And the winner (in Winner) is...

News came through this morning that the sole ticket matching all six numbers in last night's $232 million Powerball jackpot was purchased in none other than Winner, South Dakota. Winner's a mere 40 minutes east of Mission on Highway 18. Sandy is the former postmaster in Winner, so there's a good chance he'll know the winner if the ticket was purchased by a local. Who knows, maybe someone here on the rez is the new multi-millionaire...

Very exciting!

Practicing patience and meeting the President in the process

I came across a grant opportunity a while back that seemed to be a good fit for our organization and a match with the agency's funding priorities. One of their stipulations, however, was, because we are a non-profit on an Indian reservation, we had to receive a letter of support from our Tribal Council. I didn't think this would be a big deal since we had to approach the Mission City Council in a similar manner as part of a loan application package several months ago.

The Rosebud Tribal Council consists of 20 members from throughout the reservation. Until this year, apportionment was determined by the size of the community; this year though, that changes, as each of the 20 communities will be represented by one member apiece. Kind of like moving to a Senate- from a House of Representatives-style of legislative body.

To obtain a letter of support from the full Council, we first had to get on the agenda. Sandy's idea was to contact a member who was also on the housing board, since they'd likely be aware of our work on the reservation. He made the phone call, and then I drafted the official letter asking him to present our request to the full Council. Things were moving along swimmingly.

Then, it seemed as if Mr. Council Member dropped off the face of the Earth. I had most of the grant's narrative and attachments done; all I needed was that letter. Sandy tried to reach him repeatedly, but to no avail. I moved on to other projects.

Typical of the reservation and small-town America in general, it took a chance encounter for the ball to get rolling again. During my usual lunchtime visit to the post office, I had a brief conversation with a man I had seen around town but to whom I had never been introduced. The chit chat ended quickly, and we went our separate ways.

The next stop was the grocery store, where I ran into the same man in the checkout line. He noted my presence, saying he couldn't quite place my face (besides the post office, of course). I introduced myself, as did he. The name didn't click at first. It was only after he mentioned my grant application that I realized it was the Tribal Council member Sandy and I had been trying to contact for weeks!

He asked me to draft and e-mail him a letter requesting Council support. (Yes, I did ask if he'd received the letter I had sent weeks prior. He hadn't.) He then invited me to Tribal Council the following day. Now we're talkin'! I returned to work extremely excited, not only about the grant but the opportunity to attend and possibly present at Tribal Council.

Sandy and I drove down to the Administration building in Rosebud the following morning. I wouldn't necessarily say I felt out of place there; however, there was definitely a different social protocol evident. It was one of those experiences where I had to stay back at first in order to avoid drawing attention to myself as an outsider and a wasicu. My plan was to watch Sandy and learn.

The Council meeting was supposed to start at 10. It didn't. No big surprise there since nothing starts on time here. Indian Time is alive and well on the rez. As it turned out, the Council had trouble reaching its quorum. Sandy knew practically everyone who walked by as we waited, and at one point left me while he mingled.

A while later, I saw him in chambers speaking with none other than President Rodney Bordeaux. I certainly wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to speak with the President, so I sidled up next to Sandy, prompting an introduction. We talked about Habitat and why we were there. No big deal, I'll sign a letter for you, he said. Great!

A quorum was never reached, but an informal session of Council ensued. I had brought along a copy of the letter I had written, which I provided to Bordeaux. I also introduced myself to the Vice President while at the table at which the officers were seated. (I was much more comfortable with my surroundings at this point.)

On our way out, we ran into the Council member we had originally approached. He had just arrived, but promised his own letter of support for our grant. He also passed along his opinion about Tribal Council attendance: When there are important issues that need to be addressed by the Council, some members choose not to appear to avoid having to make a decision that will be a part of the public record. That's certainly only one man's opinion, but it is an election year after all.

Now, I just needed my letter. After a week of hearing nothing from the Tribe and wanting to get my application out the door, I needed a plan to gently remind the President about the promised letter. I chose to send him an e-mail thanking him for his support and stating his letter was sure to strengthen our application. I did not come right out and ask, "Where's my letter man?" I do have tact after all.

A couple days letter, I received an e-mail from a woman from the President's office asking what she needed to include in Bordeaux's letter. He had forwarded her my e-mail. Jackpot! So, I sent her the same letter everyone else had received. Later that week, I made a follow-up phone call asking if there was any additional information I could provide. (Once again, a subtle reminder. Plus, I was more comfortable pressing office staff than the President.) Oh no, she said, I have everything I need.

A couple more days passed, and still no letter. I needed a new approach. Sandy's brilliant idea was to call her saying I was going to be in the area and wouldn't mind picking up the letter in person. The letter would be ready the next day. Great!

I drove back down to Rosebud the following day and found my new best friend. However, the letter not only wasn't finished, but was hardly started. Sigh. I asked again if there was anything I could do to help, but was told the letter would be signed and ready Monday.

Monday afternoon, I called her and said I'd be there within the hour. I was there as promised, but she had left for "an errand." She'll be back in 10 minutes, I was told. I waited patiently until she arrived back in the office, and then looked around for the letter. Finally I had it in my hands. Okay, it was signed by the Vice President for the President and there was a grammatical error, but I wasn't going to press my luck.

The grant application was in the mail soon afterward. The lesson I learned from this experience is the next time I need a letter of support to just draft the damn thing myself and ask for a simple signature.

I'm optimistic about this grant, but it's hard to say if we'll be funded. The organization is another Tribe that has provided funds to many other Sioux Tribes, including Rosebud. Plus, they've partnered with a Habitat for Humanity affiliate in the past. But who knows? We should hear back sometime in June. Cross your fingers.

Let's go back to the clinic

One month ago, I made a trip to the clinic in Pierre for HIV and STD testing. Although they could give me some of the results over the phone, the HIV results could only be provided in person. I wasn't overly worried, so I waited until today during my drive to Brookings to stop by for the official word.

Upon sitting down, I was told, "Well, I have good news for you and I have bad news." Just what I wanted to hear! After changing my underwear, I was informed I was HIV-negative (of course); however, my vial of blood had been dropped, so they didn't have Hepatitis-B results for me.

"You mean, as in, dropped on the floor?"

"Yes. It's the first time that has ever happened."

"Huh. First time. Just like I was the first one to pass out on you."

"Uh huh. And since we only have the HIV results, we would have been better off just doing the oral swab instead of drawing blood."

But I rather enjoyed passing out and falling on the floor.

I wanted a printed copy of my results, just in case they're ever requested. "See? Negative! Now, where were we?" This required the completion of a form, which elicited, "Wait, this can't be right?" (Now what???) "How old are you?" (Phew.)

"I'm 31." She just couldn't believe it. Who could blame her, right? Right??? And she wasn't coming on to me either. She knows she's not my type; that was one of the screening questions last time.

With the results and a brown bag filled with condoms in hand, I was out the door and continued the drive to Brookings. All told, much less eventful compared to my birthday visit.

***

I'm now at the Super 8 in Brookings watching "classic" episodes of Roseanne. I've seen each of them at least 100 times. The half marathon is tomorrow morning at 7. The weather should be clear, breezy, and in the 30s. Brrr. But I'm stoked and ready to go. My belly's full of spaghetti and meatballs. And now it's time for bed.

Drop it like it's hot

Snoop Dogg spoke to students Thursday at an elementary school in New Orleans (article here). His appearance as a positive role model for youth is questionable, fo' shizzle. I enjoyed the photos of Snoop in a suit though. Sharp.

Wounded Knee 1973

Last Friday night, "Wounded Knee," the fifth in a five-part PBS series entitled "We Shall Remain," was previewed locally at Sinte Gleska University. It documented the American Indian Movement's 1973 standoff with the FBI in the village of Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation. AIM members Russell Means, Carter Camp, Leonard Crow Dog, and other veterans of the 71-day incident spoke at the event.

It was a fascinating night for me. To be able to listen to those directly involved with what happened 36 years ago was a treat. I sat directly behind Means and Camp during the documentary. It was interesting listening to the comments they made to one another during the scenes with which they disagreed and the parts that made them laugh.

I didn't know much about Camp prior to Friday. As someone who is new to South Dakota with a general knowledge of AIM and the events of '73, Russell Means has always been the first name to come to my mind. Camp's telling of the events was done in a matter-of-fact style I liked. On the other hand, Means threw around wasicu a bit too much and spoke with an argumentative tone.

The issues plaguing Indian Country, including the recent lawsuit seeking settlement money compensating tribes for taking the Black Hills, are not easy to solve. The us-against-them ("them" being the wasicu, or the white man) mentality possessed by folks like Means does not help, in my opinion. (He stated, for example, the Lakota Oyate, or people, should not join the U.S. military.) Of course, what Native Americans have been subjected to over the centuries is horrible; however, righting the wrong is way too complicated to occur without cooperation.

Stepping off my tiny soapbox now... This was a special event for SGU and the entire reservation. If you have a chance, check-out the episode's premiere on PBS on Sunday.

4C

A new friend invited me to her family's branding last Saturday south of St. Francis. I told her I had never done anything like it before, but could take direction well. And that's all it took. I arrived at 8:30 and the work started within an hour.

So, here's how it all works: The calves are rounded up and moved into the corral in groups of about 20 at a time. The goal is to brand, inoculate, provide a growth hormone, and put a band around the testicles of the males.

Everyone in the corral has a job. It takes two people to secure a calf, and there were probably four teams of two working simultaneously. There were a couple folks doing the branding, one putting on the bands, two more administering the shots, and another two marking the calf with a red or green stripe depending on the shot.

The process starts when one person grabs the left hind leg of a calf and drags it into an open space, which was at a premium with all of the people and calves in the corral. Plus, the calves tended to congregate together in a corner. Safety in numbers, I guess. Anyway, the second person then reaches over from the right side, grabs the calf's left front leg and upper portion of its body, and pins the calf to the ground. For most of the afternoon, I was this second person.

Once the calf was on the ground, I got on my knees, placing my right knee and calf on the calf's neck. My left knee was just off to the side. Using both hands, I grabbed the leg closest to me, bent it at the joint, and pulled it back. This kept the calf off balance. When the calf would jerk around trying to get up (and they always did), I would lean back, pulling the leg with me. Meanwhile, the partner had one foot on one of the hind legs and the other on the calf's butt, all while holding onto the free leg. While waiting for the brand, shots, and band, the scene looked like this:

A textbook pinning! And guess who wasn't wearing sunscreen. Even my scalp turned red. Maybe I should have held off on that haircut for a week.

The brander would then come by and do his job. Not surprisingly, it generates a lot of gray smoke. I had to look away if I was directly downwind from the branding. That made it a bit tougher to keep the calf in place while receiving its brand. I'll add I had no problem lifting calves off the ground and pinning them on the neck; however, I don't think I could do the actual branding. That's probably where I draw the line in terms of inflicting pain.

The two shots were fairly easy. This part of the process is when the kids were able to get involved. At times, they were the ones applying the mark (red or green) signifying which shot had been given. Then, if it was a female, the two of us holding down the calf would gently release its legs and head simultaneous to avoid getting kicked. If it was a male, the band still had to be placed. I have to say it was amusing to hear shouts of, "We're got nuts over here!" when a team needed only the band before letting the calf go.

After releasing the calf, I'd follow my partner to where an unbranded calf was located and repeat the process until all of the calves were done. Things did get tricky at times. Some of the calves (the purple tags) had to be branded on the right side instead of the left. Well, that just completely threw off my rhythm! I had the task I liked and wanted to stick with it, mostly because I wanted to be as useful to the family as possible.

This was definitely messy business, but it was certainly bearable. There was one good-sized calf toward the end completely covered in shit. We took it on. I remember saying, "Don't think about it and just do it." I think I said it more to myself than to my partner. And boy, was it disgusting! I got some shit in my eye and the calf was an ornery devil. But we did our job well. High five afterward!

Right after that, I helped on my last calf of the day. It was also a tough one, but it was a nearby calf that kicked me square on the side of my right calf. It stung more than anything else. I'm surprised the bruise left behind isn't more evident.

And that was it. It had to be around 2:30, so I spent a solid five hours in the corral. We all headed over to a nearby house for dinner after cleaning up a bit. I joined the circle of beer-drinking fellows before eating, trying to fit in. They were nice enough, but I know when I'm the odd man out. Otherwise, I have to say I performed well, especially considering it was my first time. These folks grew up in ranching and this is their life. And after a few helpful pointers early on, I kept up with them. A number of people, including the family whose calves we branded, sent compliments my way. That felt good.

I came home and jumped in the shower. As the water ran down my face, the smell of singed cow hair, with just a pinch of cow shit and piss, completely enveloped me. Man, did I stink! Besides the bruise, the front of my right calf had red marks where it held down the calves, but they were gone the next day. I was a bit sore, but I still ran 10 miles on Sunday. I actually overdid it; I was feeling pretty gimpy on Monday. But cowboys don't complain.

I was blowing gray snot for about 24 hours afterward, presumably from inhaling the smoke. And I'm sporting a severe farmer's tan. So much for my plan to go shirtless this summer. The way things stand now, I'm going to have to don gloves up to my armpits and a bag over my head during my runs all summer in order for my entire torso to take on the same hue.

So, that's my latest adventure here on the rez. I would (and will) most definitely do it again. One aspect I enjoyed was the barn-raising element of the day. Family came home, neighbors arrived from nearby ranches, and random locals like me all pitched in to help out, and then celebrated together afterward. There was also the new appreciation and perspective gained regarding ranchers and their livelihood. Thanks for putting hamburger on my plate.

I did take my camera, but was so busy working (smile) I didn't have time to take any photos. So, a special thanks to New Friend for sharing those taken by her mom.

Here I am struggling to hold onto the calf while the brand is applied. The calf looks peaceful enough, but I can assure you I had to hold on with everything I had in me. Go triceps!

I still think calves are damn cute:

A busy day in tight quarters: