On the first Sunday of Advent, Chief Guy White Thunder slowly rises with the morning sun. He puts on his tattered housecoat and ambles into the kitchen next to his bedroom, not an easy trek for an eighty-nine-year-old man with aging hips, strong hands from years of hard labor, aging knees, and frail ankles. He puts a pot of water on the stove to boil, sits down at the old Formica kitchen table. Guy’s long, gnarly fingers gingerly roll a cigarette from the Bugler tobacco Suzy White Thunder brought to him. He’s lucky to have such a thoughtful daughter-in-law; he must remember to thank her again for being so respectful to elders. Deeply inhaling the sweet smoke, he thinks about his many accomplishments, how he stopped the uranium miners, brought solar energy to the reservation, organized the Grey Eagle Society, fought for the return of Páha Sápa, advocated speaking Lakota at all the council meetings, worked with the United Nations on international treaty rights. He remembers his travels to New York, Washington, D.C., Germany, and Switzerland. I’ve fought the good fight, he thinks, but I’m too tired, too old to fight anymore.
By now his fifty-seven-year-old youngest son, Anthony, is up, putting coffee into the boiling water, rolling his cigarette. He asks Guy if he wants coffee. Guy mumbles incoherently, which Anthony interprets as a yes. He pours. The two men sit smoking, sipping coffee; they look out the kitchen window through the thin, nicotine-stained curtains Mary White Thunder hung years ago, one of the few signs a woman once lived in this house. The sun is bright; perhaps the snow on the ground will melt today.
Guy stands up tall, squares his shoulders like those of a much younger man. In a clear voice, he says, “I’ve got to go now.”
Anthony thinks little of this as his dad walks back into the bedroom. Perhaps he needs more sleep. Guy White Thunder closes the door and walks over to the old rocking chair; he sits down, closes his eyes, and takes one last breath. A few hours later, I receive an e-mail from Vernell. A one-liner, it reads: “My father passed into the spirit world today.”
This message brings tears to my eyes. I tell my wife, Jackie, “I’m going back to the reservation. The Chief of the Chiefs, Vernell’s dad, has died. I must go.” The full draft of this book is nearly finished, but it will have to wait.
Like a president lying in state, Chief White Thunder is placed in an open casket in a community hall behind the Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic church in Kyle. Beside him is his Eagle Staff, wrapped in soft buffalo hide, eagle feathers attached to the red banner down its length, signifying his honor as an akicita, a leader who has earned distinction. Resting atop the curvature of the staff is his chief’s war bonnet with its stunning black-tipped eagle feathers and extraordinary beadwork and quillwork. Directly behind him is a large honorary banner from the Oglala Lakota Nation. It depicts a circle of nine tepees representing the nine districts of the Pine Ridge reservation; across the top are the words GUY HOBART WHITE THUNDER, and on one side, CHIEF, COUNCIL OF ELDERS. Hung across the back wall are dozens of beautiful handmade star quilts of every color imaginable. Resting on tables in front of these quilts on equally beautiful blankets are framed photographs of Chief White Thunder on horseback, with friends and family, with tribal officials. Also sympathy cards, flowers, candles, newspaper and magazine articles, citations, more star quilts, boxes of decorated cakes like those you might find at a birthday or anniversary party. The frosting design on one cake depicts a black buffalo standing in front of two crisscrossing peace pipes, with lettering that says: “In Memory of Uncle Guy.” I can’t help but notice that the label on the cake box indicates that it is from the Whiteclay Grocery & Cake Shop; at least they sell something in Whiteclay besides beer. There are six of these cakes.
Chief White Thunder’s body lies serenely in state for two days and two nights. Thousands come to bid him farewell, express their condolences to his family. Fellow warriors, elders, their faces wrinkled and spotted with age, missing teeth, some with tears in their eyes, many using canes and walking sticks. Grandmothers, their strides noticeably short. Some need walkers; at least one is in a wheelchair. They watch over young children who fidget and want to run about but are told to stand or sit still. Rugged middle-aged men with headscarves, hunting caps, dust-stained cowboy hats, one of which has a headband with the name Indian Joe. Young men with tattoos, buzz cuts, and ponytails, Tupac T-shirts, unbuttoned long-sleeved Western shirts hanging outside their pants, some wearing hoodies, basketball shoes, and work boots. Mothers with sad faces and beaded chokers, many wearing warm jackets, as the air is chilly inside this hall. They come and keep on coming. Some stay a short while, others sit for a long time in one of the folding chairs, meditating or quietly talking to one another. The tribal president drops by; many of the council members too. All acknowledge Guy’s greatness, how kind he was, how they will miss him. Some stand up to say a few public words. One is the great medicine man Crow Dog; even with his walking stick, he needs help getting to the front, where he recites a prayer over White Thunder’s body and then turns to address the people present. Most of his teeth are missing, yet he speaks loud and clear. His message is in Lakota, but I can tell it is well received; there are many haus and much nodding of heads.
* * *
During all this time, Suzy and her few helpers are in the kitchen, chopping vegetables; stirring pots of beef broth; making white-bread-and-bologna sandwiches, endless pots of coffee, and Kool-Aid for the kids; baking cookies in the oven. Everyone hungry must be fed. The women scurry back and forth into the main hall with plates of food, stacks of paper plates, napkins, and Styrofoam cups. I ask her if she needs help. She smiles, thanks me, but says it won’t be necessary. I get the message; men are out of place in Lakota kitchens. Still, I make myself useful, taking empty plates to the trash and driving Vernell on numerous errands, one to a meat locker behind someone’s house where he picks up eighty pounds of frozen buffalo meat for Friday’s post-funeral feast. Another to the border town of Interior, South Dakota, past Cowboy Corner gas station to the Badland’s Grocery store, arguably a misnomer as they sell no fruits, vegetables, or dairy products. He’s on friendly terms with the pleasant chain-smoking owner, a blond lady named Carrie; he jokes with her and buys more star quilts, as if there aren’t enough already. Each quilt is four hundred dollars; he pays for them with cash from a big roll of twenties. “Have to make sure all the old people are warm this winter,” he says.
Driving across the Badlands back to Kyle, Vernell tells me that Carrie and her husband are nice to him because he leases land to them for raising cattle. “I like them,” he says, “so I give them favorable terms.” It’s none of my business, but I say to him, “What’s with all those twenty-dollar bills?”
“Had to pick up some money from the bank in Martin,” he replies. “They gave me nine thousand dollars in twenties.”
“And what did you use for collateral?”
“Oh, nothing,” Vernell says. “I just call up the bank president when I need money and go visit him in his office. I tell him a joke or two, and he gives me the money. The interest is only two percent; I always pay it back.”
“That’s amazing, Vernell. I wish I could do that.”
“Helps to have an eight-point-five credit score,” he says. “I am one of the few Indians who knows how to manage his money—all of five bucks.”
On Friday morning, the day of the funeral, I leave the Prairie Ranch Resort, where I am staying, at around eight a.m. and head straight for the Community Hall. The day is bright and clear—it will probably warm up by afternoon. The service is not for a few hours, but I want to be there if Vernell or Suzy needs help. As I drive up, I see that Vernell and two of his friends already have the outdoor cooking pots going for the buffalo stew that will feed several hundred people. They are laughing; I assume Vernell has told them one of his jokes. While he is terribly sad that his father has walked on to the spirit world, he makes irreverent comments such as “I’m glad to get rid of him—he was always up to no good.”
There are twenty or so cars parked out front; several young men stand around quietly talking. An older woman dressed in black, wearing sunglasses, is on the front deck smoking a cigarette; she looks drunk, but maybe she’s just sad. The man I recognize as Indian Joe is forlorn; he stands with his hands in his pockets, blankly staring out onto the road. I notice the gaping holes in his red-and-gray plaid shirt, the black smudges on his old insulated winter vest, wonder if he’s here because he was one of Guy White Thunder’s friends or if he’s just hungry for food and companionship. Excusing myself, I walk past him through the door. I have a sense that today there will be more sadness than yesterday. As the hour draws near for people to say a final good-bye to the old chief, the mood will get heavier, not just for his loss but for the passing of another generation—the links to the old ways are ever more tenuous.
Inside, Suzy is talking to her daughter, Ellen White Thunder, a stunningly attractive young woman whom I have not seen since she was a little girl. I’m thrilled that she is here along with her brother, Chris White Thunder; I’m hopeful there will be an opportunity for them to reconnect with Vernell, smooth over whatever was keeping them apart. “Ellen,” I remark, “is that you?” and even while a tear rolls down her cheek, she gives me a hug, says, “It is nice to see you,” and asks me about Jackie.
“Jackie,” she says, “had a big influence on me. She taught me that women can be elegant, took me for lunch in downtown San Francisco, where I had my first bottle of mineral water.”
“That’s wonderful. She will be happy to hear that.”
Chris is across the room; a gorgeous young man with movie-star looks (such genetics these White Thunders have!), he lives in a Denver suburb, works as a race-car mechanic, and is very active in the Stronghold Society, a Native American nonprofit that builds skateboard parks on the reservations, including one in Pine Ridge. Chris married a woman named Estella, who also grew up in Kyle; they have three children, a teenage girl and boy from Estella’s previous marriage and a four-year-old daughter named Autumn Wind.
Ellen and Chris have strong feelings for the reservation; both are glad they grew up here. Ellen says she would move back if she could pursue her career as an architectural engineer here, but that is unlikely. Chris says he just cannot tolerate the harsh weather.
I am surprised at how quickly the hall fills up. They say Indians are always late, and it has been my experience that this is true. Powwows, parades, football games, meetings—no one bothers showing up until at least forty-five minutes past the starting time, but today is different. People arrive early. Many quietly take their seats; others hug Suzy, touch Vernell on the shoulder, file past the coffin, look at the photographs, the array of star quilts. Every hour, it seems, another donated star quilt arrives.
Rooted in tradition, Guy White Thunder never missed a powwow or Sun Dance. He spoke fluent Lakota and believed in the values of the traditional ways, and yet, like many of his generation, he also went to a Christian church. He was Catholic, as was the great chief Red Cloud. Vernell tells me his father once sought to be a deacon. This is a strange testament, I think, to the ineffectiveness of the church’s efforts to stamp out native culture; people come, they kneel on the kneeling benches, recite the Lord’s Prayer, take communion, confess, and then go home in time for a yuwipi ceremony. Over time, as has happened in many places, the Catholic Church in Kyle has slowly become an amalgamation. If it is to survive—which is by no means certain as younger people disdain the missionaries—it must become ever more Lakota and less European. Father Rick, the first to speak during Chief White Thunder’s service, has gotten this message. Every time he mentions God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit, it is followed by Tunkashila, which means grandfather, great spirit. In the name of the Father, Tunkashila, and of the Son, Tunkashila, and the Holy Spirit, Tunkashila, amen. No one seems to listen to Father Rick; mercifully, he keeps his presentation short.
All during the day, before and after the service at various intervals, and at the burial that comes later, a group of Lakota singers beat the powwow drum and sing high-pitched, soul-stirring songs. There are other speakers. Ellen is the most passionate. People listen and empathize with her, and this is good, but Vernell’s talk is the most riveting. When he speaks, the room is completely quiet; even the children are silent. He thanks people for coming and then speaks in Lakota for several minutes. I do not know what he says, but the sentences are short with halting pauses, emotional; they clearly resonate with his people. A flood of feelings passes through me as I realize for the first time that Vernell will likely take his father’s place as chief of the Elder Council. While it is not automatic, the chances are good that he too will be the Chief of the Chiefs. Should this come to pass, Vernell will focus his immense energies on Pine Ridge, and with his law degree, his resources, and his passion for always doing the right thing, who knows what changes may occur. I can only hope to be around to see his dreams come true. Near the end of this talk, Vernell reverts to English. He says, “The one thing I will never forget about my dad is how he loved the children. He always smiled when they were around, took time to play with them and to teach them; more than others, he realized they are our future. To honor him, all you have to do is take care of and love your children.”
Father Rick says a closing prayer, one Tunkashila for every Jesus. People line up, file by the front of the hall, and look again at the photographs and other objects on the tables. At the casket, they stop to bid Chief White Thunder farewell on his journey to the Happy Hunting Grounds, and then move on to the front row of chairs to commiserate with Vernell and Suzy. Once everyone has made this journey, it is time for the feast. Within minutes, the room is reconfigured; long tables are set up, with chairs positioned around them. Another line forms, this time at a table in the back—everyone gets a bowl of buffalo stew, a plate of potato salad, and fry bread. As always, there are big pots of freshly brewed coffee, Kool-Aid for the kids. The donated cakes are for dessert. As people eat, the mood in the hall lightens, and there is much talking and laughter.
With my help and help from Chris and Ellen, Vernell and Suzy take down all the star quilts, fold them, and pile them in front of the casket, which is now closed. From outside, they bring in new pillows wrapped in plastic and dozens of plastic baskets and laundry tubs spilling over with household items—dish towels, hairbrushes, travel mugs, food storage containers, stuffed toys, children’s books, crayons, and many other things.
Vernell asks for everyone’s attention. It’s time for the giving of the gifts. First, he calls up the singers and gives them money and small gifts, then he calls people one by one. The elder women and some elder men receive star quilts and pillows. Younger adults get baskets; some get blankets. The more needy you are, the better your gift. People are very happy. Some skip back to their chairs; some cry.
Gift giving is a Lakota tradition, not only after funerals, but also on other occasions. There is even a specific Giving of the Gifts ceremony. It is a method of redistributing wealth, an idealistic socialist concept, for sure, the Lakota way of helping their poor. And it serves another purpose. It might seem counterintuitive, but the more you give, the wealthier you are; you gain stature, people look to you for leadership. Many years ago I was privileged to be at a Giving of the Gifts ceremony in Kyle held in an open field on a sultry summer night, the only light coming from the moon and a large campfire. It began with small things, but as the evening wore on, people gave more and more extravagant gifts, even horses and cars.
Vernell gives and gives until all that remains are the toys and children’s books. He calls up the children, tells them to take what they want. They don’t run up and grab. They shyly approach the remaining pile, gingerly take one or two things; there are no disputes—they have been taught to share.
Done with the business of eating and giving, reluctantly they must now get on with the business of burying the old chief. It is time to take his casket outside and load it on the horse-drawn wagon for the procession to Vernell’s White Thunder Ranch, where it will be transferred to one of his pickup trucks for the long ride to the Inestimable Gift Cemetery outside neighboring Allen, South Dakota, near Bear-in-the-Lodge Creek.
Realizing that once they get going, there will be no way to go around the line of horses, the wagon, and the automobiles, I leave first, drive a mile or two, and find a hill near the roadway that I can climb for taking pictures. It is an inspiring sight. Riding a fine-looking black stallion and leading an equally exquisite black-and-white riderless Indian pony, symbol of the fallen warrior, Vernell is in front, followed by the horse-drawn wagon. The pallbearers, grandchildren of Chief White Thunder, ride along with the casket; behind them are some of Vernell’s Big Foot riders, all on horseback. A long line of cars follow, many with their lights on. Vehicles coming from the opposite direction pull over, wait respectfully for the assemblage to pass. A few older people get out of their cars, stand at attention; some even salute. As the riders draw near to where I stand, Chris White Thunder jumps down from the wagon and starts running. Tears flow down his cheeks as he runs the rest of the way to the ranch. Later he tells me his grandfather was a runner; that was Chris’s way to honor him.
When we arrive at the cemetery, it is nearly sunset. Along with the others, I park my car on the dirt road out front. The pickup truck carrying the casket goes through an open field on the side of the graveyard to the burial site. Long shadows fall across the wrought-iron gateway entrance, but the sun still brightly lights up the overhead archway; the words INESTIMABLE GIFT shout out in bold black lettering. It is definitely Catholic; just inside the gate is a gigantic concrete Roman cross.
Because most of the people arrived before me, I suppose I should be in a hurry to catch up with them, but the haunting beauty of this strange place has me lingering. There are many wooden crosses, some new, some very old, some falling apart, and among them a few tombstones. The names are not all legible because these graves date back to 1900. The first to catch my eye, past the gate and to the right, is a wooden cross with the name CONQUERING BEAR painted on the crossbar. I wonder if the person buried here is the Conquering Bear, who was killed by soldiers near Fort Laramie in retaliation for the unfortunate theft of a Mormon cow, or if it is one of his descendants.
I stumble along the uneven ground. There is a whole section of Bad Wounds: Cecelia Bad Wound, Oliver, Jacob, Mary, three Roberts, Stella, Willie, but thankfully no Elgin Bad Wound. Buried near the Bad Wounds is Daniel Dull Knife, grandson of the great Cheyenne chief who fled the prison barracks at Fort Robinson. Daniel lived in Yellow Bear Canyon, was friends with Vernell’s maternal grandfather, Poor Thunder. Vernell called him uncle. I see many Black Bears, Bald Eagles, Whirlwind Horses, Red Shirts, Moccasin Tops, Standing Bears, Prairie Chickens, Bear Killers, Fast Horses, Fire Thunders, Hard Hearts, Last Horses, and Slow Dogs, but only one Runs After Crow. A testament to French trappers marrying Lakota women, there are groupings of Roulards, Shangreaus, and Dubrays.
It seems like a long hike, but I finally reach the White Thunder corner of these burial grounds. Here, most of the graves are marked with wooden crosses, but the inscription on one with a tombstone catches my attention: WHITE THUNDER: SAMUEL AND SALLIE, BORN 1917, DIED 1918. Obviously twins, did they die from the Spanish flu? An accident? At the appropriate time, I must ask Vernell about them.
Chief White Thunder’s casket, wrapped now in a splendid red blanket, held up by two logs, hangs above the freshly dug grave. Pallbearers and others stand around it. To one side is a tall pile of dirt. Father Rick says the Lord’s Prayer, and a medicine man I don’t recognize says a prayer in Lakota. George White Thunder, Vernell’s older brother, his head bowed, stands back with his hands in his jean jacket, looking at the ground. I imagine he is wondering what life is going to be like without his dad. Vernell too stands back, hands clasped behind his back holding his cowboy hat, head also bowed. The pallbearers lift the casket up with ropes, remove the logs, and then slowly lower it into the ground. The singers beat their drums, sing an old warrior song. Once the casket is on the bottom and the ropes have been removed, some of the men drop bits of sage into the tomb. One picks up a shovel and motions to George, who walks over, takes a handful of the dirt, holds his hand over the grave, and lets the dirt fall on the top of his father’s casket. Vernell follows, and then the others. Women and children quietly watch from the background; a little boy about five years old stands tall on the tailgate of the pickup truck that brought the casket to this place.
The drumming and singing continue. Father Rick is the last one to sprinkle dirt. People stand silently for a few minutes. Directly behind them, a full moon rises; it is the Moon of Shedding Horns, the time when male deer lose their antlers. Suddenly I realize why Vernell has so many shovels in his barn; as I see them laid out on the mound of dirt, I imagine they have been a part of many burials. First the pallbearers and then others start shoveling dirt into the grave. Chris White Thunder, wearing leather gloves, is on top of the pile; furiously he scoops shovelful after shovelful to the bottom, making it easier for everyone else. Ellen White Thunder joins in. All except Vernell and George lend a hand, even Father Rick. After the hole fills up, they keep on shoveling until there is a mound above the grave, carefully sculpted, so the top is perfectly flat. Placed on this surface are the flowers, wreaths, and potted plants from the funeral.
It is getting cold now. In small groups, by ones and twos, people start to leave. I walk back with the singers; tell them I hope they will sing at my funeral. They smile. A young boy asks me about my camera, says he wants to become a photographer. He says he is one of Vernell’s nephews; he goes to the Little Wound School.
* * *
Vernell stands by himself near the edge of the cemetery. There is one more task for him before the day is done. As a sign of his grief and respect for his father and as a symbol of his willingness to sacrifice for his people, Vernell asks the medicine man to cut off his ponytail.
I stand for the longest time watching Vernell, marveling at him, his sturdiness, his big heart. Finally he slowly turns around, walks back through the melancholic cemetery, says “hau” to his nephew, stops to shake my hand and offer me one of his nonsensical good wishes:
“Before you leave, David, don’t you want to know what it is all about?”
“No, but I’ll guess it is about money.’”
“No Jack Daniel’s for you!”
“What is it about, then?”
“It’s about land. All along, you wasicus have only cared about land. But this time it will be different. While you are busy stealing our land and as much of our wealth as you can, we’ll be building our Sinn Féin, gaining control of our reservation, and bringing back Wovoka. Imagine Indians dancing everywhere! Old blind Indians seeing again. Dead Indians come back to life, strong like young men. Imagine that whites can’t hurt Indians. Aromas from cooking pots. Buffalo everywhere. Plenty of grass in the spring.
“Imagine the medicine man saying, “‘Keep on dancing.’”