Ohitika Woman

by Mary Brave Bird

  I do not want to give a wrong impression. There is good beside the bad on the res. Nature is beautiful, and there is bravery in the face of adversity. There is goodness and people helping each other, poor people sharing what they have with those who have even less. We have stouthearted women and great powwows, songs and ceremonies. We have our sacred medicine and eagles are still flying over the sandhills. But drinking is a great problem. I would like to dedicate this chapter to the Pima Indian Ira Hayes, hero of Iwo jima, holder of the Congressional Medal of Honor, who, being drunk, drowned in a ditch. He was one more victim of a country that has no use for its heroes if they happen to be Native Americans.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bleeding Always Stops If You Press Down Hard Enough

  In 1973, inside Wounded Knee, during the siege, volunteers set up a clinic. Mostly this was the work of our women. There were frequent firefights and as a result we had a number of people with gunshot wounds. I remember a sign tacked to the wall of our homemade “hospital”: BLEEDING ALWAYS STOPS IF YOU PRESS DOWN HARD ENOUGH. This was meant literally, but for me it was symbolic—in my mind Indian women are always pressing down hard to stop the bleeding of their hearts. It is not easy to be a Native American woman. In 1977, during a big honoring feast for Crow Dog, I was honored too. Two medicine men, Bill Eagle Feathers and Wallace Black Elk, gave me a new name—Ohitika Win, meaning Brave Woman. They painted the partition of my hair red and fastened an eagle plume to the side of my head, But I have a feeling that most of the Indian women I know are Ohitika Win, are very brave. You have to be to live under this government, in the shadow of poverty, scratching out a living and raising children amid the disintegration of so many of our old ways, the falling apart of our reservations.

  There has always been a contradiction between two different views our men hold in regard to us women. On the one hand, Lakota society was male-oriented, as is usual among tribes of nomadic hunter-warriors. It is among the sedentary corn-planting pueblos that society is women-oriented. In some ways we have overromanticized the good old days when the “red knights of the prairie,” the proud, hard-riding warriors, the “noble savages,” ruled the land west of the Missouri River, when millions of buffalo were there for the taking. Women held a place of honor then, but even at that time there were many customs that were not romantic at all. A man who got tired of his wife might step into the dance circle and throw a bone into the air, singing: “Like this I throw this woman away,” leaving her helpless and unprotected. A jealous husband could cut off the tip of his wife’s nose for adultery, to make her less attractive to others. But if he took a girl behind the bushes there was no cutting off his nose. Women did almost all the work. While young women and girls wore hair ropes between their legs, as a sort of chastity belt, to preserve their virtue, a young man might make a name for himself as a seducer, as if he had done a brave deed in war. Women gathered the wood, sometimes bent over under the weight of their burden. Early white settlers were astounded to see that Indian women could carry heavier loads than white men. Our women were up earlier than the men, fetching water from the stream. It was the women who put up or took down the tipi. There was a communication gap between male and female. To “speak with a woman” did not mean having a conversation, it meant wanting to make love. Some of this attitude is still expressed today through supposedly funny posters like: “Before the white man came, there were no taxes, no telephones, no jails, no nuthouses. Women did all the work. And the dumb white man thought he could improve upon a system like that.”

  The warrior’s excuse for letting the women do most of the work was that at all times he had to have his hands free to hunt, if there was an opportunity, or to defend his family in case of a sudden attack by enemies. There was some truth in this, though the men overdid it with their “must have my hands free” business. Yet a white man was wrong when he made this poem:

  Pity the poor squaw,

  Beast of burden and slave,

  Chained by tribal law

  From girlhood to grave.

  Women were more honored among us than among whites. During much of the nineteenth century, many American women did not have the right to own property. Our women always did. The tipi belonged to the wife, just as in the southwestern pueblos the house belonged to the woman. Among whites, even the upper-class lady could take no part in politics. American women did not get the right to vote until 1920. Compare this with the women of the Iroquois Longhouse, who elected the tribe’s chiefs.

  If the Sioux of old were male chauvinists on one side, they were feminists on the other. They prayed to Wakan Tanka, whom they also called Tunkashila, the Grandfather Spirit. But the most important supernatural being in their mythology was Ptesan Win, the White Buffalo Calf Woman, who brought the sacred pipe to the Lakota, taught them its use, taught them, as a matter of fact, how to live as human beings. To emphasize her power, there is the tale that she first appeared to two young hunters, one of whom stretched out his hand to possess her physically. For this lack of respect he was burned up and reduced to a little heap of charred bones and ashes. This is a strange sort of mythology for a tribe whose young men boast of their sexual conquests. Our old tales also talk of Wohpe, another great supernatural being, whom a white person might call a goddess of love and beauty and purity, a woman and a shooting star at the same time. And there is the mystical woman who, in times long past, got pregnant by swallowing a pebble, giving birth to Iyan-Hokshi, the Stone Boy, heroic slayer of an evil witch. Unlike Wakan Tanka-Tunkashila, who, like the God of the Christians, never appears as a person, Ptesan Win and Wohpe are beautiful female beings. It is said that the White Buffalo Calf Woman dazzled humans with her unearthly beauty. In some tales, she appears to the hunters as a young girl in a shining white buckskin dress, and in others as naked, clothed only in her flowing raven hair. When she leaves the tribe, after teaching them all they need to know, she transforms herself into a white buffalo calf, symbolizing the close relationship between the people and this holy animal, who gave of itself so that the huimns could live, whose skull is our sacred altar. And just as Ptesan Win instructed men and women in all the different aspects of life, so the buffalo gave us all the physical things we needed to survive—its flesh nourished us; out of its fur and hide we made robes and blankets; and out of its bones knives, needles, shovels, awls, even play sleds for the children. While it is impossible to imagine how Wakan Tanka-Tunkashila looks, if indeed he has a visible form, Ptesan Win and Wohpe appear in human shape. So the macho Sioux have what the anthros call a “culture heroine,” but no real culture hero.

  The contradictions go further still. While the men try to dominate women, they are actually afraid of them. The power of a woman on her moon—that is, while menstruating—is believed to overwhelm the power of even the greatest medicine man. Also, in old Sioux society the woman, the proverbial “burden carrier,” won honors for doing the finest beadwork or making the most beautiful cradleboard, honors equal to a man counting coup upon an enemy. Bearing a child was looked upon as being the equal of a warrior’s great deed in battle. Even a little girl having her ears ritually pierced during a sun dance earned as much respect as a man who had hung from the tree, or pulled buffalo skulls. A girl was given a lavish feast when she was on her first moon and, when a little older, was honored again through the performance of the ball-throwing ceremony. Finally, a hunter was looked down upon if he did not share his catch with the helpless ones, the widows and orphans of the tribe. It is sad that these two great rituals that celebrated a girl’s transformation into a woman are now only seldom performed and almost forgotten. I think it would help us a great deal, and make for more harmony between men and women, if these ceremonies were revived. In those rituals that have withstood the suppression of Indian religion and are still performed throughout the reservation, we still have a lot of symbolism that puts women in an exalted place. The sweat lodge was the female universe. The little sacred mound represented Maka, the Earth, the nourishing All-m
other. The earth was also called Unchi—Grandmother. The impregnating sky was male, the conceiving earth female. One reason for the Lakotas’ aversion to becoming farmers was their belief that “you should not cut Grandmother’s hair, or rip up her bowels,” meaning that you should not dig up and plow the earth or cut the plants growing out of the soil. Woman was the firekeeper, the bringer of the water of life. Woman stood for continuity, creation, and survival.

  Similar views and symbolisms are found in almost all Native American tribes. Among the Pueblos, Navajos, and Iroquois, descent was always traced through the women. In some Pueblo tribes, children are given their mother’s family name. Sons join the religious society, the kiva, of their maternal uncle, not that of their father. In the old days, if a Pueblo woman wanted to divorce her husband, all she had to do was put his moccasins outside her door. Then he had to leave. Among the Navajo the posts holding up the hogan represent supernatural female spirits, again symbolizing that it is the woman who holds a family together.

  The Navajo also have a woman supernatural being, Spider Woman, who is also a part of Hopi mythology. Called Kokyang Wuhai by the Hopi, she is a most powerful being. She is one, but also many. Her powers are both positive and negative. And among the Keresan-speaking Pueblos, a goddess called Tse Che Nako brought the world into being, along with the animals, the plants, and the spoken languages. There are many female gods in the mythology of almost all tribes.

  There have always been strong women among us. As a Cheyene proverb puts it: “As long as the hearts of our women are high, the nation will live. But should the hearts of our women be on the ground, then all is lost.” Centuries ago, Iroquois women had become sick and tired of the eternal warfare between the tribes and went on strike, refusing to sleep with the men, or bear children, until peace was made. And they won.

  In the ancient tribal life of the Sioux there was some ugliness in the relations between men and women, but it was overshadowed by beauty. There was some putting down of women, but much more uplifting of them. There was hard work for the women, but hunting was also hard on the men, and at least the tasks of both sexes were well defined. Everybody knew where he or she stood. Men and women had definite rules and responsibilities. They knew what was expected of them and lived up to these expectations. A wife abuser was an outcast, as was the no-account man who acted upon the whims of his penis rather than upon the urgings of his heart.

  Under the outside pressure of white power and suppression, the old ways were destroyed. The tiyospaye, the extended family, disintegrated. Much that was positive among our traditional society was wiped out, and much that was negative was not only preserved, but enhanced. White society, until very recently, ran according to male values. Only think of the many white families who are proud of their little Cherokee great-great-grandmother. But where is the good old Indian great-great-grandfather? Nowhere, because for a frontiersman, taking a native woman to his bed was acceptable but an Indian man having a white woman was not. The whites’ attitude of male superiority rubbed off on us. The dominant culture forced its values upon our tribes.

  Among our Lakota tribes the contradictions between two opposing values are not only a collective experience but are deep inside all of us. I remember how touched and thrilled I was when Crow Dog described to me the essence of Ptesan Win, the White Buffalo Calf Woman, He has a mind and language of his own when he talks about sacred things. It is very deep and wonderful. He described Ptesan Win as the Holy Woman, the fire-bringer, the bringer of flint, of the stone knife. He said: “She had the power, she brought the pipe. She was the Red Woman of the Red Nation, she was three-dimensional.” And he went on telling me: “The Holy Woman was young and beautiful. She was born in the womb bag of the generations, the universal birth bag. She was the Creator of Creations. She had a back carrier containing all the medicines we have, the healing herbs, the roots. She was the all-knowing teacher. Power was given to her. This woman was the center of the universe. She brought the seven stones, the sweat lodge, the seven sticks to start the fire. She was given the chanwaluta, the red wooden dish, in which she brought the sacred food—Indian corn, chokecherries, timpisila—the wild turnip. She brought these things to the people. This should be taught to our women.” He could speak so beautifully and with so much understanding, and yet, at almost the same time be very macho, very man-centered, you could say. The one seems to go hand in hand with the other. There is still another female supernatural in our mythology, Anung-Ite, the Two-Face Woman. One side of her face is indescribably beautiful; the other is uglier than anything else in the world. So we have all become two-faced when another culture was imposed upon us from the outside.

  Our women have been touched by it too. In the old days they were proud to be virtuous. The “one-man women” were honored. There was a ceremony where women bit the isan, a sacred stone knife, at the same time proclaiming that they had been with only one man, the one to whom they had given children. Today the whole res is full of unwed mothers, often with children from different men. I am no exception. I am not ashamed of that. Giving life is always a great thing. It is just that the old values have disappeared and our old world has broken apart.

  I have a feeling that many of our men resent women, and I know the reason. The men can’t hunt anymore, can’t find jobs, can’t provide. There is nothing they can do. A woman can still make beadwork to sell to tourists, or wait on tables in the tourist traps along the highway, or clean up in the many motels. The women get the welfare checks, the Aid to Dependent Children. Often the husband has to leave because his wife won’t get her welfare as long as there is a husband around. So the roles are reversed. In many cases the woman is the provider now, and a very poor provider, usually. If she finds work, she has to leave her kids for the grandparents to raise. There is a whole generation of reservation kids raised not by a father and mother, but by grandma.

  Poverty is now worse than ever. The poorest counties in the whole USA, Shannon, Mellette, and Todd, are in the Rosebud and Pine Ridge reservations. We have cradle-to-grave everlasting unemployment. Dependence on the meager government handouts is destroying the soul of our people. Poverty, dependence, and misery breed anger. Anger, which cannot vent itself upon its causes, turns against itself. Those who are powerless often work off their frustrations upon those who are even more vulnerable.

  There is nothing for the men to do and they are unable to care for their families. Some men take it out on the women. I was raped when I was fifteen years old. I was told that it was my own fault because I was walking on a lonely road alone. Because I didn’t carry a knife, because I was just too dumb to know better. You can kick, you can bite, you can scratch, but he is bigger and stronger than you, and that’s it. I didn’t feel good, that I can tell you. I was ashamed, too embarrassed to tell my mom. I didn’t go to the police because that’s a no-no. After that I carried a knife, even slashed some tires of guys who tried to snag me. At age seventeen I got pregnant. He was a nice-looking Indian guy with long braids. Maybe it was the braids that did it. He was popular. He took me way out into the boondocks. Later, I found out that he was only interested in having his pants fixed and his shirts mended. I wouldn’t do that. So I went to Wounded Knee to have my kid.

  One man told me when I indicated that I was not interested in him: “I can get any woman for a case of beer, a dime bag, and a little rhetoric.” The nicer ones say: “Warrior woman, let’s make a little warrior.” Nine months later the woman is nursing her little warrior, but the big warrior is over the hills and far away. There is that attitude that all a woman is good for is lying in the sack and watching the kids. There is a lot of wife beating going on. I know women who were beaten. It’s the same old story. They get beaten up, but they stay with the man because, in spite of everything, they love him. Or they stay for the sake of the children. That’s all they’ve ever known in their life. To many it seems normal. A lot of women can’t comprehend the fact that they can live their lives without being dependent on a man who i
s going to beat them. Mostly these guys will take off with the welfare money, or take the food stamps and sell them, or sell the commodities, and have a party. There is a lot of abuse. A man will want to go out and party. And if he wants to party, that’s what he is going to do. If the woman gets mad about it, she’ll eventually get a whipping and it will end up with a big fight, which the man will win almost every time. And the children will get caught up in it. They have to watch while their mother gets a beating. That’s the way things are. There is no way to build a life for the people. You’ll see women with black eyes and fat lips trying to hold on to their marriage. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do that.

  Years ago my sister Barb lived with a wino who got violent when drunk. They lived way out on the prairie and it was actually his mother who called my mom and told her: “You better come after your daughter. She’s in a bad way.” Mom got there and found that Barb had lost so much weight she was down to ninety pounds. That man had beaten her with a tire iron and poured whiskey down her throat. As usual, Mom kept her and nursed her back until she was her former self again. I told Barb: “You sure know how to pick them, all right.” She answered: “Look who’s talking.”

  Annie Mae Pictou Aquash was my friend. She was one of the strongest and bravest women in the movement. She was beautiful and gifted. She married Noo-Ge-Shik Aquash at Wounded Knee, during the siege. He was a big hero there, an elegant, slim full-blood with a tiny black beard and a stylish low-brimmed hat. Their ceremony was beautiful. Wallace Black Elk performed the marriage in the old, traditional way. They burned the cedar, they smoked the pipe. Four men and four women made flesh offerings to make their future happy. People crowded around them, singing the AIM song. Like myself giving birth to a son at the Knee, this first marriage inside the self-proclaimed Independent Oglala Nation was looked upon as a lucky omen. Two years later, Annie Mae moved in with us at Crow Dog’s Paradise—alone. Noo-Ge-Shik was a warrior, a fine artist, and seemed to be a right-on, sensitive man. But he had a dark side where women were concerned. Annie Mae told me that he had treated her badly, that he was very possessive and insanely jealous, that he would not let her have any friends, that he held her like a hostage for weeks and beat her. She was not the kind of woman to stand for this and left him.