Reflections on a pilgrimage ...

[opprimo]

It does not matter how much you plan, there will always be something to throw a wrench into them. Sorry Heather. I'll catch you in August. Maybe July.

I love Rosebud with every fiber of my being. It is the land of my ancestors. It is my clay, formed with patches alluvial soil and sandhills, blood, grass dances, lodgepole indentations and spilled Budweiser.
But I don't have to like it.

It does not matter that I am a fatass.
I have always been fat and probably will always be, so no one will raise an eyebrow if I gain 20 pounds or so.
My cousins who were born and grew up skinny and still try, in vain, to wear size large shirts is another matter entirely.

My Uncle Gene is going, as we say back home, kahomni.
He called me "Grandson" every time I saw him and asked how my "Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa Ralph" were doing.

My sister's grave is impeccable, as always. The Iron Shell Family cemetery is small, but hold the bones of millennia of struggle, sacrifice, hope and the occasional prairie dog hole. Sorry Aunt Mercy, I guess you still pay for being a bitch even when you're dead.

It is comforting to know that I have two potential places of eternal rest in the middle of nowhere, because all my descendants will know the beauty of the prairie upon visiting my grave, where they can leave Rosaries, Novenas and odd Virgin Mary statuette under the shadow of the Cross.

I may have done some truly horrendous things to my body last year, but having dry skin is the worst form of self-injury.

When an old schoolmate stopped me in front of the tribal office and chatted me up, she said, "Reno, huh? Must be better than here." I could only say, "It is, but it isn't." To which, she only tilted her head and said, "Okay?"
This changed when I spent three consecutive nights at my Aunt Linda's house in Corn Creek. Upon returning and picking up my nephew after school I said, "You know, when I got down here, I didn't want to be here, I didn't like it here and I hated it. Then, I went back to Rosebud and realized ... Reno ain't so bad."

I am, once again, a card-carrying member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe. I guess a paper copy of an abstract of degree of Indian blood isn't good enough these days, we need plastic to declare our lineage.

My seventh grade Language Arts teacher asked me if I had a "special girl."
I told her the truth. "No, no I don't."

Having the foresight to pack a needle and thread is good. But remembering to bring scissors would have been genius.

I live in gay-friendly Reno, just four hours drive from San Francisco. But it took watching Logo at my aunt's house in Corn Creek to realize that Gay isn't a location, it's a state of mind.

Watching "Latter Days" and "Dancer in the Dark" was five kinds of cliched catharsis. I cried at the end of each movie like a little bitch.

Wyoming is a land of constant sorrow.

Wyoming's freak snow storms proved, once again, to my parents that I kick ass.

A flat tire that I changed all by myself in Nebraska further added to the badass factor. Especially since it was on the 1980-something GMC Suburban ... on the Interstate ... with semis flying by.

The Flying J truck stop chain and its never-ending supply of Amp and "cappuccino" is a Godsend.

Al Sharpton has mobilized the self-righteous indignation of Utah Mormons in the Salt Lake area.

Salt Lake drivers are possibly worse drivers than Iowans. Possibly.

The Mormon Taco Bell cashier was flashing his Temple Garment. Frankly, it looks like long johns.

The Great Salt Lake is stinky. But Western Nebraska is basically all ammonia.

A man who reads the Bible and lives by the tenets therein is righteous. A man who reads the Bible and condemns others with the tenets therein is self-righteous.

I am a Catholic Christian, that much has been solidified. But I still proclaim my steadfastness to the Lakota faith when I start the Our Father with "Tunkasila."

My Border Collie, Duchess, is the true matriarch of our family. She is as constant as the Northern Star.

I scooped two cans of Earth from my back yard and put them in the back of the Suburban. My clay is not only splendid, it is portable across state lines.

God help me, I missed Reno.

My Uncle Francis is my first hunka father, which means he would -- traditionally -- pick my bride. I wonder if he has any grooms in mind for me these days.

If I'm lucky, the next time I fall in love, the guy will fall in love too.
And if I'm really lucky, it'll be with me!