Standing Strong Page 5

  Quickly she checked her wrists to see if there were new any cuts, but she found only the scars left from her failed suicide attempt back in March. Relieved, she rubbed her forearms. Same old skin as before.

  Then something her therapist said popped into her mind. “Symbolically, death may not be the end of life, and if you dream of death, it probably means that the old you is dying so a new you can come to life. It’s a chance to begin again.”

  That’s when the teen realized no one in the camp knew the old Rhonda, so she was free to reinvent herself and become a new Rhonda. How did that corny old saying go? Today is the first day of the rest of your life? Well, this day surely was.

  She made a quick visit to the kitchen tent for a fast breakfast and set out to see what this new life would bring. Pam said she needed to find Billy Old Bull, head of the camp’s ground crew. So finding Billy was next on Rhonda’s agenda. He was described as being as big as a buffalo, tough as an ox, and yet as tender as a teddy bear.

  She found a large Native man fitting that description supporting a long pole near the camp’s central tipi. With the help of two other Indian men who looked a lot alike, he was in the process of raising a flagpole that held the Standing Stone tribal flag.

  “Could you grab that post-hole digger and clear a little more dirt out of that hole?” the big man asked Rhonda as she approached. “We got to get more depth to stabilize this thing.”

  Seeing the tool laying on the ground beside the hole, the teen said, “Sure.”

  Experienced with fence repairs back home, she picked up the post-hole digger and shoved the blades deep into the opening in the ground. With a few quick moves, she pulled several more inches of dirt out of the hole.

  “Give that a try,” she said as she took a few steps back.

  The three men slid the bottom end of the pole into the enlarged hole and hoisted the long shaft upward as they marched along its length. Their steady movement raised it to a vertical position. The two look-alikes began shoveling in dirt around the bottom of the pole.

  Billy dusted off his large, stubby hands and asked, “Are you Rhonda?”

  “Yep,” she replied as she shook his extended hand.

  “Excuse the grease,” he said apologetically.

  “Not worried about a little grease,” Rhonda said as she shook the man’s dirty hand, which felt like a vice clamp.

  “Good at working outdoors?” he asked.

  “Fair,” she answered. “Thanks to my uncle.”

  Billy pointed with his lips at his two helpers, then added, “These are two of my go-to crew guys, Bo and Bubba. They’re brothers, if you couldn’t tell.”

  Rhonda shook both their hands. The older one, Bubba, probably in his thirties, had short hair and a military insignia tattooed on his upper arm. Bo, who appeared to be in his twenties, sported long hair tied in a single braid and a red bandana.

  “Welcome aboard the ground crew,” he said with a smile. “We ain’t pretty, but we get the job done, whatever job needs doing.”

  The strains of a powwow song bellowed from Billy’s back pocket, and he reached around to extract his singing cell phone.

  “If we don’t know how to do something, we fake it till we make it,” he told Rhonda before taking the call. After listening intently for a few seconds, he said to the caller, “Be there in a flash to get ’em.”

  He ended the call, turned back to his crew, and said, “Those walkie-talkie radios finally came in, guys. We can go pick them up.”

  Realizing that he now had a new addition to the crew who wasn’t a guy, he corrected himself. “Oops. Sorry. Not used to having a girl—”

  “Now don’t start getting all soft on me,” Rhonda said with a friendly grin. “You can think of me as just one of the guys.”

  That satisfied Billy, and off he marched, with the brothers and Rhonda not far behind.

  They headed toward a large green army tent that stood near the north end of the camp. A plywood sign beside it read simply “HQ,” for headquarters.

  Inside the tent, tables, chairs, and various kinds of equipment had been set up, including portable TVs, radios, and laptop computers. Rhonda could hear the sound of a generator running outside the tent that provided electricity for the electrical gear.

  On one table sat four rows of charging bases that held four walkie-talkies each. Billy pulled radios for himself and his three assistants out of their chargers and showed Rhonda how to use hers. Then he made sure they were all tuned to the same frequency.

  “We’ve got to get to the south end of the encampment to lay out a grid,” Billy told them while leading them toward a pickup truck. “They’re expecting more campers to start arriving tonight and tomorrow.”

  And off they went.

  As they tackled whatever job needed doing the rest of the day, they got used to each other’s way of working. They quickly and easily gelled into a team. The tasks alternated between muscle work and brain work. Some tasks required a strong back, so Rhonda allowed the boys to handle those heavier loads. Other duties called for a quick mind to figure out how to get a job done, often without the proper tools or hardware at hand. That’s where Rhonda seemed to shine, again thanks to skills learned from Uncle Floyd.

  The day passed quickly, and before Rhonda realized it, the sun was casting long, late-afternoon shadows on the ground. Billy told his team to take a quick break.

  As Rhonda took a long, slow drink of water from a tin cup that hung from the big, plastic water tank near the kitchen, she saw a caravan of cars, trucks, and vans moving down the road that ran along the west side of the camp.

  “We ain’t done yet,” Billy’s voice boomed from Rhonda’s radio. “We’ve got to make sure the folks in that caravan pull into the new camping sites we set up. Come on!”

  Rhonda took one final gulp and ran off to catch up. From that moment forward, it seemed like everything in the camp shifted into high gear.

  That night Rhonda collapsed into her bedroll with satisfied exhaustion and had the most peaceful sleep of her seventeen years of life.

  Early next morning, she awoke to the smell of coffee. Her eyes opened to find Pam standing at the foot of her bedroll holding two cups of the stuff.

  “It’s morning already?” Rhonda sleepily asked in disbelief. “Feels like I just closed my eyes a minute ago.”

  “Time for a sunrise ceremony,” Pam said, thrusting a cup toward her. “The International Council of Native Youth are hosting it at our new Spirit Camp lodge.”

  That got Rhonda awake and excited.

  “We have a Spirit Camp lodge?” she asked as she slipped on a shirt and pair of jeans. “When did that happen?”

  “While you were off being one of the guys,” Pam replied.

  Rhonda took a sip of caffeine juice to see how hot it was and found that it was just right. She slurped half the cup in a couple of gulps before following Pam out of the lodge. They headed north along the river.

  “So who loaned us the lodge and the ground to put it on?” Rhonda asked as they walked.

  “It’s a twofer,” Pam said jokingly.

  “A what?”

  “A twofer,” Pam repeated. “We got the lodge and the land from the same person. And on top of that, the lodge had already been put up.”

  “That’s awesome,” Rhonda said as she finished off her coffee. “So, who do we have to thank for all that?”

  “Elder Maxine Little Moon,” Pam said. “This encampment sits on property her family owns just outside the reservation boundary, and she put up the first protest lodge here. She offered it for our use.”

  “Cool,” Rhonda said. “Totally cool.”

  “Oh, and everyone just calls her Grandma,” Pam said. “She’s everybody’s grandmother around here.”

  “She sounds nothing like my grandmother,” Rhonda said. “I’d like to meet her.”

  “You will, in just a few minutes,” Pam said as the pair approached the Spirit Camp.

  A large, beautifully pain
ted tipi sat on a low hill overlooking the river and the rest of the camp. Parked beside the tipi was a tan-and-green RV that displayed the word “Winnebago” in gold letters on one side.

  The door flap of the tipi faced eastward toward the rising sun. Pam and Rhonda entered. Inside the lodge, the young Natives of the International Council of Native Youth were gathered around Maxine Little Moon—Grandma. The elder was seated on a small wooden bench. Pam led Rhonda over to the gathering.

  “Sorry we’re late,” she said as they entered the circle of people.

  “Come here, child,” Grandma said to Rhonda. The twinkle in her eyes accented her kind and wrinkled face. “Let me get a better look at you.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Rhonda approached the elder.

  “Give me your hand,” the woman said in a quiet, comforting voice.

  Rhonda reached out her left hand, palm down. With a smile, Grandma reached out her own hand, palm up, and took hold of Rhonda’s with a gentle but firm grip. Then the elder placed her other hand on top of Rhonda’s and looked into the girl’s eyes.

  “I’m so glad you decided to stay with us,” Grandma said. “Pam told me how you brought donations from your reservation and felt like you belonged here.”

  Without breaking contact with Rhonda’s eyes, Grandma turned the girl’s hand over and gently rubbed the teen’s forearm and wrist. There, of course, the elder felt the three-month-old scars left by the razor blade. Normally, Rhonda would have flinched or pulled her arm back, but she didn’t.

  The old woman’s gaze penetrated the girl’s defenses and seemed to strip her soul bare. But it wasn’t a threatening gaze. It felt to Rhonda like she was being bathed in a warm pool of soothing energy.

  “Many people, young and old, Native and non-Native, are coming here to save Mother Earth and fight against the pipeline,” Grandma said in a quiet voice. “But they’re really coming here to heal themselves, to save themselves. Just like you, young lady.”

  Rhonda’s eyes began to water, as deep emotion welled up inside her. How did this woman know?

  “If you wouldn’t mind keeping an old lady company,” Grandma said, still looking into Rhonda’s eyes, “I’d like to invite you stay with me while you’re here at the camp.”

  A whispered gasp spread through the circle of youth, any one of whom would have given up their smartphone for such an invitation.

  “I … I don’t know what to say,” Rhonda replied.

  “Just say yes, dear,” Grandma said. “That’s all you have to say.”

  “Yes,” Rhonda answered. “Of course, yes.”

  Grandma patted Rhonda’s hand and turned to the rest of the group.

  “Every one of you is invited to bring your tents or tipis or minivans—whatever you’re staying in—up here to the Spirit Camp,” she said. “This place is yours to use, and I expect great things from you.”

  That brought big grins to all their faces.

  “Now, let’s get that sunrise ceremony done,” she said.

  After the ceremony, Rhonda returned to the women’s lodge to retrieve her sleeping bag and other belongings. Then she scurried back to the Spirit Camp lodge to deposit them. Just as she was about to enter the tipi, Grandma called out to her from the RV.

  “Bring your things over here, girl,” she said. “I’ve got a bad back and painful arthritis. I don’t sleep in a bedroll on the ground. You’re staying with me here in my mobile home where the coffeemaker and microwave oven are.”

  Rhonda could barely believe her ears. But even though she felt a little guilty about abandoning the rest of the youth council, the girl happily headed for the motorized shelter.

  “Are you sure?” she asked as she laid her things down on the floor of the RV.

  “Absolutely,” Grandma said. “You’ll thank me later.”

  After getting a welcoming hug from the elder, Rhonda headed off to find the ground crew and begin another day in the encampment. Her mind danced with feelings of hope she had almost forgotten.

  Over the next few days, life in the camp developed a steady rhythm. Cars, vans, and trucks filled with campers continued to roll in. New tents and tipis sprang up on the land that stretched from the Spirit Camp in the north to the reservation entrance sign to the south, and from the blacktop road on the east side to the river on the west side.

  As Grandma had said, people of all colors, races, and ages poured into the area. The encampment became a little city, and campers were encouraged to stop by the HQ tent to sign up for various duties. In addition to kitchen and ground crew duties, you could sign up to be supply runners, sign makers, trash collectors, porta-potty sanitizers, day-care providers, food and clothing donation sorters, and a dozen other jobs.

  Most people wanted to primarily serve as pipeline protestors, the main reason the camp existed, the main reason they were all there. But the whole objective would be undermined and turned into messy chaos unless everyone also took on these additional duties.

  No traditional Native event or activity could succeed without a ceremonial or spiritual center. The encampment was founded with ceremony and continued to function with ceremony. Spiritual leaders from the Seven Fires of the Great Sioux Nation had supervised these ritual duties from the beginning. Their own Seven Fires Camp had been established just inside the Standing Stone reservation border near the highway.

  Members of the seven tribes of Sioux people congregated and camped at or near the Seven Fires Camp, and their numbers were growing right along with the number of campers on Grandma Maxine’s family land.

  Just as the encampment had grown into a city, so had the ranks of demonstrators grown into an entire army of peaceful protesters. Daily, the pipeline workers watched as more and more people joined the protest and the single line developed into a dense crowd.

  CHAPTER

  9

  A Victory and a Warning

  The very next morning, Rhonda awoke to the ground-shaking growls of mechanized earth-moving equipment. One by one, the bulldozers, dump trucks, and motorized ditchdiggers rumbled to life.

  Peeking through a curtain in Grandma’s RV, the teen saw the machines off in the distance taking up positions to resume their creation of the hated Black Snake. Quickly, Rhonda threw on some clothes and headed out of the RV. She intended to go next door to the Spirit Camp lodge but saw dozens of sign-carrying campers rushing northward toward the site of construction.

  “What’s the plan?” Rhonda asked Pam, who was coming out of the Spirit Camp lodge.

  “Last night, the leaders of the Seven Fires Camp voted to lay down in front of the machinery when construction began again,” Pam explained. “Many people volunteered to do that.”

  “That sounds so crazy and dangerous!” Rhonda exclaimed. “What are you going to do?”

  “I still have my camp job, and so do you,” Pam replied. “Now those jobs are more important than ever. We’ve got to keep the camp running as smoothly as possible so frontline people can do what they need to do.”

  Just then Grandma Little Moon stuck her head out of the RV and called out to Rhonda.

  “Climb up on the roof of the RV and take selfies or chat-snaps or whatever you young people do,” she said. “Post ’em on Spacebook or My Face or Twittergram—one of those.”

  Rhonda scanned the outside of the RV and found a ladder attached to the back of it.

  “Great idea, Grandma!”

  Rhonda raced up the ladder, reached the roof, and took in the view. About two hundred yards to the west of the blacktop road, protesters began lying down on the ground. Rhonda whipped out her phone and began recording. But she was too far from the action, and she couldn’t clearly see what was happening, even when the lens was zoomed in all the way.

  After she climbed down the ladder, Rhonda explained her problem to Grandma Maxine.

  “We gotta get you closer,” Grandma said, grabbing a set of keys attached to a beaded keychain. “Follow me.”

  Grandma led Rhonda around to the other side of
the RV, where an aging red Ford Ranger pickup truck sat. A sticker in the back window read, “COLUMBUS WAS AN ILLEGAL ALIEN.”

  “Get in, and I’ll drive you over there,” Grandma said as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  The engine roared to life as Rhonda climbed into the passenger side. Kicking up a cloud of dust, the pickup raced away from the RV. As they turned onto the gravel road, Rhonda could more clearly see what was unfolding ahead of them.

  “Stop here!” Rhonda yelled as they reached the perfect place to film everything.

  She jumped out of the passenger seat, climbed into the truck bed, and pulled out her phone. Steadying the phone’s camera by resting her elbows on the cab of the truck, Rhonda began recording.

  Row after row of people of all ages, colors, and sizes laid their bodies out directly in the path of the big equipment. Back near the machinery, a man wearing a hard hat and an orange vest raised his hand over his head and signaled the drivers to move forward. He must be the foreman, Rhonda thought.

  Shifting gears, the massive machines with their gigantic tires inched toward the defenseless protesters. On the ground, the Water Protectors chanted in unison, “Water is life. We are life. We are the water!”

  As the foreman continued to urge his drivers onward, and more people took up a place in their path, Rhonda’s phone camera caught all of it.

  When the lead bulldozer was within ten feet of the first line of protectors, the foreman signaled the driver to stop. Raising a powered megaphone to his mouth, he spoke to the people lined up on the ground.

  “You are trespassing on federally restricted land,” the man told them. “This project has received all the documentation required to continue construction. Unless you move out of the way now, you will be forcibly removed.”

  At that point, a Native man lying in the front row of protectors stood up and faced the fellow protectors. The large round patch on the back of his blue denim jacket said, “OIL SPOILS WATER.” Putting a hand to the side of his mouth, he let loose a blood-curdling war cry maybe not heard since the days of his ancestor warriors of the plains. As if rehearsed, the entire body of protectors stood and stepped toward the line of big-wheeled construction equipment.