Veteran's Day Reflections

Today is Veteran’s Day, 11/11/ 2022. As I write this blog, I am at my Tennessee home in Chattanooga, enjoying the spirit and song of the mountains and the Tennessee River. This morning, at sunrise, I took a drive downtown Chattanooga. My intention? Stand on Veteran’s Bridge, draped and lined, always with American flags. There, Veteran’s Bridge crosses the massive and ancestrally, historically significant and important, Tennessee River. For me, this spot posses and presents a paradoxical juxtaposition. Standing there on a bridge, erected, and dedicated to our United States Warriors, past, present, and future. Off to my right, and along the banks of the River, is a monument. It is called Ross’s Landing.

Ross’s Landing is a monument remembering and honoring the Removal of the Cherokee Indians, on June 6, 1838, and led by Principal Chief John Ross. This site, spot, is the embarkation point for one, among many water and inland routes (there were several) for the Cherokee on what we speak of now, as the Trail of Tears, or, as our Ancestors cried in their native language , the Trail on Which We Wept. On that day, over 1500 Cherokee departed Ross’s Landing in steamboats and barges.

For me, it is a sad place. I remember the first time I stood there at the river bank, a nearly overwhelming sense of grief ~ Ancestral grief, overwhelmed me. The Tennessee River was known among the Cherokee,, as The River That Sings. On that day, there sere no songs from the River sung to me. Only, and rather, the sad spirits that remain yet in that Sacred Site, and who’s tears fell upon my heart, and the collective cries of grief felll upon my ears.

Eventually, many would perish on the Trail. Mostly our Elders, women, and children. Some say between four, five thousand, and others say more (we will never really know), perished along the cold, wintry journey. That however, is not the intended story of this writing; it is spoken of only to add to the tragic memory of this Sacred location, Ross’s Landing.

I personally, am a Veteran, USAF 1971-1979. I received my Draft Notice from the Selective Service Agency in the latter years of the Viet Nam war. Hence, my service requirements were not voluntary (I was drafted into mandatory service for a period of a least two years); my enlistment and subsequent eight years of service in and through the United States Air Force, however, were. The Viet Nam era, in spite of my service, was not a proud nor honorable time, at least for me, yet I served then and there in an honorable way, and was honorably discharged eight years later.

Today, I was proud to stand on Veteran’s Bridge. Admittedly, I felt a sense of pride, or better said, proudness. It was an honor to serve then, and, now, to stand in a place of honoring that service. And yet, the juxtaposition, and reminder of yet another sad and dishonorable event, just over there, in our Nation’s military history. At best, it was and will always be, for me, a paradoxical moment.

As I drove away, lingering thoughts and emotions followed me. The sad whispers of our Ancestors, mixed with cheers of national Military pride remained in my psyche. The moment, the experience had yet another effect. It awakened a memory from my recent past that so vividly, poignantly, and existentially found me experientially in the middle of the conflict. It was a real life, right now , moment for me in which I was living in the moment and in the middle of a paradox of juxtapositions.

The date, 11 November 2016, Standing Rock North Dakota, Očhéthi Šakówiŋ, Dakota Access Pipe Line Resistance Camp. I had travelled there with my dearest friend, and adopted daughter, Anika Salguero. That day was Veteran’s Day. Word spread throughout and among the camp alerting all Veterans present to report to the specific Veterans’ Camp for a march to Backwater Bridge, known to us Warriors as Veterans’ Bridge.

Backwater Bridge was a crucial and often warring place in the conflict between and separating peaceful (I can experientially vouch for that reality) Water Protectors on one side, and Law Enforcement on the other. The bridge crossed a narrow span of the Cannon Ball River, just before merging with the Missouri River, the latter of which was under threat by the pipeline, upstream, and engineered to bore and lay beneath the Missouri, hence rendering vulnerable the only water source for at least two major reservations, a (ironically) casino, and an estimated 18 million people downstream.

It was a bridge along highway 1806 - the only road for miles, across these reservations, and the only road with access, in and out. Law Enforcement had erected barriers, concrete as well as armored vehicles on the West side of the bridge, the side of the Očhéthi Šakówiŋ encampment, which at one point was estimated to include over 10 thousand people from all over the world. As Highway 1806 East was the fastest route in and out, (that matter crucial for emergency response and transportation to nearest medical facilities) these barriers only exacerbated the conflict and tensions between a very delicate and contentious, confrontation of persons, politics, and ideology.

On that day, Veterans’ Day, a delegation of Warriors marched to the cadence of drums and rested, as close to the bridge as we could, given the barriers. We stood, in silence, as we unfurled a massive American Flag. I could not then nor now, guess how many of our Warrior brothers and sisters stood, side-by-side, each one of us holding the Flag, rippling horizontally in the brisk and constant wind from the prairie. It was both, a humbling and endearing moment.

On the blue and white star field of the Flag, stood and elderly WW II relative - a female US Army nurse. She led us in a beautiful prayer, both in her native language and in the English language. A family of a fallen brother, felled in Afghanistan, had sent his ashes to us, requesting we spread them over the River, this day, in honor, respect and remembrance of his service and sacrifice. This we did, along with a Twenty One Gun Salute in his honor. (I retrieved one of the spent cartridges as we were marching away. It remains on my altar. Lest we forget…). It was a monumental day; one I shall never forget.

My service at Standing Rock was the facilitation of the Mental Health Council, a rather daunting, and often ominous task. No more so was this the case, than on the night of 20 November 2016, nine short days after the Veterans’s Freedom March earlier. After our evening prayers, and de-brief, I stepped outside from my Lodge, and Council tepee, into the bitter cold dreary dew and dusk, and never-ending prairie wind. I recall observing, and commenting to an associate that it had been an unusually quiet day. I prayed that was not signaling the quiet before the storm .

That quietness was soon and violently disturbed. Disturbed and interrupted by the desperate cries of water soaked, freezing, tear-gassed Water Protectors, scattered and running to the Medic Healer area (think of a MASH unit, for example), screaming for Medics. Many had been wounded by so-called non-lethal bullets, some stunned from concussion grenades. We would too soon learn that some of our young buck warriors saddled up their horses, determined to go down to the bridge and move the barriers, specifically the armored vehicles which had been burned (which side was responsible was never determined, and blame and responsibility fell upon both) a few weeks prior. Law Enforcement, now including North Dakota National Gurard, responded viciously, with water cannons in sub-freezing weather, tear and other toxic gasses, stun and concussion grenades (I personally had one explode at my feet once called to the front line). and so-called rubber bullets, one of which took the eye of a precious Water Protector niece. When I approached the front line of the violence, it literally resembled a war zone in a third world country. At best, given the setting of the United States of America, a place where just a few days earlier, we stood as proud and fellow warriors, now were under attack by the same country, the same military that many of us served and sacrificed (all gave some, some gave all). and swore to defend, it was a onther wordy, surrealistic moment. A moment of extreme, yet existential paradoxical juxtaposition.

A very profound and telling video of that night is available for your viewing through the following link: https://youtu.be/z3_gxvMi0kQ. A letter from my dear friend and colleague, Matt Salim Grass is posted in the Testimonial section of my web-site, RobertBlackEagle.com. You are encouraged to view and read both, do your own research into that night, the events that called us there in the beginning, and why many remained until yet another, forced removal in February 2017. In its unique way, Standing Rock was vividly and symbolically a reconstruction of previous genocidal wars inflicted upon our Native relatives. Not only was it paradoxically juxtaposed, it was an experience, as a Veteran challenging to reconcile.

For me, the path to that reconciliation, the Medicine for the desire and intention of healing, begins and ends with telling the story, again, lest we forget. Since Standing Rock, I have enjoyed and appreciated the opportunity and honor to speak to literally thousands of people, mostly to the young white ones, coast-to-coast, reaching some, even beyond the borders of this continent. I tell the story of a triumphant yet tragic 500 hundred year history beginning with the 1492 contact, when and where lived an indigenous population estimated to exceed sixty million, through the Massacre at Wounded Knee, 23 December, 1890 who’s population, by then, had been systematically and genocidally decimated to less than a quarter of a million. I speak about how the Dakota Access Pipeline manifested and demonstrated, yet again, the defiance of treaty rights, respect for the land, the environment, and disregard of Native peoples and genocide.

There is always hope. Hope for today, hope for tomorrow, hope for the future, and hope for the forgiveness, reconciliation and healing of the past. I end my talks, as I end this writing, with and through the reminder and reassurance of the Seventh Generation Prophecy, the Vision of Crazy Horse, who saw a time of Seven Generations, when the Circle of Life would become one again through the gathering of all the colors of mankind. A time of awakening, A time of restoration, reconciliation, and renewal A time of longing and yearning for the light again. A time of peace, unity, harmony, and balance within and among all living.things and beings. A time of arriving at that place within you and that place within me, when and where we will all be as one.

That time, dear relatives, is this time, this day, this generation. True, there will always be moments and experiences of paradoxical juxtapositions. It is, however, my conviction, that this emerging Seventh Generation will be the bridge generation. A generation reaching both East and West, North and South, bringing that foreseen peace, unity and harmony, thus saving ourselves, and further generations. That time, is now.

So, on this day, a day to honor our Warriors, past and present, may we likewise honor and empower our future warriors, the warriors of light and love who will usher in a new generation of peace and harmony among all people and all things.

A'ȟo. O Mítákuye Oyásíŋ 🦅