Memories of Fort Berthold

7. November 2009 by Bex.

Last night I attended a special opening for the American Indian Art gallery at the Nelson-Atkins.  I listened to some really wonderful speakers discuss the past indignities and abuses suffered by the AI people and how we are all working now to address the past and better our future.  The Mayor and the Governor were there, as well as two very influential American Indian people who both have contacts with Washington, D.C.  The Nelson worked very hard to make the exhibit a venue for American Indian voices rather than an exhibit about Indians.  I was very moved to hear the speakers and even more moved to listen to the AI ceremonies that occurred right after.  I say “listen” because I couldn’t see a damn thing through the crowd.  However I did hear the drums and the signers and listened to the prayer.

I haven’t been to a pow wow since I lived in Nebraska.  The music was something I heard a lot growing up as one of my aunts had a lot of friends on the reservation.  Growing up in North Dakota, the American Indians were the only minority and I heard a lot of racist jokes and derogatory things about the AI’s.  Those jokes and statements always made me uncomfortable but an incident I experienced on a reservation really changed me forever.

My aunts took me up to Fort Berthold (home of the Hidatsa, Mandan and Arikara tribes) one winter not too long after my mom died.  We were taking up a bunch of furniture to the reservation because my dad no longer thought we needed it.  He was “purging” the house of mom and anything that reminded him of her.  My aunts for whatever reason decided it would be good for me to see people who didn’t have as much as I did.  Apparently I needed a “life lesson” because I was spoiled in their eyes.  Maybe I was a little spoiled…

I remember sitting in the back of that cold van, listening to tribal drum songs on tape that my aunt loved.  I was scared; I hated being away from home, among people I didn’t know.  I’m still like that.

When we got there, I was taken into the reservation’s community center where they were getting ready for a big pow wow.  I was very aware of the fact I was the only white kid there.  I’ve always been shy and had a hard time making friends but I was hopeful some kids would talk to me.  Not a chance.  The kids took an instant dislike to me, snickering at me and even turning the lights out on me in the bathroom while I was relieving myself.  I was terrified and struggled to find my way out of a strange public restroom.  But I didn’t tell my aunts what happened.

My other memories were of watching people cook.  There were some very nice ladies there who explained to me what they were doing.  That’s when I first saw the ingredients for tripe soup.  I made sure not to eat the tripe soup when supper time came.  But mostly I just kept to myself, observing people.  We slept in that cold van at night and I remember thinking what a lonely place it was there.

The last night we were there was the night of the big pow wow.  The dancers were in full regalia and I had never seen costumes like that.  Feathers and bells….appliqued felt….beads….staffs and headdresses.  It was very alien to me and my Protestant German upbringing.  The drums and the singing were so loud and hypnotic.  I watched from behind the circle of onlookers as they danced around and around.  I had no idea, and still don’t know, what it all meant.

At the end there was some kind of ceremony….I’m not sure what it was called.  Some people entered the circle, mostly what I thought were older, distinguished members of the tribe, and went around the inside of the circle, shaking hands with everyone who comprised the outer circle.   I thought that was very neat and it was something I understood.  Shaking hands!  Us white people do that too!  To my horror however, a white woman pushed me into the circle and told me to walk around and shake hands as well.  I tried to leave the circle but she blocked my way.  I hated being in the center of attention amongst people I knew, so this was like a nightmare.  But there were enough encouraging smiles to get me started.  I remember the older people clasping my hand and how weathered and soft their hands were.  They had kind smiles too.  Emboldened by their kindness, I moved around the circle, sticking out my hand to everyone.  And halfway through I came to the kids.  My smile frozen to my face, I stuck out my hand.  And each kid looked me straight in the eye and refused to take my hand.  I felt hurt and humiliated.  I quickly finished moving through the circle and retreated back into the corner.

That’s when I understood what racism felt like.  I hadn’t done anything to these children except I was white and I was an outsider.

Later that night there was a drawing for a star quilt and my aunt won it.  It was a beautiful dark rose quilt, very similar in pattern to this one:

I left Fort Berthold with mixed emotions.  I was happy to go back home but bothered by what had happened between myself and those other children.  As an adult, I took a lot of time and interest during my academic career to study Native American art, anthropology and history.  I wanted to know what happened to the American Indians to make those kids hate me so much.  There wasn’t a lack of information on the history between the missionaries, the military, the government, the settlers and the American Indians.  It’s pretty tragic.  I can’t change what happened but I can be an advocate for what I feel is right: honoring their traditions, understanding both our histories and not using them as racist mascots.  I don’t see a lot of difference between the mascot for the Cleveland Indians and a black Sambo.

The other thing I took from that experience is to know what racism feels like.  And to make a conscious effort never to treat others that way.  For a little kid, that was a pretty important lesson.

Years later, as an adult, I finally told my aunt what happened there.  She wondered why I hadn’t told her what was going on that weekend.  I told her I felt somehow I deserved it because I was an outsider.  And I told her the lesson I learned from it all.

She then gave me that rose star quilt and told me I had earned it.  I type this nestled under that very quilt and feel quite honored to have it.  The story of where it came from will always be passed down with it.

I didn’t get to see the new galleries last night as my friend and I had to leave early.  But I plan to go back next weekend for the public opening.  I’m looking forward to seeing the dancers and singers they have lined up next weekend.  And to honor those artists, historic and contemporary, from home.

This is an Arikara shield, on display at the Nelson-Atkins:

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