Monica Jackson
Spirits of Allen,
SD: The Medicine Man
When
I was seven, I lived on a reservation in South Dakota, for a short time. My dad was in the military and we were moving
from England to Greece. There was a wait
list for housing on the military base, so while my dad waited for the house in
Crete, my mom took me and my brothers to the place where she had grown up. The drive through the Badlands toward my
aunt’s house has always filled my soul with something indescribable. When I saw the hills, the fields, the wide,
open sky, for the first time, I felt honored just to be in that moment taking
in such vast, natural beauty. I
envisioned people in those fields, living in teepees, cooking over fires, and
telling stories. I was only seven, but I
knew the land was special. There was a
lot of history there, and there were also plenty of secrets. I knew some of them, believed in them, and
wasn’t afraid. These secrets that
couldn’t be explained were more like gifts, not magic, gifts from our
ancestors.
Going
to school on the reservation was not easy for me. I stood out with my darker complexion and
head full of long, dark curls. For the
first few weeks of second grade, I was called horrible names during lunch time.
During those moments, I felt alone in the world. But
then, the school day would end and I would go back to my grandma’s trailer
home, where we were staying. My uncle Larry
had a small, grey house behind the trailer.
Usually, I would see him working outside the house. He was always cutting wood or patching
something up. I would wave and show him an
inflatable animal that my teacher had given me for doing something great that
day. He would smile and nod with a sense
of pride. Somehow, just his
acknowledgement of me and my achievements was enough to let me know that things
would be okay. Eventually, the kids at school
would understand me. Eventually, they would know that I was connected to this
land. In his quiet and gentle way, he
taught me how to be strong and persevere.
There
was one day when I fell while playing in the woods nearby. I ended up with a cut inside my mouth. The right side of my face felt as if it
would fall off at any minute and my right ear had been ringing nonstop. The nearest clinic was miles and miles away
in the next town. We also didn’t have a
car because living there was only temporary, so my aunt always took us where we
needed to go. She was at her house that
afternoon and we didn’t want to ask her drive the 15 miles to come pick us up,
and then the almost thirty miles to the clinic, so I lied on the couch and
cried in pain. My mom gave me aspirin,
pillows, and ice, but nothing worked.
A
couple of hours later, Uncle Larry came to visit. That was waculupi time, when he and my my mom
would talk about the past and drink coffee.
When he walked through the door that day, he saw me lying on the couch
and crying. My mom told him about the
cut on the inside of my mouth. This time, instead of sitting down at the table
with his coffee; he came over to me, picked me up, and walked around the tiny
living room, singing in Lakota. I had
no idea what the words meant, but the song was peaceful and soothing. Within
seconds I had fallen asleep. The next
morning, I woke up and there was no pain and no sign of any cut in my
mouth. It was almost as if I had dreamed
the whole thing had even happened. As
the years went by, I often thought about that time and wondered if my uncle had
some gift that no one else knew about, or that only certain people could understand.
Uncle
Larry passed away the summer I turned twenty two. I made the long road trip to the reservation
with my mom and brother for his wake and funeral. As we drove, my mom told stories about my
uncle from when he was younger. The
mood, during the drive, was somber yet peaceful and lighthearted. I had never been to a wake before and had no
idea what to expect. All I knew was that
there were a lot of traditions that took place. The few days before the wake were
filled with; cooking, getting giveaways together, picking out flower arrangements,
and making sure the performers were ready.
The performers included a band of drummers, guitarists, a singer, and a
man who told stories and did chants.
Aside from these performers, there was another singer, and a piano
player. I realized that a wake was more
like a celebration of the life that someone lived, rather than a mourning of
their passing. In some way, this brought
me a sense of comfort, viewing this wake as my uncle’s passage into a better
place.
When
the wake began, there was a slide show with pictures of Uncle Larry. There was also a preacher who read
scriptures from the Bible. There were about
60 to 70 people crowded in the small,
church building. After the readings, we
all walked by my uncle’s lifeless body.
It occurred to me that I had never seen an actual, dead person
before. I suddenly became afraid of
spirits. I knew in my heart that my
uncle’s spirit would go to Heaven, but I wondered about spirits that still
lingered and what exactly they were looking for. I silently prayed that I wouldn’t ever be
able to see them. I had heard stories
from my mom and cousins about seeing them, but I didn’t want to see them. I closed my eyes for a second, then turned
and quickly walked away.
The
wake went on throughout the night and into the next morning, when the funeral
took place. All of the adults and most
of the children were awake the entire time; reminiscing, eating, laughing,
sharing stories, and crying. After the
funeral, there was more delicious food and then giveaways. The giveaways were gifts from our family to
the friends and other special people who had been in my uncle’s life. I noticed there were a lot of star quilts,
which made me think of the star quilt and pillows he had given me. The quilt
after my graduation, the pillows after my marriage. They looked the same as the
ones being given away, but mine were different.
I knew mine had some of whatever gift my uncle had. Those items had travelled with me to several
places, but always kept me connected to the land. Whenever I used them, I always remembered
that first moment, when I was seven, taking in the view and realizing that this
place was where my ancestors once lived.
“And
while I stood there
I
saw more than I can tell,
And I understood more than I
saw;
For
I was seeing in a sacred manner
The
shapes of things in the spirit,
And
the shape of all shapes as they must
Live
together like one being.”
-Black
Elk, Black Elk Speaks
