Burial Ground
The burial ground is on top of a hill. It is a lonely spot and a bit of a hike from the road. The black teepees and white trailer home in the distance are the only neighbors.
In pre reservation days, the Sioux built scaffolds and placed their dead on top making it easier for their spirits to ascend into the sky. Interestingly, the grave of a neanderthal child, c. 100,000 years ago, was discovered with markings that may have been showing the spirit where to go. There was a diagram depicting the Pleiades constellation with arrows. Again, the idea of a spirit moving up into the sky.
from this lofty eyrie the souls of the dead could rest secure from the attacks of wolves or other profane beasts, and guard like sentinels the homes and hunting-grounds of their loved ones.
Dr. W. Gardner
This scaffold was sitting behind the Wounded Knee sign.
We walked around the graves, reading headstones. I wondered where the victims of the massacre lay.
Lakota allow the grass to grow over graves.
Dominick Jealous of Him was only 18, and he was a father.
Talking with People I’d only Read About
I was taking a picture of Ann Respects No One’s headstone. As you can see there is the word ‘shot’ in brackets. That’s probably why she was shot, she respects no one. I was mulling over the word ‘shot’ when I realized that Maureen was walking back to the vehicle and two of the gentlemen from the Wounded Knee Massacre sign were approaching. Thanks Maureen. Nothing like sticking together. She did that to me once in Argentina also.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” they said. It was only 19 degrees, my right hand clutched my coat together at the neck. I’d forgotten to zip it up.
“Where are the massacre victims buried?” I asked out of real curiosity and to break the ice.
“Come in here. I’ll show you,” said the younger one.
“Am I allowed to go in there?” I hesitated. I didn’t want to be disrespectful.
“Yes. C’mere!” he shouted and opened the gate of a chain link fence that ran around the perimeter of a rectangle. A narrow concrete walkway formed a border along the fence. He told me not to walk on the grass in the middle. This is where they lay.
The man who had asked me for snacks picked up a bowl of orange pasty stuff on the ground and started eating it. I caught a whiff of alcohol and noticed he wasn’t wearing socks.
“I am a direct descendant of these people,” said my guide as he pointed to the ground. “Those people over there are all half breeds”, he said with disdain as he waved his arm toward the east. “I’m full blood.”
Mikchimkwa!
He paused and then said, “They killed women and children here. Women and children.”
“Yeah, I know. I read about it. It was awful,” I said. I was truly sorry for every atrocity that ever happened. These people have lost so much that will never come back and now they are lost, lost souls and doomed.
“I’m Canadian,” I said. I hoped this might mitigate any responsibility I might have as a white person.
“Mikchimkwa!” shouted the older, inebriated one.
“What?” I said.
“Mikchimkwa! It means thank you in Canadian!”
I nodded my head, yes you’re welcome, anytime. That must be Canadian Sioux language.
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