Saturday, March 21, 2009

Interlude: Grandfather Johnson

Today I met my grandfather. His name is Johnson Holy Rock, but we call him Grandfather out of respect. And, frankly, out of affection. Three of my own grandparents were gone before I was born, and the last, the one grandfather I knew, died when I was 11.

But today I met the man I would chose to be my grandfather if I had a choice in the matter.

Somewhere north of 90 years old, Grandfather Johnson lives alone in a trailer a few miles east of Pine Ridge. He has a view from his front porch that land developers would kill for – vast, almost oceanic prairie, giving way in the far distance to the beautiful pine breaks to the south that mark the border of what we call Nebraska.

Grandfather’s situation troubles Natalie. He is among the oldest and most respected elders on the Rez, a living repository of Lakota culture, history, memories, accomplishments, activism, failures and triumphs.

In terms of his status among the people on the Rez he should by rights live in a palace. He is as respected and venerated as royalty. But instead he lives in a dilapidated 14’ single-wide. The ceiling in one bedroom has just collapsed in a jumble of vinyl panels and dusty insulation, and the whole place smells of mold.

This dichotomy – a highly respected elder living in a moldy trailer – is just one of a thousand contradictions on the Rez. But it is an injustice, a violation of the Lakota way. And Natalie intends to do something about it.

So she brings us out and puts us to work cleaning a riotous jumble of tumbleweeds, spare tires, spent car batteries and broken appliances that surround his property. But first we greet Grandfather, and tell him a little bit about who we are, where we’re from and why we’ve come.

Oooo, he says each time, in a way that is somehow very sincere and absolutely adorable. By now we all want him for our grandfather, which is the point of the Lakota way. He is our grandfather.

While we work, Uncle Floyd arrives. There is an important treaty meeting next Tuesday, and no one knows more about the treaties than Grandfather Johnson. So Floyd has come to consult with him.

Grandfather is fluent in English but he prefers to think and ponder in Lakota. As I listen to these two men, two pillars of their “tiospaye” (their tribal family), I feel like I’ve fallen through a crack in time. They could be talking about where to site the summer encampment, or where the buffalo are, or whether to mount a horse-raiding party on the Cheyenne.

I say to Tessa, one of the students, that when I hear Lakota spoken like this, it feels like I’ve gone back in time 200 years.

But you haven’t! she replies.

And I think, That’s it! That’s exactly right, the heart of what Lloyd and Natalie have given their life to – connecting the Lakota’s vibrant past with their desolate present, that they might someday flourish once again.

We finish our work, and take a group shot with this sweet man, one of the wise elders that can help restore his people. A man we’ve all come to love.

The next day Natalie tells us she talked to Grandfather about finding a better place for him to live, perhaps one of the newer government homes that properly belong to people exactly like him.

He avers, noting that he is now very old and maintaining that those nice houses should go to people who need them more. A young family just starting out would be his recommendation.

To the last he is Grandfather to his tiospaye -- the extended family he holds in his heart.

And he has become Grandfather to me, to all of us.

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