I’m sure many of you are sitting there after a long, hard day’s work reading away and are saying to yourselves, “Where the hell did all of this come from?” Yes I admit I am usually known as the planner, who wouldn’t drop my work for anything, even y own god damn birthday party. Recently, much against my personality, I have been trying to become more spontaneous. I like to think of myself as having guided spontaneity, meaning I like to jump and act on ideas with a well thought out plan or plan details as I go. However, two years ago on an Alternative Break through the University of Connecticut I was awakened to the effects of rural poverty in our very own country.
Larry Mandell, the president of United Way New York, accounted experiencing poverty on a daily basis. He stated in relating his experience with American poverty that “[he] get[s] to walk in both worlds. In a given day [he] might be in a soup kitchen and also in the halls of Fortune 500 companies dealing with the senior executives. [He has] become acutely aware that the lives of those who are well off are not touched at all by contact with the poor. It's not that people don't care or don't want to help. It's that they have very little awareness of poverty.” This is where my story begins, two years ago on a service trip…
The bus bumped along the mudded and poorly paved roads of the Pine Ridge Reservation. I peered out the window letting my eyes wander across the vast, flat landscape. Looking up at the rising sun, I squinted to avoid the glare bouncing off the dirtied glass pane. The sky went on forever with nothing to obscure the view of the sacred land we slowly drove on. In such a wide open space I never would have expected to feel so closed off from the world.
I was on spring break in the frozen, barren prairie of South Dakota and on my way to a cemetery in which lay victims of a massacre that happened many years ago. I was leading a group of twelve UConn students on an Alternative Break service-learning experience exploring the culture of the Oglala Lakota Nation and the way that poverty has affected them. Although I was at first excited about leading this trip, as we got closer to our destination I began to regret ever agreeing to go on this trip in the first place.
“Almost there now” exclaimed Tom, the director of the organization that my group was working with that week. He was a well statured man with a long white ponytail that made him look like a rebel out of the 1960s. His voice droned on as the bus pulled to a halt at the bottom of the steep muddy hill that led up to the Wounded Knee Memorial.
Larry Mandell, the president of United Way New York, accounted experiencing poverty on a daily basis. He stated in relating his experience with American poverty that “[he] get[s] to walk in both worlds. In a given day [he] might be in a soup kitchen and also in the halls of Fortune 500 companies dealing with the senior executives. [He has] become acutely aware that the lives of those who are well off are not touched at all by contact with the poor. It's not that people don't care or don't want to help. It's that they have very little awareness of poverty.” This is where my story begins, two years ago on a service trip…
The bus bumped along the mudded and poorly paved roads of the Pine Ridge Reservation. I peered out the window letting my eyes wander across the vast, flat landscape. Looking up at the rising sun, I squinted to avoid the glare bouncing off the dirtied glass pane. The sky went on forever with nothing to obscure the view of the sacred land we slowly drove on. In such a wide open space I never would have expected to feel so closed off from the world.
I was on spring break in the frozen, barren prairie of South Dakota and on my way to a cemetery in which lay victims of a massacre that happened many years ago. I was leading a group of twelve UConn students on an Alternative Break service-learning experience exploring the culture of the Oglala Lakota Nation and the way that poverty has affected them. Although I was at first excited about leading this trip, as we got closer to our destination I began to regret ever agreeing to go on this trip in the first place.
“Almost there now” exclaimed Tom, the director of the organization that my group was working with that week. He was a well statured man with a long white ponytail that made him look like a rebel out of the 1960s. His voice droned on as the bus pulled to a halt at the bottom of the steep muddy hill that led up to the Wounded Knee Memorial.
Cautiously we marched off the bus and formed small huddles in order to defend against the ice cold wind that battered us from above. The earth beneath me began to quake with the rhythm of the native drum as the images of the massacre flooded my mind. The Indian Wars of the late 1890s were coming to a close and the last Sioux nation was confronted by the United States Cavalry to disarm them of all weapons. During the surrender, one native fumbled beneath his cloak causing an onslaught of fire from the soldiers igniting chaos on the hillside of which I stood. As natives were murdered their bodies were strewn across the surrounding prairie and frozen over by the morning frost. My stare fell on a child lying on the ground beside me, face contorted in pain, alone. I began to panic and my desire to help this young child overwhelmed me. The howling wind brought my attention to my group scaling the hillside and when I turned back the body was gone.
I tried to take in every inch of the expansive blue sky, spotted white with puffs of clouds that surrounded us. The expanse before me held so much freedom, if only the natives were able to take flight to escape the berating bullets of the soldier’s gun. As the group reached the top, our eyes set themselves upon a small, trash-strewn graveyard. Framed by metal fencing and an archway overhanging the entrance, the cemetery looked like something out of a Hollywood movie set. Tom turned to the group and started describing the Wounded Knee Site and the history behind the cemetery.
I tried to take in every inch of the expansive blue sky, spotted white with puffs of clouds that surrounded us. The expanse before me held so much freedom, if only the natives were able to take flight to escape the berating bullets of the soldier’s gun. As the group reached the top, our eyes set themselves upon a small, trash-strewn graveyard. Framed by metal fencing and an archway overhanging the entrance, the cemetery looked like something out of a Hollywood movie set. Tom turned to the group and started describing the Wounded Knee Site and the history behind the cemetery.
My mind started to wander as Tom’s voice became a part of the gusts of wind that hit our group with an undeserved wrath. Standing in front of this cemetery I realized it had been a full three years since I had returned to the gravesite of my grandfather, causing an overwhelming emotion to tear through my body. My grandfather’s death had been the most difficult time for me during my college career. Ever since he passed away I have never been able to come to terms with his death or build up enough courage to pay my respects to his gravesite.
A crisp wind struck my face as Tom’s voice shouted, “I encourage each and every one of you, after paying your respects to the memorial, to separate yourself from the group and reflect on your experience thus far.”
One by one we entered the enclosure to view the obelisk-like structure. My turn came to enter. I walked carefully down the single paved walkway that was put in place to prevent observers from stepping on the sacred burial site. Standing in front of this stone structure, as if controlled by another power, my hand rose up and placed itself on the memorial. Images of pain and suffering ran through my head like I was fast-forwarding through an old movie. Pictures of women and children fleeing for their lives, men shot down by rifles, and then my grandfather’s face staring back at me alone and pleading, frozen in a pool of blood on the floor.
My hand shot back as I snapped back to reality. The people around me must have noticed something had disturbed me, as I made a quick escape out of the metal enclosure. I started to wonder why that could have happened to me. Was my conscience really that guilty?
In order to take my mind off of what had just happened, I started picking up pieces of trash that covered the cemetery. We were there for a service trip after all so I figured this would help ground me back to my original purpose for traveling here over my break. As I meandered through the cemetery grounds, I read the beautiful poems and sayings that had been written on gravestones by the families and loved ones of the deceased. Eventually I found myself separated from the pack and off by myself in a corner. I decided to take Tom’s advice and dig a little deeper with my experience on the reservation.
My hand shot back as I snapped back to reality. The people around me must have noticed something had disturbed me, as I made a quick escape out of the metal enclosure. I started to wonder why that could have happened to me. Was my conscience really that guilty?
In order to take my mind off of what had just happened, I started picking up pieces of trash that covered the cemetery. We were there for a service trip after all so I figured this would help ground me back to my original purpose for traveling here over my break. As I meandered through the cemetery grounds, I read the beautiful poems and sayings that had been written on gravestones by the families and loved ones of the deceased. Eventually I found myself separated from the pack and off by myself in a corner. I decided to take Tom’s advice and dig a little deeper with my experience on the reservation.
In South Dakota, especially in Pine Ridge, I realized how removed I was from my normal everyday comforts. Transported here by the vision of helping a
community, I found more and more each day that I was the one who was being helped. Each of the Oglala Lakota people I had met this week ignited a new passion within me. The stories that they told and their way of life made me reflect on how I had lived my own. Most importantly, the people of the Pine Ridge Reservation led me to realize I had let the memories of my grandfather, which I held so dear to my heart, slip away.
Grabbing on to the chain-link fence that had captured me and the other students in this historical land mark, I looked out over the horizon. This was the first time I had built up enough courage to talk to my grandfather’s spirit, which I felt around me at that very moment. The release was unfathomable. As if he himself had come down and touched my shoulders, I suddenly felt that I had somehow reconnected with him and forgave myself for the guilt I felt over his death. The wind whipped through my hair and froze the single tear that was slowly slipping down my cheek.
Sometimes, we must travel away from our everyday lives to realize what is truly important to us. The interactions with new people, the partaking in new experiences, the desire to learn, are all things that can allow each individual to understand his full potential.
As I turned to start heading down back to the bus, my eyes found one last grave stone that read the following message, “For This Is A Journey We All Must Take And Each Must Go Alone”. For each person his life is left in their hands and it is up to them to travel a journey of self discovery. The wind picked up, leading me to the never ending horizon where one day my own sun would set.
Grabbing on to the chain-link fence that had captured me and the other students in this historical land mark, I looked out over the horizon. This was the first time I had built up enough courage to talk to my grandfather’s spirit, which I felt around me at that very moment. The release was unfathomable. As if he himself had come down and touched my shoulders, I suddenly felt that I had somehow reconnected with him and forgave myself for the guilt I felt over his death. The wind whipped through my hair and froze the single tear that was slowly slipping down my cheek.
Sometimes, we must travel away from our everyday lives to realize what is truly important to us. The interactions with new people, the partaking in new experiences, the desire to learn, are all things that can allow each individual to understand his full potential.
As I turned to start heading down back to the bus, my eyes found one last grave stone that read the following message, “For This Is A Journey We All Must Take And Each Must Go Alone”. For each person his life is left in their hands and it is up to them to travel a journey of self discovery. The wind picked up, leading me to the never ending horizon where one day my own sun would set.
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