Read Online Lakota Woman by Mary Crow Dog - Free Book Online

revenge, but don’t do it physically. Revenge yourself with mind power, let your mind do the fighting.” But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, Barb’s mind is often in her fists. I have seen it.
    One night, at Rosebud, Barb had a date with a boy called Poor Bear. She was sober, but he had a load on and the liquor had roused his fighting spirit. They were driving past the tribal office when Poor Bear suddenly stopped the car, saying, “That’s where all our trouble comes from, from inside that building!” He had a shotgun in his trunk, took it out, and methodically busted every window in the building. Then he drove to the top of a hill overlooking Rosebud where he parked the car to admire his handiwork. The tribal police were there in no time. “We’re just checking,” they said. They found a half-empty gallon jug of wine and some whiskey under the seat that Barb had not known about, and finally the gun and some spent shells. They said, “So you’re the ones who’ve been shooting up the tribal building, huh?” They took Poor Bear in and Barb had to bail him out. He only got a year’s probation for this stunt. Down where I live they are rather relaxed about this kind of thing because it happens all the time.
    I am a wife and mother now and my husband is a medicine man. I have my baby with me nearly all the time. I don’t drink anymore. So it stands to reason that I try very hard not to get into fights. But no matter how hard I try, I sometimes still find myself in the middle of an uproar. There seems to be no escape. One evening, early in 1975, we were on an Indian reservation in Washington State where my husband had to run some ceremonies—Leonard, myself, my little boy Pedro, another Sioux leader, and my friend Annie Mae. We had taken rooms in a motel inside a border town inhabited mostly by whites, half in and half outside the reservation. We were just leaving to drive back home. Leonard, as always, had his long braids wrapped in strips of red trade cloth. As we were putting our things into the car we noticed that the gas tank was leaking. It had been okay before. As we were standing around, trying to figure out how to fix it, two rednecks came up. They started making offensive remarks: “Look at those Indians, look at their long hair. How long since you’ve been to a barber?” They just stood there, staring at us and laughing. Leonard told them, “We did not come here to fight. We came here on business. What do you want? This is an Indian reservation, do you know that? Let’s not have any trouble.”
    The honkies laughed, grabbed Leonard’s braids, and yanked them hard. Then they jumped him. At that moment two Indian friends came out of a barn, Russ and Iron Shell, and they joined in the fight. I had my baby to protect. Then another carload of rednecks came onto the scene. One guy had a sawed-off shotgun, the others were armed with base-ball bats. I tried to head them off, pleading with them to leave us alone, but they just kept going after our men. I heard later that beating up Indians was a regular pastime among the white lumberjacks and fishery workers in that area. Suddenly I saw that a police car was parked across the street. I told Annie Mae, “Take Pedro. Watch over him,” and I ran over to the police. There were two of them, state troopers. I told them, “Look what’s going on. We didn’t do anything. They’re hurting our men. Why don’t you do something?” The troopers said nothing, just started up their car and drove off. They stopped about fifty yards away and sat there, watching and grinning. By then the hoodlums were demolishing our car with their bats, busting all the windows. I ran over to an Indian friend’s house and she gave me her car for a getaway, to make it possible for us to escape. When I got back a few more skins had joined our men. The street was full of honkies with shotguns and baseball bats. As I drove up I heard gunshots. Pedro was in the front seat of our