native american studies project
After spending months researching the 19th century and native americans in particular, we were given the assignment to pick any topic related to native americans and do somewhat of a backwards annotation on it. Doing this would supposedly reveal all kinds of information to the audience and allow them to make new connections in their lives. I chose to write my essay from the perspective of the Black Hills, discussing the changes they have noticed over the years.
essay
Yellow Hair, Yellow Blood: Paha Sapa and the Fate of the Lakota
Chris Niles
My claim is this: They said they would leave me alone. They said they wouldn’t come back. But they lied. Yellow Hair came to steal me away. His men appeared riding in on horses and on foot with pickaxe in hand. They shattered my dark skin and claimed my golden blood as their own while at the same time, exiling my caretakers from their home. The Lakota call me Paha Sapa (republicoflakotah.com) but the men of Custer call me the Black Hills.
Right now they fight in wooden rooms over who I belong to. As if I were just a thing to be disputed over (pbs.org). 150 years ago they spilled blood instead of words over me, after they failed to live up to the words they had written in the Fort Laramie Treaty. Now they would pay the Lakota mere money — and not enough — for my backbone, my pine trees, my sacred grounds, and my golden veins. Some Lakota want to take the money but others feel that I and their identity are the same and to take money would be the end of their life as Lakota (Hopkins).
In the past the Lakota roamed my flanks, following the buffalo and healing in hot springs. They came here from another land, farther northeast from where I am. They were a farming people until the bearded men from the south clad in steel came with their horses and tall crosses (Driver 1975: 20). The southern peoples took the horses and bred them until they spread north to us and the Lakota, utterly changing their way of living to hunt bison from horseback (ndstudies.org). They used the horses to pull their belongings, which including conical shelters made of buffalo hides and tall poles.
The Lakota would travel to feel my embrace under their feet during the seasons of cold and snow to hunt the buffalo. The buffalo came to me too during the changing of seasons, as they passed across the land between Canada and Texas. Though this mutual migration proved fruitful for many years, the men in wheeled homes came to invade what the Lakota had called home. I could only tremble as the rushing feet of my Native protectors thundered across my back to kill our chalk colored, and unwelcome guests. I know many of these guests were just looking for a new life, but they did so with such disregard for my sovereignty and dignity. The Lakota found this such a mystery. Why treat what gives you life so badly?
The white man’s chief at that time wished for the killing of his trespassers to stop and as a result, created yet another treaty. In white years I learned it was 1851 when the first Treaty of Fort Laramie was written into action to create a sense of peace between my guardians and their rivals (ndstudies.org). Because of this, my dark slopes saw the following of laws for a number of years until 1874. This comfortable peace rose out of existence like the plume of smoke from a burning roll of sage as Yellow Hair revealed the color of my blood to be that of the sun.k k k k k
As the color of my innards became common knowledge, Lakota members tried and tried to defend my dark hide and conceal the glimmering gold shining through. The holes in which my blood flowed most vigorously were torn even larger with picks of iron so that Lead, Deadwood, and Central City could all be mounted on and fed off my back.
The fighting over entry into my region went on for years. The most notable conflict that had its cause rooted partially within my gold veins was the Battle of the Greasy Grass. The Lakota strengthened their numbers by joining arms with Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes so that they would stand a chance against Yellow Hair and his cavalry of triggerless firearms. The result of this mighty pact was an overwhelming victory that left Custer dead and the Native’s pride resurrected. While this particular battle was won, I was forced to watch as my people continued to fight a war that they would inevitably lose to pen and paper.
The Indian Appropriation Act of 1876 forced the inhabitants of my crust to move to government designated land reservations or face a life without rations and likely come to a painfully hungry and cold death (russelmeansfreedom.org).
In this day no one will likely be faced with the decision to keep their home but die a cold and hungry death or move to government reservations. The fight that I have caused still takes it’s place among the many other conflicts the White Chief has involved this land in; except now, this fight takes place on a battlefield ridden with legal documents and gavels. He awarded my Sioux a sum of money, but that was in the year 1980. This sum has even now, still not been paid and the toll on the Lakota for the loss of their land and life way remains tremendous.
80 percent of their people cannot find work. They live shorter lives than when they roamed our flanks, often (PBS.org). Their sons and daughters attempt — and complete — the act of killing themselves at alarming rates (Bosman, NY Times). The white man’s fire water has wreaked generations of havoc on biologies, like ours, that were not meant for such toxicity.
We would like our soul returned to our rightful protectors. It would be good for both of us.
Chris Niles
My claim is this: They said they would leave me alone. They said they wouldn’t come back. But they lied. Yellow Hair came to steal me away. His men appeared riding in on horses and on foot with pickaxe in hand. They shattered my dark skin and claimed my golden blood as their own while at the same time, exiling my caretakers from their home. The Lakota call me Paha Sapa (republicoflakotah.com) but the men of Custer call me the Black Hills.
Right now they fight in wooden rooms over who I belong to. As if I were just a thing to be disputed over (pbs.org). 150 years ago they spilled blood instead of words over me, after they failed to live up to the words they had written in the Fort Laramie Treaty. Now they would pay the Lakota mere money — and not enough — for my backbone, my pine trees, my sacred grounds, and my golden veins. Some Lakota want to take the money but others feel that I and their identity are the same and to take money would be the end of their life as Lakota (Hopkins).
In the past the Lakota roamed my flanks, following the buffalo and healing in hot springs. They came here from another land, farther northeast from where I am. They were a farming people until the bearded men from the south clad in steel came with their horses and tall crosses (Driver 1975: 20). The southern peoples took the horses and bred them until they spread north to us and the Lakota, utterly changing their way of living to hunt bison from horseback (ndstudies.org). They used the horses to pull their belongings, which including conical shelters made of buffalo hides and tall poles.
The Lakota would travel to feel my embrace under their feet during the seasons of cold and snow to hunt the buffalo. The buffalo came to me too during the changing of seasons, as they passed across the land between Canada and Texas. Though this mutual migration proved fruitful for many years, the men in wheeled homes came to invade what the Lakota had called home. I could only tremble as the rushing feet of my Native protectors thundered across my back to kill our chalk colored, and unwelcome guests. I know many of these guests were just looking for a new life, but they did so with such disregard for my sovereignty and dignity. The Lakota found this such a mystery. Why treat what gives you life so badly?
The white man’s chief at that time wished for the killing of his trespassers to stop and as a result, created yet another treaty. In white years I learned it was 1851 when the first Treaty of Fort Laramie was written into action to create a sense of peace between my guardians and their rivals (ndstudies.org). Because of this, my dark slopes saw the following of laws for a number of years until 1874. This comfortable peace rose out of existence like the plume of smoke from a burning roll of sage as Yellow Hair revealed the color of my blood to be that of the sun.k k k k k
As the color of my innards became common knowledge, Lakota members tried and tried to defend my dark hide and conceal the glimmering gold shining through. The holes in which my blood flowed most vigorously were torn even larger with picks of iron so that Lead, Deadwood, and Central City could all be mounted on and fed off my back.
The fighting over entry into my region went on for years. The most notable conflict that had its cause rooted partially within my gold veins was the Battle of the Greasy Grass. The Lakota strengthened their numbers by joining arms with Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes so that they would stand a chance against Yellow Hair and his cavalry of triggerless firearms. The result of this mighty pact was an overwhelming victory that left Custer dead and the Native’s pride resurrected. While this particular battle was won, I was forced to watch as my people continued to fight a war that they would inevitably lose to pen and paper.
The Indian Appropriation Act of 1876 forced the inhabitants of my crust to move to government designated land reservations or face a life without rations and likely come to a painfully hungry and cold death (russelmeansfreedom.org).
In this day no one will likely be faced with the decision to keep their home but die a cold and hungry death or move to government reservations. The fight that I have caused still takes it’s place among the many other conflicts the White Chief has involved this land in; except now, this fight takes place on a battlefield ridden with legal documents and gavels. He awarded my Sioux a sum of money, but that was in the year 1980. This sum has even now, still not been paid and the toll on the Lakota for the loss of their land and life way remains tremendous.
80 percent of their people cannot find work. They live shorter lives than when they roamed our flanks, often (PBS.org). Their sons and daughters attempt — and complete — the act of killing themselves at alarming rates (Bosman, NY Times). The white man’s fire water has wreaked generations of havoc on biologies, like ours, that were not meant for such toxicity.
We would like our soul returned to our rightful protectors. It would be good for both of us.
project reflection
My process with this assignment was complex to say the least. The original idea had been an art piece created in photoshop that would illustrate the near annihilation of Native American culture. As you can see from the essay above, that never happened. After being sick for months and not being able to come to school, I was very behind in my work and this project was part of that. I decided to not do the art piece and instead write a reasonable simple paper for the sake of time.
Some of the topics that required research for this paper did have an impact on me personally. The most impactful thing I learned from this was the enormously alarming rates of suicided and attempted suicide on the Pine Ridge reservation and others as well. Depression has played somewhat of a role in guiding my consciences in the past so hearing about things such as high suicide rates triggers the question of why no one is doing anything to help the people on these reservations.
I came away from this project with sense that history and creativity do not always have to mix like water and oil. Given the right craft, the writer can accurately convey information in a manner that is actually interesting and engaging to the reader.
Some of the topics that required research for this paper did have an impact on me personally. The most impactful thing I learned from this was the enormously alarming rates of suicided and attempted suicide on the Pine Ridge reservation and others as well. Depression has played somewhat of a role in guiding my consciences in the past so hearing about things such as high suicide rates triggers the question of why no one is doing anything to help the people on these reservations.
I came away from this project with sense that history and creativity do not always have to mix like water and oil. Given the right craft, the writer can accurately convey information in a manner that is actually interesting and engaging to the reader.