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Hoka hey!
Dedicated to Vernell White Thunder
and the Oglala Lakota Nation
We had buffalo for food, and their hides for clothing and our tipis. We preferred hunting to a life of idleness on the reservations, where we were driven against our will.… We preferred our own way of living. We were no expense to the government then. All we wanted was peace and to be left alone.
—CRAZY HORSE, “I HAVE SPOKEN”
OVERTURE
Sandhills Sandwich Town
I can still feel my wet bare feet
slippin’ on the hot summer concrete
coming home from your old swimming pool
Alliance, you are the Sandhills’ sandwich town
with country-fried-chicken hospitality
so proud to be white-skinned
churchgoing and somewhat dim
Bible school, Boy Scouts, and bigotry
the mighty Lakota Sioux falling-down drunk
in your gutters
unending arrests, subsequent suicides
four dead in the time it takes a life to begin
AND I WON’T LET YOU FORGET
Jo No Leaf
Chillo Whirlwind
Arthur Gene Black Horse
Irene Blackfeather
not even Clarence Pumpkin Seed
the 250 times you locked him up
before they found him frozen stiff
in Whiteclay
so picture Chillo, at eighteen he’s kicking
the wastebasket he’s standing on
picture his bath-towel necktie
picture Gene’s thin leather belt
and Jo’s wine-stained sweatshirt
picture them dangling
in your jail cells
after they cut the bodies down
picture poor Irene coughing her lungs out
your chief cop who thought
she was just inebriated
and your doctor whose sleep
was more important than her life
then picture
the agony of nails pounded through the hands
of Jesus Christ
—David Hugh Bunnell
Published in the Alliance Times-Herald
October 15, 1971
ACT ONE
Memory is like riding a trail at night with a lighted torch. The torch casts its light only so far, and beyond that is the darkness.
—OLD LAKOTA SAYING
ALLIANCE
NO DOGS OR INDIANS ALLOWED
What luxury to wake up naked, a crisp morning breeze coming through the open window, my legs curled together to keep myself warm, clean sheets, cheap but adequate pillows on a king-size bed in a motel room alone, peacefully listening to the chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp of a western meadowlark, the buzz of a single-prop plane high overhead, the deep crunch of train cars coupling in the nearby railroad yard. I have much to look forward to today. Good Friday. Today I take my little yellow Volkswagen rental on a 280-mile round-trip from my hometown, Alliance, Nebraska, to the poorest community in America, the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, to hang out with my blood brother Vernell White Thunder, whom I’ve talked hours to but haven’t seen in a long time; I just want to sit in his living room, drink copious amounts of Susie’s “cowboy coffee,” and relive the many profound and sometimes funny moments we’ve had over many years in many places—Kyle and Wanblee on the rez; me trying to teach him to spell, him trying to teach me how to ride horse bareback; our silly idea about drinking Navajo girls under the bar in downtown Albuquerque; our Indian horse ranch in Boulder, Colorado, which we named Tiyospaya; the little matter of the Buffalo Ranch; and the unresolved dispute over which of us danced with Jane Fonda. But first I must go for a swim.
Now residing in California, with my parents long gone and very few friends in the area, I don’t visit often. My Lebanese former in-laws still live here, and I love seeing them, but not staying in Alliance, which might well be the most boring town in America; people drive five miles an hour down the middle of main street, park on the wrong side of the road, smoke inside the stores. I try hard to stay healthy at the only motel with a swimming pool, but this is hardly a Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons. Perhaps it is a cut above the other motels here because it has an indoor swimming pool, but the pool is not long enough for lap swimming, and you can hardly get your heart pumping by splashing around. The best news is that they have a hot tub. I slip out of bed directly into my suit, grab the room key, head out, and amble down the hallway, only to discover a hand-scrawled sign on the door to the pool: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. So I march to the front desk to inquire how long the pool will be closed.
The twentysomething clerk, a local girl with orange-and-blue hair and numerous piercings, says, “All weekend.”
This is clearly wrong. I am on the verge of demanding a refund and moving across the road to the American Inn, which, by the way, is half the price. But before I start shouting, the older, mellow me emerges; obviously, this poor girl is powerless—she knows nothing about the pool, why it is closed, or why it will take all weekend to clean the scum off the surface.
I say, “Okay; thanks.”
I skulk back to my room next to the noisy soft drink vending machine to work out with the latex stretch bands I fortuitously stashed in my carry-on bag yesterday before taking an Uber to the Oakland Airport. Exercise is my elixir, my antidote to premature aging.
During the 1950s and ’60s, before America was thoroughly homogenized, when I still liked it here, Alliance had no Holiday Inn Express, Motel 6, McDonald’s, Kmart, Pizza Hut, 7-Eleven, or Dunkin’ Donuts. Hard to imagine, but we had two proper hotels: the downtown Drake Hotel and the Alliance Hotel across from the train station, both locally owned with real lobbies, bellhops, public dining rooms, full bars, and banquet halls. When my parents could afford it, I loved eating in these hotels—chicken-fried steak on mashed potatoes smothered with onion gravy was my go-to favorite. Alliance also had two drugstores with classic ’50s-style lunch counters, soda fountains, and jukeboxes. My mom worked at a shoe store called Howard’s—Howard and his wife were family friends—and my dad was the editor of the local paper. My best friend Nace’s dad worked at the Maytag appliance store, one of the few national businesses. There were three ice cream stands, one of which stayed open all year round even when the temperature dipped below zero, and two family hamburger places, the better of which was Rex’s Hamburgers, where they sold fifteen-cent miniature burgers fried in three inches of grease on a smoky-hot griddle, served in little square dinner rolls—juicy and delicious; my brother and I could eat dozens. The grocery stores were all family owned; no chains until a Safeway opened up in 1962. Hardware stores, auto shops, a lumberyard, the farm implement company, an honest-to-Jesus smoke-filled pool hall with eight-ball and snooker tables, a drive-in movie theater where you could eat popcorn and lose you
r virginity while watching Jerry Lewis in The Bellboy, and a downtown movie theater that sponsored Saturday morning kiddie shows where during intermission Pepe the Clown (local sign painter Leonard Glarum) would drive his toy clown car out on the stage, make silly jokes, and hand out dorky prizes. Strategically located next to the movie theater was a candy store, and not far away were an all-night bakery and a doughnut shop.
Unlike with today’s big-box stores in small-town franchise-dominated economies, most of the money made in Alliance stayed in Alliance; it was not siphoned off to some distant corporate headquarters in the Cayman Islands. People in Alliance felt prosperous and safe; they seldom bothered to lock their houses or car doors. On my tenth birthday, my parents gave me a Black Phantom Schwinn bicycle that elevated my status among my friends and brought me freedom and great joy. I could pedal anywhere—to the swimming pool, school, the movies, friends’ houses, the soda fountain—and park without worry. My bike would be there when I needed it. I wasn’t even aware that there was such a thing as a bicycle lock, much less a bicycle thief.
We lived in a Norman Rockwell painting during the 1950s, then moved on to American Graffiti in the ’60s. Lily-white Alliance had one poor black family, the Chandlers. An iconic sight was Old Man Hayes Chandler driving his horse and wagon through the alleyways to haul away discarded things for housewives. When I was a small boy, like many local children when I saw Mr. Chandler, I waved and hollered, and he always stopped to give me a ride on the back of the wagon, all the way to the end of the block. His grandson Ernie was the star center on our high school basketball team, and his younger grandson, Leroy, was the star running back on the football team. He also had two granddaughters, and there was a grandmother, Florence, but no parents in the Chandler household, as the grandchildren’s mother, Myrtle—Hayes’s daughter—died giving birth to her last child.
Alliance had a handful of Mexicans, mostly seasonal farm laborers who lived outside of town in field-side shanties provided by the farmers who hired them to pick sugar beets and potatoes. The few other Mexicans were “true” Mexican-Americans, people whose families preceded Europeans in settling in the Southwest from Texas to California, and also next-door Colorado—a vast swath of North America, which before the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was part of Mexico. One of these was my classmate and friend Tom Flores, a handsomely chiseled brown-skinned boy with a magnetic smile who was a track and wrestling star yet couldn’t get a date to the prom.
* * *
The only significant minority in Alliance was the indigenous population—four hundred or five hundred tortured souls—Native Americans, mostly Lakota, whom white people, when they weren’t using pejoratives such as “Injun,” “redskin,” or “savage,” referred to as Sioux, slang for “snake,” a nickname given to them by early French trappers. Some had families who had lived in Alliance for generations; others had been recruited from the reservations in South Dakota during World War II to help build the Alliance Army Airfield, which served as a training center for paratroopers and military police attack dogs. Some had arrived more recently for part-time work in the beet and potato fields, to break horses on nearby ranches, or to sweep sidewalks and shovel snow for local businesses. Many traveled back and forth from the reservations; others became permanent residents. Vernell White Thunder’s mom and dad met in Alliance during the summer of 1952, when they were picking potatoes. They got married, moved to Kyle, and never returned. Had they stayed, Vernell and I likely would have grown up in the same small town, but it is unlikely we would have met because I am seven years his senior. Or perhaps not. Vernell’s outgoing personality has led him to become acquainted with many people of all ages, native and white. My first wife, Linda, and I got to know Vernell when he started hanging out in our Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) teacher housing unit in Kyle at age twelve, and other than him and his younger brother, Anthony, we got to know very few students, as fraternization with teachers was frowned upon. Had Vernell been born in Alliance, like most Lakota he would have lived in a squalid tent city on the other side of the railroad tracks that looked like a Middle East refugee camp. I can remember peering out the back window of our car when my dad drove by “Indian Town,” wondering why the Indians didn’t live in tepees. When the snow melted or when it rained, the area around the tents and the dirt roads turned into gooey mud intertwined with puddles of burnt umber. It was impossible for children or adults to keep the muck off their shoes, much less keep it out of the tents. During severe blizzards or thunderstorms, people were forced to use galvanized buckets for going to the bathroom, later disposing of the waste in one of the outdoor johns. There were no baths or showers. When people got sick, a frequent occurrence among children and elders, the local doctors refused to see them unless they paid an office visit fee of seven dollars ahead of time. Otherwise they had to brave out their illnesses or somehow travel to the Indian clinic in Pine Ridge.
As a young boy, I wasn’t conscious of all these indignities and many others, but I do remember the ubiquitous NO DOGS OR INDIANS ALLOWED signs. They were displayed in the hotels and café windows, above cash registers, and even used as neon signs outside the bars. Most folks in Alliance said you should ignore the ugliness, but thanks to working on my dad’s newspaper, I knew what racism was. I had seen photographs of the fire hoses, read the racists’ insults and found them offensive, and never believed you should “turn the other cheek.” If the intention of these local bigots was to denigrate the local natives, for me, it only elevated the natives. The Native Americans I got to know were exuberant, expressive, creative, and fun. Perhaps this explains why two of my best grade school friends, Timothy Good Shot and Elgin Bad Wound, were Indian boys. I was attracted to their craziness; they were wolf cubs who came right out of National Geographic, determined to live large no matter which direction they were pointed in. These Indian boys were different from my white friends. We bonded instantly. Beginning in the sixth grade, we met after school at the public basketball court in the park behind my house to scrimmage and play an endless shooting-skills game they appropriately called “Crazy Horse.” But then one day after spring break, Timothy failed to show up and, sadly, I never saw him again. I worried. Elgin said the Good Shots had moved back to the reservation so Timothy’s parents could enroll him in a government school, but I often wondered what became of him. When Elgin Wound disappeared too, I really started to worry, but eight years later I unexpectedly met up with him in the parking lot of the big shopping center in Pine Ridge during a Columbus Day protest demonstration, and I was amazed to learn that he had a PhD, was superintendent of the nearby Oglala Lakota College, wasn’t diabetic, and seemed to have a happy family with many children, each of them enjoying the powwow part of the protest, all into Indian Pride. But Elgin still knew nothing about the whereabouts of the Good Shots.
Because Indians in Alliance weren’t allowed in the bars, they drank in the streets and alleyways, and because public drunkenness was a crime, many were arrested, some frequently. Too poor to pay their fines, they languished in jail. To get out early, they worked on the street-sweeping and trash-hauling crews, and when the crews were shorthanded, the cops simply rounded up a few more Indians. How funny we thought their names were when we read about their arrests and court appearances in the newspaper—Arthur Big Mouth, Jesse Kicking Bear, Martha Lame Deer, and, in particular, Clarence Pumpkin Seed, because he was arrested and convicted 250 times. This absurdity ceased to be funny long before it ceased to be funny, when during a nine-month Hell span from October 1970 to June 1971, four Indian prisoners on four different occasions died or were murdered in the Alliance City Jail. As we liked to say back then, “The shit really hit the fan this time!”
Arthur Gene Black Horse, age twenty-seven, was the first to go. Busted for prowling and intoxication late on Friday night, October 30, Black Horse allegedly wrapped a thin leather belt around his neck and tied the end of it to a cell bar. Twice, they say, the leather broke; twice he tied it back together. When it fi
nally held long enough, Black Horse fell dead to the concrete floor, the belt dangling from the cell bar. Frequently arrested, mostly for drunkenness but once for removing a screen window from a house in the better part of town, Black Horse lived in a two-room shack with thirty-four other Indians, adults and children. Assuming the circumstances of his death as reported by the burly Alliance police chief Verlin Hutton are true, the obvious question is why did he have a belt? Was he properly searched? When Kansas City Star reporter Robert Dye asked Hutton about this, the police chief, staring at the belt in question curled into a tiny ball in his massive hand, said he didn’t know how Black Horse got it. “He may have hidden it inside his trousers.”
Hutton recalled that on the same day years ago, when he was a rookie cop, Black Horse’s father hanged himself from the family tent pole by tying a rope around his neck and simply sitting down. “Arthur Gene Black Horse,” he claimed, “told another inmate it was the anniversary of his father’s death.” Hutton speculated that grief had driven him to do it, and then added, “You know, the relatives who watched his father kill himself made no attempt to pick up a nearby ax to cut him down.”
Jo No Leaf, thirty-four, was next. A few weeks after Black Horse’s reported suicide, No Leaf allegedly used a water hose to hang himself in a shower stall in the drunk tank. Picked up for drinking in public and disturbing the peace, No Leaf had been in many drunken brawls; his jaw was wired shut from a recent fight. Refused admittance into the Alliance hospital, he somehow got to the hospital in Pine Ridge, was treated, and came back. Unable to eat, No Leaf sustained himself mostly on cheap wine that he sucked through a straw. No Leaf had no home; he usually slept in a dilapidated car in the city junkyard.
When asked why Alliance cops arrested drunken Indians while they never arrested intoxicated whites, Hutton remarked, “The Elks Club has a tendency to take care of their own.”
Good Friday on the Rez Page 1