The Silver Jubilee ...
Graphic courtesy of yodelayhee.
This year, I've chosen to reflect on my most interesting memories from the past 25 years.
First family memories ...
On my third birthday, my sister Geri gave me a train set. I remember opening it and setting it up immediately. As I watched the engine chug around in the kitchen/dining area, I looked up into the window. My family is superstitious, so an uncovered window after dark was unusual. Lo and behold, I saw a figure in a baseball cap staring at us, I cried like the baby I was.
It wasn't until later in life that I remembered my father always put his caps on coffee cans on top of the refrigerator by the window to keep their shape.
Reflection is a bitch.
My brother has always played an antagonistic figure in my life, as older brothers do. But they also have their shining moments of caring, as Kevin Cooper on "The Wonder Years" taught us when his brother crashed themselves into a cornfield and asked him, "Are you okay?"
My first memories of my brother was about the same time as my third birthday. I liked playing on the side of our house when my mom was hanging out the laundry in our backyard. Unknown to me, she'd gone inside and while looking for her, I heard an inhumane roar and the disembodied voice calling my name from the rundown trailer we had on our property. I ran inside to accuse my brother of this meanness, but he was relaxing comfortably in his room.
Like before, I failed to realize the obvious, my brother had an open window he could crawl through from the backyard.
He was, however, the first person to teach me how to drive. When he had his Firebird, he piled me in and sat me on lap where I began turning the wheel wildly on Highway 18, like I'd seen on "The Dukes of Hazzard" as he panicked and tried -- in vain -- to regain control of the car. To this day, he still thinks I'm a crazy driver.
Payback is awesome.
Our family friend and distant relation, nicknamed Popeye for his raspy voice, must have been born older than dirt. However, he was always a faithful playmate. One Sunday morning, my parents, Popeye and myself sat to breakfast when I mentioned that I'd like to play cars. When I played cars, I usually had a small, blue, foot-long, plastic stock car with a hole in the bumper and yarn attached for me to drag it across our gravel driveway.
I searched for my car to no avail and couldn't find Popeye. So I ended up playing by our back door. When I heard the familiar dragging across the gravel, I went around to see Popeye dragging my car into a U-turn at the end of our driveway. When I arrived, he told me he was warming my car up for me.
School ...
For the most part, I was openly unaware of the goings on of Rosebud Elementary, Todd County Middle School and Todd County High School. However, I will tell you that Ms. Williams [my fourth grade teacher] telling us she didn't have a slip on underneath her skirt, crying in front of us because of her separation and freaking out when my friend Craig busted a window while I was the one who grabbed tissue and tape to stop the bleeding from his knuckles was a little messed up.
Also, I had huge crushes on my sixth grade health teacher [whose first name of Jeff and last name I do not recall, but can still draw an accurate representation of his hairdo] and Mr. Hanser, my blond, neon-pale, seventh-grade geography teacher.
Writing that love note to Lindsay Compton and attaching my school photo in the middle with the text wrapping around it may have been compositionally advanced for my age and ability, but it's not something I look back on with great pride.
High school was fun, for the most part, but seeing my grades plummet and watching my former National Junior Honor Society cronies getting inducted into the grown-up NHS was a little humiliating. Especially since I had to play in the band for their induction. Also, it was a little odd to see Dawn, the girl I openly had a crush on, get a ride from the Tyler, the guy I secretly had a crush on since the eighth grade and later watch her give him a hummer in his truck.
Whenever I see a late 70s Ford with two-tone white and copper paint job, my heart still skips a beat.
Our German foreign exchange student, Michael Martinez, taught me that being aloof was the epitome of grace and class. I mean, why wouldn't any ordinary American student want to be profiled for the yearbook by a pudgy, drama nerd, band geek, hanger-on? Michael showed me that not caring is what gets you the most friends; that and being thin also helped.
As usual, my crush on the half-German, half-Mexican student extended to fantasy. I have still yet to write my ground-breaking novel that will lead me to a book tour and -- ultimately -- Hanover, Germany, where I am sure he skulks in bookstores awaiting my arrival.
I, through my preternatural way of collecting information and verifiable gossip, knew what everyone [students and teaching staff alike] was doing before 8:55 a.m. and after 3:30 p.m. and during field and extra-curricular trip.
You all some nasty ass and freaky people, but I love you all for it, not in spite of it.
Achievement ...
In the past 25 years, I've risen from being a solid A student from grades K-8, to being a mildly tribal political type who went off to college to make the world a better place. Although the train isn't necessarily derailed, it's given me a chance to bolster my confidence with the following:
I am one of the last full-blooded Lakota left in the world, along with my brother, descended from Crazy Horse on my father's side and Iron Shell from my mother's side. I really need to milk this more than I have already.
I served on the Indian Youth 2000 student planning committee and board of directors for three years. I spoke, had conversations and networked in places like Wamblee and the Crow Creek Reservation. Together, we stood up for ourselves against the racist and bigoted Gov. Bill Janklow in the spring of 1999 by marching ourselves up the streets of Pierre, praying, singing and speaking at the Capitol building -- all ad hoc, mind you -- and vowed to take our business to the more Native-friendly Rapid City. And we did.
I got myself elected to the board of directors my senior year by speaking on the merits of true Native Pride, thinking on how our negative actions reflected on our families and by stuttering the word, "schtuff" in a fit of controlled anger. Later I would have to eat my words, but they ring true in my head more than ever because of my incidents, not in spite of them.
My articles on the dance and drum group from my alma mater -- Rosebud Elementary -- performing at President Bush's first inauguration, quite a rainy day as I recall, made their way into the Rapid City Journal.
I was the first recipient of Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation's $1,000 scholarship. While others in my class had offers and distinctions up the wazoo, I was the only one to win the heart and mind of Ruth Ziolkowski, the grande dame of ambiguous intentions masquerading as guilty, white, Liberalism for us poor Natives. Walking in two worlds has its challenges, but its triumphs as well.
I am a graduate of the 2002 American Indian Journalism Institute, a boot-camp for burgeoning journalists to learn the craft and excel in representing our people as -- as of 2002 in any case -- there were only 292 Native American journalists in mainstream papers, nationwide. Later, I would be courted by the executive director and board president of the Native American Journalists Association to be a "poster boy" for both the institute and association. I thought long and hard about the offer and gave my reply by having an emotional meltdown and leaving college.
I was the first to go to college in my family, and later the first in my family to flunk out. Still though, I learned a great deal. I learned to have some courage, fortitude and a strong work ethic. I can rebut criticisms of Oscar Howe being labeled a cubist because what his work and methods -- relying heavily on geometry -- did was to open up space on the canvas, not flatten it.
I can also tell you that reputable journalists are neither conservative nor liberal in their work. They strive to show the truth as it is, not as either side would like it to be told. When someone makes claims or attempts to slander, that's when they ask opposing questions and try to keep everyone honest. Also, in my minor part in the cause, I showed that pesticides -- officially -- cause birth defects.
The longest job I've ever had was working 10 months as a clerk for the life section and Link magazine at the Argus Leader. My emotional problems -- acted out in a drunken fit I still can't remember -- led to my dismissal. So much for being reputable and hard-working in journalism.
I was the first active volunteer for South Dakotans Against Discrimination and later the volunteer coordinator and office manager for the campaign. I had many conversations with people in Sioux Falls, Rapid City and one in particular in Kimball, South Dakota about the discriminatory language of Amendment C in the state. While I didn't do a whole lot to write about, I kept the office running and tried to recruit and manage volunteers for the campaign. While we didn't win in votes, the statistics showed that there were more supportive people in my Red State than I thought, and what's more, they're not all strictly friends of The Center for Alternative Lifestyles in Sioux Falls.
Friends ...
I've made more friends in life than I can take a cursory stab at.
My first friends in kindergarten were Jessica Blacksmith, Moses Meek and later in life, Leslie Murphy, Craig Valandra, Burt Kills In Water and Robin Kills The Enemy. While I've lost touch with them, I still think about them every day, hoping my good vibes would transcend the space between Nevada and South Dakota or wherever they find themselves in the future.
In Vermillion and Sioux Falls, I made scores of acquaintances and friends.
From:
The weird girl with crazy eyes in the Mens and Womens Chorus who drove a weird little Pontiac who continues to teach me the value of being well-researched.
The hippie-stoner-prep guy with ptosis who played his guitar on First Mick who let me sleep on his comfy, lime green, crushed velveteen sofa I still dream of owning.
The gamer girl-turned-fellow-RA who taught me the meaning of dealing with it all by laughing and the positive influence of a subscription to W magazine.
The hipster girl who can dance I had a spontaneous conversation with in The Pub after being bored by my own table's lack of attention.
The RA and Confirmation sponsor I have come to think of as my first gay friend
All the way to:
The crazy radical feminist who advocates the killing of fetuses and drives a Mercury I had the pleasure of naming Kitty, after her atempt to fly upon starting up much like the first flight in Kittyhawk.
The college professor who let me speak in her classroom on the merits of Lakota views on LGBT people [which, inspired me to start out in Two Spirit advocacy work] with an amazing taste in scarves and an awesome ability to dance with me at Touchez when I was drunker than Ted Kennedy
And of course, the Queer, Western Iowan, Conservative Republican bear who, even though disgusted with my poverty and entitlement at Applebee's one evening, split my bill with another dear friend.
In closing ...
It has been a strange, but worthy foray into 25 years of life. There were times I didn't want to be here, times I wished I were someone else and times when I just plain gave up. But making it to my Silver Jubilee alive, intact and no worse for the wear has taught me that for all I've done and failed to do in the past quarter-century, there's plenty more life and opportunity to do in the next 25 years.
To all my friends, family and loved ones, I thank you for your time, attention and love. Twenty-five years is an investment, to be sure, but now is the time that investment starts paying you back. Get ready for this year, it's coming.