I do not know if I have iterated how much I cannot process things regarding feelings until I am in the throws of it. This has ups and downs. On the up, it gets me to do a lot since I rarely have enough foresight to worry about uncomfortable feelings. On the down, there are a lot of ''holy-shit-what-the-hell'' moments. They are humbling moments.
Yesterday evening and through the morning, there was a subtle shift between us. The pocket of space that had no words was growing and growing and our deflections were growing and growing with it. Our three hour commute to from our secret last stop (you don't get to read ahead!) to Missoula was outwardly uneventful. We made small remarks about signs and animals we had not noticed before. We joked about having our last chance to Gamble. But in between, there was a swell of something ''bigness''.
I tried to write away the swell:
It may have been because we both knew that the moment was near. It may have just been the strong grip of glacial rock that had molded into our bones and carved us into forms that got latched in the cracks. Whatever the matter, driving away, watching the land become a familiar flat plane once again, our senses clamored to hang on, picking up on fields and small country cabins wed passed a dozen times during our stay and yet failed to see. My hands tapped at computer keys like a whittling away at the longing, the impulsion to pick up my camera in a feeble attempt to make something of these peaks permanent, to keep us lodged into those walls that wash out the world and time and the need to go….anywhere.
But I don’t. I don’t because I have hundreds of images from
all directions and nothing will substitute. Nothing will change this reality.
We sing and chant and try to feel that moving motion, try to say we are
completely in it. We lie. We feel that pocket of space that has no words. That
sense of unknown coming closer and closer. And so we chant and lie in that
pocket. She pauses to put her hand under my chin and I do not look.
We talk about everything we see from the deer and horses to
how to pronounce weird sounding names or what sorts of areas up here we would
like to live in and what our criteria would be. We finally decide to finish listening to a story on CD and I drift in and out of road-weary sleep.
It took a lot to accept the difficulty of parting ways. I wouldn't have wanted to share the experiences of this past week with anyone else but it's not like it was smooth sailing to navigate our differences and the traveling adventurer in me had held onto so much excitement for solo trip that I thought I was prepared for that next phase. And yet, once we got to Missoula, the waterworks forced me to embrace that part of me that will always be so intertwined in the mother-daughter relationship. But as we hugged and she reassured me that she knew I would be okay and find my flow, I knew there are worse people to be so intertwined with and I am lucky to have a mother that I can travel with and miss so fondly. To have one that helps me remember that it is okay to be human. It is okay to miss and to be nervous and to be strong and be okay all at once. The humble moment.
 |
Love you, Mom! (You know, you wouldn't have to worry about photos of you revealing embarrassingly silly expressions if you didn't make embarrassingly silly expressions every time I take a picture of you...) |
Okay, enough of the sappy sidenotes. Lets talk about Flamingoes and Minnesota!
I got so carried away with my island stories in my last post that I forgot to give props to a very snazzy local business. After our boat tour, we went to find a local noshing ground that was very appropriately called Maggie's as it was an architectural embodiment of all the wonderful vibes of my friend Maggie. I had picked up on the Flamingo theme from the illustrious neon light sign on their website but nothing could prepare me for the abundance of bird I was about to experience. We had been told the building would be hard to miss and sure enough, I would challenge anyone not to notice the wide stretch of baby pink, yellow-rimmed building at the corner of the street. The restaurant was lined with long box windows, each displaying their own little diorama of flamingo memorabilia. Inside, the quantity of flamingo probably surpassed any of the bird's breeding ground levels. Flamingo stools, flamingo lights, flamingo posters, pictures, hula bobble flamingoes, stuffed animals, plastic ones, coming out of windows, bathrooms, doors, floors, ceilings...it was a flamingo army. The people we asked about the history of the strange decorating choice had two possible rumors to offer. The woman was originally from Florida and one rumor was that the woman simply adored the bird. The other was that she despised it and all its Florida popularity and wanted it out of her house so she decided to vent her hate into the restaurant instead. I really hope it was the latter.
The food was pretty great also. I opted for pizza since I figured, being in the cheese state, you can't really go wrong. All of the ingredients were really fresh and the cheese definitely had that sharp real-feel bite.
From the Apostle Islands, the plan was to pretty much book it towards the Badlands. But that left a lot of unplanned miles of driving in between. I had taken note of two Minnesota spots I wanted to keep on the radar but had no idea what to expect from them and didn't imagine we'd linger too long. As it turned out, the state managed to produce a full day's adventure.
A while back, I had heard an NPR story on the 1862 Dakota war, leading to the largest mass hanging in history: thirty-eight Native Dakota men. The injustice of the events leading up to the slaughter as well as the slaughter itself and the evacuation of the Dakota peoples that followed has mostly fallen under the radar in American history. This has made it difficult to have a concrete understanding but my best summary is that it involves a series of broken promises on treaties. What a surprise, right? While many Native-Settler relations started on friendly, albeit apprehensive terms, European settlers quickly recognized the value of native knowledge and resources and became greedy, gradually taking steps to assimilate the natives into American life and cede from them any power they had to manage their own resources. It was no different in Mankato, South Dakota.
What was different is that the Dakota Sioux people chose to fight back. After multiple annuities going unpaid and traded goods being squandered when they had been promised to the Dakota Sioux, the natives were seeing unacceptable hunger and strife. It was a chief by the name of Little Crow that called for an uprising. Many Sioux men followed his lead while some defended white settlers. Both sides saw unbelievable loss and the war finally ended on December 26, 1862 with the mass hanging of 38 Dakota Sioux men, ordered by Abraham Lincoln, reduced from the request to hang over 300 Natives. Government actions after the war effectively exiled most Dakota tribes not only from Mankato but from the entire state of Minnesota for the next 150 years. The history was long told solely through non-native eyes and was known widely as the "Sioux Uprising" or "Mankato Massacre" making the Natives out to be the uncontrollably violent ones. As Native voices are finally emerging, the tragic reality of fault on both sides is being acknowledged and many people of Mankato have begun to focus on healing that tension.
I had been hoping to understand a little bit more of the history through visiting the city. Hitting the road early, mother and I were on the prowl for the next good local cafe and Mankato's "Coffee Hag" seemed like the place to go. A curious man reading the news at one of the tables asked me about my camera and we began to talk about my trip. When I asked if he knew where I might be able to get a bit more information about the conflict, his face grew somber and his voice lowered into a quiet, steady tone. It wasn't that he seemed offended or shocked but it was a knowing. Regardless of how unacknowledged the war had been to our nation as a whole, it was confirmed for me right there that everyone in this town felt it as a living breathing part of the area. Unfortunately, we had managed to be passing through on a sunday, always a hit or miss when town-hopping on the road. All of the museums and information centers were closed. He did however, direct us to a large Buffalo Tribute and a Dedication Monument that remembered the names of the hung.
The second stop was perched right on the edge of southwest Minnesota. I had imagined the Pipestone National Monument to be simply that; a monument. following our directions, we along the edge of a small, sleepy town until we began to see signs for the site. The signs led us far out into tall grasses and prairie where out of the wild, a wide visitor's center emerged into view. Needless to say, we found much more than a monument.
Pipestone National Monument is the site of the first discovery of Red Pipestone by Native Americans as far back as 3,000 years ago. Far before the early European settlers, multiple tribes made long journeys to the area to quarry for the material. Considered incredibly sacred, it was used to forge pipes (Cannupa Oke'e) that were significant in spiritual practices. The land was called "wakan", a relative of the people. However in 1836, an artist named George Catlin visited the area and made claim of the pipestone discovery. The material became popularized as Catlinite, drew in thousands of visitors and by 1858, homesteaders were making the surrounding Prairie land their home.
The influx of settlers forced many of the tribes to cede rights to the quarries but the Yankton Sioux, continued to travel over 150 miles to quarry, even as a reservation was created and a school built, infringing on the area. They continued to fight many legal battles to try and get reimbursed for violations of their quarries and the surrounding land.
It was not until 1937 that the land was finally protected and laws put into place to allow only registered members of native tribes to quarry for pipestone. This sparked a reemergence of the tradition for many in more recent generations. We watched a video that showed just how significant it was to tribe members to be able to quarry today. It is no easy commitment. The thin layers of pipestone are sandwiched between two very thick, hard layers of Sioux Quartzite, compacted from millions of years of Glacial movement. The pipestone itself is a hard clay formed by four types of sediment: Pyrophylite, diaspore, muscovite and kaolinite, gaining it's color from the iron in hematite. These sediments were carried in mostly through winds and then compacted and transformed to form the material as thousands of years of heat and pressure went to work on them between the quartzite. To find a layer of Pipestone could take months, even years of chipping away at the upper quartzite layers. But native families feel a strong pull towards their ancestors that makes every moment of the ancient tradition worth while. after the film, we met a man named Travis in the next room, diligently sawing away at blocks of the clay. Travis explained that he was a 4th generation Sisaten Waboten Dakota and had been carrying on the tradition now for 25 years. He was in the process of carving a gift for his nephew that depicted some of his favorite symbols - a cigar box, the number 1 and a wolf. Travis was surrounded in a mess of red dust and chunks of half-carved pipestone. I couldn't even imagine the kind of connection that he had with the craft. It was something that could truly only belong to the native people.
We eventually made it out of the visitors center to the actual trail that led us past a number of quarries, winding through strong, rushing rivers and rapids and waterfalls. We were surprised to find all of this hidden within the flat prairie land and as we winded down the trail, we passed dozens of ceremonial prayer ribbons strung onto tree limbs. The efforts to protect this land actually felt like it had paid off.
We didn't manage to pull ourselves away until the early evening and so we continued on just far enough to find a good place to stop for dinner. Just crossing into South Dakota, Sioux Falls was the closest sizable area. In fact, one of only two sizable areas in the state. Despite that fact, many things were actually closed on a Sunday and our only conclusion was that they must not be allowed to sell alcohol in this state on Sundays. After getting led to a place we thought would be open, we wound our way back to a tiny Ethiopian Restaurant that had caught my eye. It was run out of a building that looked like a house from the outside and even more so once we got indoors. The front room was filled with half a dozen men that seemed to be of Ethiopian background, all joking and laughing heartily in a native language. When we stepped in, the men seemed shocked to see unfamiliar faces but an older man, who we found out later to be the owner, paused to direct us around the corner of a wall to a hallway and into a small room still set up like a home dining room. A weathered "Happy Birthday" sign hung over the doorway and a family portrait hung on the wall covered in old homey fabric. Mother seemed a bit apprehensive at first, jokingly wondering if they were really open for business since we were left to ourselves for a bit. I was adapting to the unconventional feeling with an increasing pleasure which got me a bit worried, since this was often an indication of our atmospheric tastes diverging. However, once the owner came to take our orders and eagerly accommodated our omnivorous and vegetarian needs, mother seemed to settle in and find appreciation for the off-kiltered business practice. The owner would dip in and out of the depths of the house and a man sitting beside our dining room door would cry out his name whenever we needed something but he always emerged with a smile. The food ended up being incredibly good. Half of the different dishes we'd gotten on our Injera were just flavorful enough for her while the others satisfied my crave for spice. The young man by the door called out his name one last time as we left so we could graciously thank him as we stood beaming awkwardly in the room of locals, seemingly amused by our presence.
What was different is that the Dakota Sioux people chose to fight back. After multiple annuities going unpaid and traded goods being squandered when they had been promised to the Dakota Sioux, the natives were seeing unacceptable hunger and strife. It was a chief by the name of Little Crow that called for an uprising. Many Sioux men followed his lead while some defended white settlers. Both sides saw unbelievable loss and the war finally ended on December 26, 1862 with the mass hanging of 38 Dakota Sioux men, ordered by Abraham Lincoln, reduced from the request to hang over 300 Natives. Government actions after the war effectively exiled most Dakota tribes not only from Mankato but from the entire state of Minnesota for the next 150 years. The history was long told solely through non-native eyes and was known widely as the "Sioux Uprising" or "Mankato Massacre" making the Natives out to be the uncontrollably violent ones. As Native voices are finally emerging, the tragic reality of fault on both sides is being acknowledged and many people of Mankato have begun to focus on healing that tension.
The second stop was perched right on the edge of southwest Minnesota. I had imagined the Pipestone National Monument to be simply that; a monument. following our directions, we along the edge of a small, sleepy town until we began to see signs for the site. The signs led us far out into tall grasses and prairie where out of the wild, a wide visitor's center emerged into view. Needless to say, we found much more than a monument.
Pipestone National Monument is the site of the first discovery of Red Pipestone by Native Americans as far back as 3,000 years ago. Far before the early European settlers, multiple tribes made long journeys to the area to quarry for the material. Considered incredibly sacred, it was used to forge pipes (Cannupa Oke'e) that were significant in spiritual practices. The land was called "wakan", a relative of the people. However in 1836, an artist named George Catlin visited the area and made claim of the pipestone discovery. The material became popularized as Catlinite, drew in thousands of visitors and by 1858, homesteaders were making the surrounding Prairie land their home.
The influx of settlers forced many of the tribes to cede rights to the quarries but the Yankton Sioux, continued to travel over 150 miles to quarry, even as a reservation was created and a school built, infringing on the area. They continued to fight many legal battles to try and get reimbursed for violations of their quarries and the surrounding land.
It was not until 1937 that the land was finally protected and laws put into place to allow only registered members of native tribes to quarry for pipestone. This sparked a reemergence of the tradition for many in more recent generations. We watched a video that showed just how significant it was to tribe members to be able to quarry today. It is no easy commitment. The thin layers of pipestone are sandwiched between two very thick, hard layers of Sioux Quartzite, compacted from millions of years of Glacial movement. The pipestone itself is a hard clay formed by four types of sediment: Pyrophylite, diaspore, muscovite and kaolinite, gaining it's color from the iron in hematite. These sediments were carried in mostly through winds and then compacted and transformed to form the material as thousands of years of heat and pressure went to work on them between the quartzite. To find a layer of Pipestone could take months, even years of chipping away at the upper quartzite layers. But native families feel a strong pull towards their ancestors that makes every moment of the ancient tradition worth while. after the film, we met a man named Travis in the next room, diligently sawing away at blocks of the clay. Travis explained that he was a 4th generation Sisaten Waboten Dakota and had been carrying on the tradition now for 25 years. He was in the process of carving a gift for his nephew that depicted some of his favorite symbols - a cigar box, the number 1 and a wolf. Travis was surrounded in a mess of red dust and chunks of half-carved pipestone. I couldn't even imagine the kind of connection that he had with the craft. It was something that could truly only belong to the native people. |
| One of the Pipestone Quarries |
We didn't manage to pull ourselves away until the early evening and so we continued on just far enough to find a good place to stop for dinner. Just crossing into South Dakota, Sioux Falls was the closest sizable area. In fact, one of only two sizable areas in the state. Despite that fact, many things were actually closed on a Sunday and our only conclusion was that they must not be allowed to sell alcohol in this state on Sundays. After getting led to a place we thought would be open, we wound our way back to a tiny Ethiopian Restaurant that had caught my eye. It was run out of a building that looked like a house from the outside and even more so once we got indoors. The front room was filled with half a dozen men that seemed to be of Ethiopian background, all joking and laughing heartily in a native language. When we stepped in, the men seemed shocked to see unfamiliar faces but an older man, who we found out later to be the owner, paused to direct us around the corner of a wall to a hallway and into a small room still set up like a home dining room. A weathered "Happy Birthday" sign hung over the doorway and a family portrait hung on the wall covered in old homey fabric. Mother seemed a bit apprehensive at first, jokingly wondering if they were really open for business since we were left to ourselves for a bit. I was adapting to the unconventional feeling with an increasing pleasure which got me a bit worried, since this was often an indication of our atmospheric tastes diverging. However, once the owner came to take our orders and eagerly accommodated our omnivorous and vegetarian needs, mother seemed to settle in and find appreciation for the off-kiltered business practice. The owner would dip in and out of the depths of the house and a man sitting beside our dining room door would cry out his name whenever we needed something but he always emerged with a smile. The food ended up being incredibly good. Half of the different dishes we'd gotten on our Injera were just flavorful enough for her while the others satisfied my crave for spice. The young man by the door called out his name one last time as we left so we could graciously thank him as we stood beaming awkwardly in the room of locals, seemingly amused by our presence.
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