Remembering Wounded Knee’s Ghost Dance

Fifty years ago, Russel Means led the American Indian Movement (AIM) to take back Wounded Knee. Their political action was a 1970s version of the Ghost Dance. Eighty-three years before that, the U.S. Cavalry rode into Wounded Knee and massacred 300 Ghost Dancers. The U.S. government was threatened by the dance. They had to stop it. They couldn’t stop it. Pray they never can.

The Ghost Dance by the Oglala Lakota at Pine Ridge. Illustration by Frederic Remington, 1890. [Source: Library of Congress/Wikipedia]
The Ghost Dance by the Oglala Lakota at Pine Ridge. Illustration by Frederic Remington, 1890. [Source: Library of Congress/Wikipedia]

  • Ghost Dance – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
    The Ghost Dance (Caddo: Nanissáanah,[1] also called the Ghost Dance of 1890) was a new religious movement incorporated into numerous Native American belief systems. According to the prophet Jack Wilson (Wovoka)’s teachings, proper practice of the dance would reunite the living with the spirits of the dead and bring peace, prosperity, and unity to native peoples throughout the region.[2] The basis for the Ghost Dance, the circle dance, is a traditional ritual which has been used by many Native Americans since prehistoric times, but this new form was first practiced among the Nevada Paiute in 1889. The practice swept throughout much of the Western United States, quickly reaching areas of California and Oklahoma. As the Ghost Dance spread from its original source, Native American tribes synthesized selective aspects of the ritual with their own beliefs. This process often created change in both the society that integrated it, and in the ritual itself. | The chief figure in the movement was the prophet of peace, Jack Wilson, known as Wovoka among the Paiute. He prophesied a peaceful end to white expansion while preaching goals of clean living, an honest life, and cross-cultural cooperation by Native Americans. Practice of the Ghost Dance movement was believed to have contributed to Lakota resistance. In the Wounded Knee Massacre in 1890, U.S. Army forces killed at least 153 Lakota Sioux.[3] The Sioux variation on the Ghost Dance tended towards millenarianism, an innovation that distinguished the Sioux interpretation from Jack Wilson’s original teachings. The Caddo Nation still practices the Ghost Dance today.[4]
  • Ghost Dance
    The Ghost Dance has a rich history of tradition throughout the years. For more information about the Ghost Dance…
  • Paiute Native American Shaman Wovoka and the Ghost Dance – YouTube
    The Ghost Dance appeared during a time of desperation for the Native American Indian people. The Ghost Dance started when Paiute shaman Jack Wilson or Wovoka had a vision that if our people would dance and sing we Indians would live again. The Ghost Dance spread throughout the land. In Dec. 1890 the military panicked and massacred innocent Lakota Indian people at Wound Knee while they danced. It is one of the worse incidents in United States history. Judy Trejo – Summit Lake (Tommo Agi) and Walker River (Agi) Paiute and Anita Collins – Shoshone and Walker River Paiute speak about Wovoka. The Round Dance was a traditional Great Basin dance that spread across the land in the form of the Ghost Dance, and is now part of many celebrations. Robbie Robertson sings “Ghost Dance”.

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A Ghost Dance for the Turtles

I am haunted by the ghost turtles. The turtles I captured and confined when I was a kid. The turtles who refused to be pets and entertainers, teachers and scientific specimens. The turtles who refused to eat. The turtles who swam in circles banging hard carapaces against glass aquaria. The turtles who wanted to swim away freely to find their own mud. The turtles who died in my bedroom through my boredom and neglect.

I search for the Ghost Dance that will bring them back. Sometimes they swim freely through my dreams. They forgive me when I cannot forgive myself. They murmur, “This is life. Hold onto it. Swim in your swamp. Thrive in your mud. Do not let it go.”

Robert S. Duncanson. Blue Hole, Little Miami River. 1851. Cincinnati Art Museum.

About the Image: Robert Duncanson painted “Blue Hole, Little Miami” in 1851. Today it hangs in the Cincinnati Art Museum. A hundred and fifty years after he painted the luminist scene in Clifton Gorge, I stood in the same spot and saw a soft-shelled turtle sunning on a snag. It slipped silently into the water when it heard me. That’s when I knew past is present and destiny, too. That’s when my vision of the Ghost Turtles began.

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Sandhill Cranes Are on the Move!

Ssandhill crane [Source: USGS]

Thrilled to hear a flock of Sandhill cranes fly over my garden this morning. Spring is on the move!

Listen @ bird-ssounds.net | FB022323a

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Feats Don’t Fail Me Now

Happy Presidents Day! The holiday reminded me of a favorite album cover from the 1970s, Little Feat’s Feats Don’t Fail Me Now. Marilyn Monroe snuggles up to George Washington for a drive through the stormy mountains. How can America take a wrong turn with this First Couple? There’s room for everyone on this ride. Listen on YouTube.

 

 

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Riding to Ukraine

Russian autocrat Vladimir Putin holds the reins of a brown horse as he rides bare-chested through a low-scrub landscape in 2012. [Source The Daily Beast]

Whoa, Trigger: No one expected Joe Biden to take a train to Ukraine. Not to be upstaged, Vladimir Putin needs to get back on the horse, take off his shirt, and find another falcon willing to ride on his shoulder.

About the Image: Courtesy The Daily Beast. No kidding.

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More Manhattan Moj0

Memory Lane seems to be a New York side street this week. I shared fond thoughts about Raquel Welch, the taxi cab, and the skinheads. Now I want to try to tell the story about the little dogs.

I took my son on his first trip to New York when he was 10 years old. Our base of operations was a friend’s empty apartment on 2nd Avenue. We wandered every day from Kip’s Bay to the Battery without any kind of schedule, happy to discover whatever the streets had to offer.

As we walked down Lexington Avenue toward Grammercy Park, Brendan took my elbow to stop me in the middle of the block. He said confidentially, “We’re going to pass a lady pushing a big baby stroller. Take a good look.”

The stroller was one of those wide-body, balloon-tire jobs propelled by time-efficient trail joggers. It looked like a stroller on steroids. Its operator wasn’t exactly a bag lady, but she looked frazzled.

Inside the stroller I saw triplets in matching sweaters. Wet noses, long snouts, beady eyes. Dachshunds. Three of them. They looked at me with a wary curiosity that mirrored my own.

I hope I smiled then at their mom, if I can call her that. Hell, I hope I beamed. I should have asked her for their names. In such situations I never think of the right thing to say until a day later. That’s why I’m a writer.

We passed silently like ships in the night. At the end of the block I asked Brendan, “Did I really see what I think I saw?”

“You did,” he said. “You did.”

We zig-zagged around Grammercy Park and proceeded down Waverly Place toward lunch at Pete’s Tavern. As luck would have it, we got the table with the plaque where O Henry wrote his Christmas story, “The Gift of the Magi.” We speculated about the back stories and future scenarios for the scene we just saw.

I forget what we said and what we ate. All I remember are three sweaters, three snouts, and six beady eyes.

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Manhattan Mojo for a Walkable Neighborhood

Foot Rage: It was a sunny afternoon in Yellow Springs, and the village was filled with people and cars as if it were a Saturday in July. I was walking to the grocery store when I had one of those sudden foot-rage experiences (yes, non-drivers also feel rage) which would either (1) guarantee I survive to be an irascible old man; or (2) give voice to the final words that should be carved on my tombstone — not for their eloquence, but their passion.

The light turned green, for me and other through traffic on Dayton Street, as a black car approached the intersection from Walnut Street. Instead of stopping, the driver rolled into a right turn on red, right in front of me. I stepped halfway off the curb, then stepped back. I waved my white cane. And, well, I shouted what I shouted.

After my heart rate settled down, I remembered a similar experience in New York 40 years ago. It made me smile. And I needed to smile then.

I had just arrived in the city and checked into the Grammercy Park Hotel. I decided to walk over to the offices of the American Foundation for the Blind, where I would give a seminar the next day. I had a shoeshine and a newly tailored three-piece suit. I was a man about town, and I felt like I belonged there.

I felt like the guy in that Joni Mitchel song, “I was a free man in Paris, unfettered and alive.” Except it wasn’t Paris, it was New York. I hadn’t gotten my Manhattan mojo yet. I needed to settle into the tempo of the street, the people and the traffic.

As I stepped off a curb a taxi careened around the corner, blaring its horn. At the same instant a tattooed arm swept across my chest and held me back. Two skinhead kids on either side of me shouted in unison at the taxi, “AW, FUCK YOU!”

Then they nodded silently toward the street. OK to cross now. We’re a platoon.

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