![]() ![]() Her last words to me were for me to take care of Wiconi Was`te, her Heyoka grandson whom she had named. She spoke of the shadowy figures that resembled my grandfather and great-grandfather. ![]() Grandmother shared all that she could with her loved ones before she took the hand of Waziya (Death). It seems that my grandmother spoke in a voice almost unheard as her eyes closed forever. Like the eagle, I ascended, eager to rise and soar far beyond my own dreams and hopes According to the white man, I was nothing more than a hopeless statistic, born into the poverty of an Indian Reservation, but I was an Akicita winyan (warrior woman) nevertheless, without the promise or privilege of a Harvard or Yale education. Without the support of an Irish father who abandoned me and only dreams of an absent mother, I was the product of an inferior reservation education, counted out and counted down, much like my ancestors. Yet my grandparents and the Great Mystery favored me. I was born in 1953 during the Termination Era, an undesired half breed, embraced by neither the Lakota nor white society. The powerful thunder echoed just as my grandfather’s words many times throughout his life. My voice has been an echo within the storm of my grandmother’s hopes, wishes and dreams. Insignificant and unimportant to white society, but my grandmother’s prayers for my future struck throughout my life like thunder. Upon humble dirt floors, as a child I often pondered without worry or hate, my silent prayer for the future of the Lakota people. As much as a Lakota can be gifted, my life is a perfect example. Lightning strikes often but the thunder’s echoes are seldom heard. ![]()
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