I grew up with stories. My dad is and was an avid story teller, and I can still remember some of things he would allow to spin from his incredible imagination. I think I picked up my own love of telling stories from him (it runs in Irish roots after all). I grew up reading, and the stories in books kept me coming back and back and back. Books were my mom's contribution to my education in the power of a good tale. It was here that I first began to discover that stories have life - they have their own will, their own desire to be told and told, for that is where they can bear much fruit. It is in the sharing of a story that it becomes more alive.
This particular story that follows is one that I was not initially sure I could share. I was not confident in my ability to humbly present such a powerful occurrence, to hold such a precious gem with the appropriate amount of love and respect. But after encouragement from good friends, I began to see that this story demanded to be told, and that it was too big to be held in on account of my own self doubts and fears. "Move out of the way and let me be heard."
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I only met the guy once before, out in the orchard behind my house. It used to be full of fruit and great deciduous trees, but now it is pretty barren and more often than not, filled with empty, crushed 40's, signs of the many drifters who float through the area. As I was walking home from work through the orchard, a group of people were sitting out back, and they called me over. I have always had trouble stopping when people ask me to, and in New York, while on a schedule, it could sometimes be a strain on my abilities to complete tasks. Here, however, as a JV, I have come to see that as very much a part of my job - part of being human, of making people know they are valued and loved, whether they believe it or not.
I went over to say hello and I could tell they were all drunk - only 1 o'clock in the afternoon. They asked for some money, but I don't give it out anymore - it just isn't the most valuable resource I have to offer. I offer to bring out some lunch and smokes for them, and they say OK. I go back and prepare the meal, some hot dogs, a coupe of backs of popcorn, quesadillas, and graham crackers. I grab some of the little cigars we have around, and head back out.
I see them laughing, and as I pass around the food, one of the women says "Shitttt, we didn't think you were comin back! No one ever does."
While I'm talking and eating with them, one definitely stands out - I'll call him Kenny - Kenny Little Cloud Sr.. He is a giant man, with broad shoulders and a gut to follow, long sandy hair tied back in a pony-tail to the middle of his back. He only has one good eye, so he tells me, a little slurred, to call him "One-Eyed Kenny" - whatever works. I find out he comes from a long family of medicine men, of holy people to the Lakota, someone who perhaps was a spiritual leader once, or at least has it in his roots. He kept trying to explain aspects of his people's culture and philosophy to me, but would often get lost in his own thoughts, unable to keep it all straight. I stuck around for 40 minutes before I had to head back to work, and I didn't see any of them again after that. Angels maybe? A one time, humbling appearance of God, like the burning bush, calling me to something better, to remind me what's important?
Last week, I got a text saying that the son of the man I met - for I had told friends who I met here about the encounter - had passed away. That term doesn't do it justice really, he was hit by a semi-truck coming out of a bar on Highway 83. There is a wake and funeral almost every single weekend here on the Rez, the one's in St. Francis often taking place right across the street from where I live. I stop in sometimes. Show respect and show people that I care about them - that I will go to where they are, where they live and love and cry and laugh - not just wait at the Mission for them to come in. It is awkward to show up to a wake or funeral when you don't know the person - or when you're the only white guy in the entire room, and everyone stares at you wondering who the hell you are, and more curiously, why I am there. It is a great exercise in humility, and it starts the hard work of building bridges to a community very skeptical of white culture and of Church people, and quite understandable so.
When I heard about Kenny Jr, I knew I had to go to over. I was hesitant this time, I was feeling more nervous than I usually do. I finally made it over on a Monday, sucking up my own fear and deciding it was more important to show someone love than to not. So I went over. I ran into Roger, another person from the community I met out in the Orchard one day, and we shot the shit for a minute. It was good, he calmed me down just by the very fact that he would talk to me. I went into Digman hall, set up for a wake with a casket in the front. I see Kenny sitting right at the front, as close to casket as possible - the proper place for a father about to bury his oldest son I guess.
I hover around the back for a little before I finally go up to Kenny. He has his head down, looking at his hands folded into his lap. I offer my hand and clear my throat, unsure really of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss Kenny." He looks up and his face scrunches for a minute - "Hey... I know you from somewhere." I explain to him that we met one day out behind the house, had lunch together. "What the hell was I doin all the way over there!?" I explain that he wasn't in a fully coherent state of mind at the time and he chuckles. "That makes more sense." I crouch next to him and let him tell me stories of his son - or maybe it's that he let me hear them, for as a stranger, it is a privilege to hear the things closest to people's hearts.
He tells me dirty jokes. Here I am, looking at the casket, and he is telling me how when you get older, your pee stream really loses it's oompf, and how sometimes when you fart, you get a little more than you asked for. He's totally mad, but in the kind of way where his eye twinkles and you can't help but want to be a little mad too. "Those are the kinds of things my son like to hear," he says, "It always made him laugh." I get up and let him know I have to go back to work. "Funeral is at 2," he said, "stop by if you can." I tell him I certainly will. "Thanks for being here, I really appreciate it." I give an awkward smile and I leave. I am starting to wonder what my life is. What life I am living where I meet random people who tell me stories about their now dead sons, where a strange and foreign person is welcomed to share in the most intimate moments of people's lives.
I go back for the funeral. How could I not? I stumble into a packed hall this time, feeling all the eyes on me as I come through the door, just wanting to find a seat and get out of everyone's line of vision. I find myself next to Everett, a friend I had made in my first week hear but haven't seen since. He was extremely encouraging of my wanting to learn and participate in his culture and spirituality. I slide in next to him and we play catch-up, filling each other in on 2 months of lost time. He tells me he is back in town for a little while, and I am glad for the opportunity to hang with such an open and humble teacher, even if he is 5 years my junior.
The funeral starts. People give speeches, sing songs. Singing is everywhere. The drum is the heartbeat of Mother Earth, and they make sure to remind us of it at every event. We all beat in time, together. The singing is loud, and emotional. Kenny Sr. gets up. He stands out in front of the casket and begins to speak. A little bit unclearly, it is hard to find the progression of his thoughts. He catches this himself and takes a pause. "I am a singer," he says. "That's how I was taught to express my emotion. So that's what I'll do."
He begins singing my favorite Lakota traditional song that I have heard yet. It's called "Common Man." It is about being a person, just a normal person trying to live a good life and walk in a good way. Nothing fancy, no titles, no honors, just any body trying to make sense of life. I will never again be able to hear or sing this song without thinking of this moment. Watching a father sing for his son, sing for his sons life and his own, admitting his smallness and still living in spite of it. The drunk guy behind my house becomes a grieving father, a husband, a son himself - a singer. He becomes me. Beyond all of our differences, we share the same humanity, the same longing, the same hunger. I become him. One in the same, united in our common human condition. Both just trying to figure out this life thing the best we can, and in the process, living out that beautiful prayer, mitakuye oyasin, we are all relatives.
We all line up to shake the hands of the family members, as is tradition here. People are sobbing, and as I shake their hands I am amazed that people can do this. Stand there in all their pain and hurt, completely vulnerable, and offer their hand to be held by a stranger. When I get to Kenny, he does a double take... seeing the white hand on the red, there must have been a moment of confusion I am holding his hand in both of mine, and as he brings other hand to clasp mine, he again says "Thank you. Thank you for being here." I can't help but hear it as an affirmation of my whole journey, not just this moment.
As they load the body up on the horses to process around the area before the burial, I slip out, needing to cook dinner for that night. I am at home just trying to process. Just trying to understand what I had seen and experienced, what it meant.
An hour or so later, my roommate knocked in my door, saying there was a friend at the door for me. I head to the front door and find Everett waiting there. He holds out his handdrum to me, complete with stick and sweetgrass braid. "I heard you singing at the funeral and I know you want to learn. Take this, you should have it. I want you to." I mumble out a wopila (thank you) and we clasp hands, knowing there was more to come from our friendship.
I went into my room and just cried. How much can a heart take? How much raw emotion and experience can a heart handle? It has to be what it is like to see God face to face. So much you just want to burst, and so amazing you don't care if you do.
I went over to say hello and I could tell they were all drunk - only 1 o'clock in the afternoon. They asked for some money, but I don't give it out anymore - it just isn't the most valuable resource I have to offer. I offer to bring out some lunch and smokes for them, and they say OK. I go back and prepare the meal, some hot dogs, a coupe of backs of popcorn, quesadillas, and graham crackers. I grab some of the little cigars we have around, and head back out.
I see them laughing, and as I pass around the food, one of the women says "Shitttt, we didn't think you were comin back! No one ever does."
While I'm talking and eating with them, one definitely stands out - I'll call him Kenny - Kenny Little Cloud Sr.. He is a giant man, with broad shoulders and a gut to follow, long sandy hair tied back in a pony-tail to the middle of his back. He only has one good eye, so he tells me, a little slurred, to call him "One-Eyed Kenny" - whatever works. I find out he comes from a long family of medicine men, of holy people to the Lakota, someone who perhaps was a spiritual leader once, or at least has it in his roots. He kept trying to explain aspects of his people's culture and philosophy to me, but would often get lost in his own thoughts, unable to keep it all straight. I stuck around for 40 minutes before I had to head back to work, and I didn't see any of them again after that. Angels maybe? A one time, humbling appearance of God, like the burning bush, calling me to something better, to remind me what's important?
Last week, I got a text saying that the son of the man I met - for I had told friends who I met here about the encounter - had passed away. That term doesn't do it justice really, he was hit by a semi-truck coming out of a bar on Highway 83. There is a wake and funeral almost every single weekend here on the Rez, the one's in St. Francis often taking place right across the street from where I live. I stop in sometimes. Show respect and show people that I care about them - that I will go to where they are, where they live and love and cry and laugh - not just wait at the Mission for them to come in. It is awkward to show up to a wake or funeral when you don't know the person - or when you're the only white guy in the entire room, and everyone stares at you wondering who the hell you are, and more curiously, why I am there. It is a great exercise in humility, and it starts the hard work of building bridges to a community very skeptical of white culture and of Church people, and quite understandable so.
When I heard about Kenny Jr, I knew I had to go to over. I was hesitant this time, I was feeling more nervous than I usually do. I finally made it over on a Monday, sucking up my own fear and deciding it was more important to show someone love than to not. So I went over. I ran into Roger, another person from the community I met out in the Orchard one day, and we shot the shit for a minute. It was good, he calmed me down just by the very fact that he would talk to me. I went into Digman hall, set up for a wake with a casket in the front. I see Kenny sitting right at the front, as close to casket as possible - the proper place for a father about to bury his oldest son I guess.
I hover around the back for a little before I finally go up to Kenny. He has his head down, looking at his hands folded into his lap. I offer my hand and clear my throat, unsure really of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss Kenny." He looks up and his face scrunches for a minute - "Hey... I know you from somewhere." I explain to him that we met one day out behind the house, had lunch together. "What the hell was I doin all the way over there!?" I explain that he wasn't in a fully coherent state of mind at the time and he chuckles. "That makes more sense." I crouch next to him and let him tell me stories of his son - or maybe it's that he let me hear them, for as a stranger, it is a privilege to hear the things closest to people's hearts.
He tells me dirty jokes. Here I am, looking at the casket, and he is telling me how when you get older, your pee stream really loses it's oompf, and how sometimes when you fart, you get a little more than you asked for. He's totally mad, but in the kind of way where his eye twinkles and you can't help but want to be a little mad too. "Those are the kinds of things my son like to hear," he says, "It always made him laugh." I get up and let him know I have to go back to work. "Funeral is at 2," he said, "stop by if you can." I tell him I certainly will. "Thanks for being here, I really appreciate it." I give an awkward smile and I leave. I am starting to wonder what my life is. What life I am living where I meet random people who tell me stories about their now dead sons, where a strange and foreign person is welcomed to share in the most intimate moments of people's lives.
I go back for the funeral. How could I not? I stumble into a packed hall this time, feeling all the eyes on me as I come through the door, just wanting to find a seat and get out of everyone's line of vision. I find myself next to Everett, a friend I had made in my first week hear but haven't seen since. He was extremely encouraging of my wanting to learn and participate in his culture and spirituality. I slide in next to him and we play catch-up, filling each other in on 2 months of lost time. He tells me he is back in town for a little while, and I am glad for the opportunity to hang with such an open and humble teacher, even if he is 5 years my junior.
The funeral starts. People give speeches, sing songs. Singing is everywhere. The drum is the heartbeat of Mother Earth, and they make sure to remind us of it at every event. We all beat in time, together. The singing is loud, and emotional. Kenny Sr. gets up. He stands out in front of the casket and begins to speak. A little bit unclearly, it is hard to find the progression of his thoughts. He catches this himself and takes a pause. "I am a singer," he says. "That's how I was taught to express my emotion. So that's what I'll do."
He begins singing my favorite Lakota traditional song that I have heard yet. It's called "Common Man." It is about being a person, just a normal person trying to live a good life and walk in a good way. Nothing fancy, no titles, no honors, just any body trying to make sense of life. I will never again be able to hear or sing this song without thinking of this moment. Watching a father sing for his son, sing for his sons life and his own, admitting his smallness and still living in spite of it. The drunk guy behind my house becomes a grieving father, a husband, a son himself - a singer. He becomes me. Beyond all of our differences, we share the same humanity, the same longing, the same hunger. I become him. One in the same, united in our common human condition. Both just trying to figure out this life thing the best we can, and in the process, living out that beautiful prayer, mitakuye oyasin, we are all relatives.
We all line up to shake the hands of the family members, as is tradition here. People are sobbing, and as I shake their hands I am amazed that people can do this. Stand there in all their pain and hurt, completely vulnerable, and offer their hand to be held by a stranger. When I get to Kenny, he does a double take... seeing the white hand on the red, there must have been a moment of confusion I am holding his hand in both of mine, and as he brings other hand to clasp mine, he again says "Thank you. Thank you for being here." I can't help but hear it as an affirmation of my whole journey, not just this moment.
As they load the body up on the horses to process around the area before the burial, I slip out, needing to cook dinner for that night. I am at home just trying to process. Just trying to understand what I had seen and experienced, what it meant.
An hour or so later, my roommate knocked in my door, saying there was a friend at the door for me. I head to the front door and find Everett waiting there. He holds out his handdrum to me, complete with stick and sweetgrass braid. "I heard you singing at the funeral and I know you want to learn. Take this, you should have it. I want you to." I mumble out a wopila (thank you) and we clasp hands, knowing there was more to come from our friendship.
I went into my room and just cried. How much can a heart take? How much raw emotion and experience can a heart handle? It has to be what it is like to see God face to face. So much you just want to burst, and so amazing you don't care if you do.
Beautiful, Prate. Really moving story. Thank you for sharing. It's amazing how we are all linked together...the human condition is a heart-wrenching, terrible, and yet joyful thing, isn't it?
ReplyDelete-JBell