People accept Jewish stereotypes because, like most stereotypes, they have a seed of truth. Why are Jews good with money? And why are they so funny? How come when you become friends with a Jew they instantly want to feed you? What’s with the guilt?

The Jews who couldn’t save money died. The Jews who couldn’t laugh at everything died. The Jewish families who didn’t cluster with other Jews in solidarity, to support them in the rough times, died. I have no theories on the guilt thing. Maybe it’s just perversely amusing. Maybe it keeps us together. Maybe it causes us to constantly consult our higher selves for guidance.

We survived. Despite continuing attempts to marginalize and destroy us, we managed to innovate ways to not let ourselves succumb to spiritual defeat, and therefore political defeat. Keeping our spirits alive is one of the hardest and most central tasks at Standing Rock. Destroying the public expression of that spirit is the first step in destroying a people – and a movement.

Burnout

I took a night at the casino down the road to reboot myself. I took a bath and slept in a large bed for the first time in six weeks. After breakfast, I was approached by two friends, non-native allies from the west coast – burner types – who were reaching for higher vibrations than I could afford. We sat over a table of empty food trays and cups whose manufacture alone could have required thousands of gallons of fresh water to produce, and discussed how the movement was inspiring real change the world over. We were learning to listen to one another more. We were part of a global uprising. We had spirituality at our core – we had been called to stand at Standing Rock.

I bitterly laid into them. I was tired of sacred fires within a system of governance that couldn’t govern this many people. I was tired of seeing people attempt to personally gain from the movement. I was tired of feeling resented as a minority class in a cold landscape. I was tired of listening to people. Most of all, I did not want to be reminded that any of this mattered – especially by burners. Fucking Christ. We already had enough snowflakes in North Dakota.

I felt like an asshole. Without a continuing crisis, all of the pain and fear I’d live through was beginning to come up. These friends meant very well indeed, but I couldn’t hear it. As the momentum of the movement waned, I’d become antsy and restless. At camp, the moon waxed, catching a peaceful glow over the night. Even the DAPL lights seemed prettier, holiday-like, as they shot spires of light in the falling snow like iridescent prison bars.

When the Eagle Flies Over

Our infighting has correlated with our anger against DAPL and the greater hegemony trying to destroy the Indian and save the man. Any voices of camaraderie are essential here. Any prayer that leads to authentically kind words is cherished.

Weeks ago, I was on an action west of Mandan at a DAPL supply yard where a white man in a truck drove into a crowd of prayerful Native American women just fast enough to shove them violently to the side. Afterwards, an eagle flew overhead as we stood facing a wall of riot police. Then, the eagle was our strength.

When these terrible doubts level my shrines, I can only look to the feeling that brought me here. We know this kind of energy infrastructure constitutes a suicidal policy. We serve every drop of red blood flowing in humanity with the donations and support heaped on us many times over.

There are hard times ahead for everyone. We must remember to pray to our higher power for guidance, consult our souls, and discourse with one another. We have no room for cynicism in this area of our lives – but plenty of gallows humor.

When the eagle flies overhead, I am exactly where I need to be.

After two days at the casino, I was ready to come back. As I returned to the community center in Cannonball, my cell phone again reset. Some of the bigwigs of camp were in the media center. We were asked if our legal paperwork had been filled out. Apparently, people were now being arrested outside of North Dakota. An unmarked SUV had also been spied down the street with a dash camera and no one inside. What was going on?

Earlier that day, I’d given an interview to a colleague who was creating a small documentary on the media room staff. I felt foolish for expounding on my political beliefs. I tried to rest, but my heart was racing. I felt afraid for speaking candidly about my deepest reasons for being at Standing Rock. I was afraid they would be used against me, or used to categorize me in some dossier, or against my colleagues, or my family. I wasn’t as important as all that, yet the possibility loomed.

That was really the point of all these little digital violations. A very different kind of eagle was flying over us – no one knew what it was capable of.

The Happy Ending

Winter has been called the great equalizer. It prompted many to leave, and those who remain are hardier stock. The sun shines on blinding white snow, cast over smoking chimneys from tents and tepees. People live now within one page of a longer story wherein we fight to preserve the Lakota way of life, indigenous rights, and water rights. Corporate personhood strives to reduce these lands to assets measured in stock prices and preserve a way of life that contradicts native existence itself. To the Lakota, the land – and every resource we utilize today – has its own personhood. This legal precedent has gained traction in New Zealand, where lands and rivers can possess legal personhood, allowing people to advocate for their rights. If non-sentient corporations are entitled to personhood, why not living lands and rivers, too?

When I look up, I see a bird. When the eagle flies overhead, it means exactly what I need it to mean at that exact moment.

The post Voices from Standing Rock: When the Eagle Passes Overhead appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.