By Kimberlee Medicine Horn "I am Kim. This is my story"…So begins the small booklet, a piece of history written by a foster mom, Mrs. Young. Inside she writes," my mommy didn't have enough money to buy food and clothes for me so she asked a social worker to help her find someone who could." I was born July 31, 1964 prematurely weighing 4lbs. 12 oz. to a 20-year-old Indian woman in Mitchell, South Dakota. This information is located in two pages of what is known as non-identifying information prepared by a social worker. I would read and re-read its meager contents, later in life to glean as much information as possible to aid me in my search for my "birth " mom. This Indian toddler was permanently placed for adoption 1019.5 miles from my birthplace to Ohio with a couple that had already adopted three children. My records were sealed. Although being adopted was normal and even celebrated in my family, it was not always the case outside. Growing up Indian in the small town of Chardon in a non-native home was challenging for me. Some people were pleasantly curious while others blatantly passed judgment. I believe I was subjected to racism in the schools. I was humiliated daily in fourth grade class at the Catholic school I attended. The lay teacher would berate and belittle me. "You are the dumbest in the class. How come you don't understand long division? Why are you so stupid?" I stood at her desk my head hung in shame, silent tears slipping down my face. I was placed in lower classes consistently instead of being encouraged to excel. In high school I was placed in a small group for counseling after I found my voice and began to question how I was being treated. I became defiant and angry. My refusal to be swept under the carpet with my questions and demands for equal treatment of all regardless of skin color or background was bred into my bones from my Indian ancestors. When my son was born I felt he had the right to know his people. My desire is to enroll him in the Yankton Sioux Tribe but I must establish paternity first, a difficult task but not impossible. I embraced the choice to search. Was my adoption worth the loss of my heritage? How would life differ on the reservation? What did my mother feel placing me for adoption? What were the circumstances? Did my father even know of my existence? Researching on the Internet is quick and I can delve into records easier than rushing off to South Dakota to research. One staggering fact I still continue to digest is the percentage of Indian children removed from the reservations. Our numbers are vast. No exact records have been kept. Many are without hope of ever connecting with their tribal roots. Do people really know about this? How many hurts will a nation of people endure before healing must take place? My questions become not only how can I help but who can I help lead to the path of forgiveness? From the beginning my search is based on prayer and my absolute belief that only God can make this happen. I check my motives, are they pure or self-serving? Will reunion bring healing? Am I equipped to handle whatever I may find? Do I stand in judgment of mom and her decision? The search is a gut wrenching, emotional process of personal growth. The outcome was more than I could have imagined. Dear Mom, I want to make this connection. To reach across time and circumstance, across a generation and the one thousand miles that separate us. I want to build a bridge between your lifetime and mine. I don't think what I feel for you can be called love. There are no fond memories to hold onto and I'm unable to put your face with your name because I don't remember. Maybe I resemble you, I don't know. I prayed earnestly and fervently to God for the desire of my heart, to know you. If this is not the outcome my life will still have abundant blessings both without you and because of you. If you felt anger, shame or remorse, I hope there is peace in your heart for the choice you made for both of us. May you know joy, love, and laughter. I pray you have a God of your understanding. Your daughter, Kimberlee Medicine Horn A Mother's Embrace I met my mother for the first time In thirty seven years How I studied her face Wanting to memorize each detail Looking for the things She might not even see -Kimberlee Medicine Horn I received what I call an inner prodding from God when I wrote a letter to the editor of the Lakota Journal. This may be a long shot but so be it, I thought. I have prayed my way through this entire journey. It is in God's hands. The day the Lakota Journal was published with my letter changed lives. I was checking my e-mails and one in particular shook me to the core. "I am your brother, I have mom with me. Your age and birth date match those of a child taken from mom. We love you we have always thought about you…Call this number anytime today. We will be waiting." I quickly printed the e-mail fearing it was written in disappearing ink and showed my husband. He whistled through his teeth. "Fourteen brothers and sisters? Looks like you hit the mother lode!" I was dancing inside with joy and wonder and yes, even suspicion. Could it be true? All I had to do was call the number. What will I say? What if we don't get along? Am I ready for this? My life will never be the same once I hear her voice. I wonder what her voice sounds like? I could live in paralyzing fear and not call or I could take this leap of faith. Then I remembered this was not just about me. It was about my mom and fourteen brothers and sisters and anyone else who would be deeply affected by this answered prayer. I opened my notebook to a clean page and dialed the phone. "Hello?" "Hi this is Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson calling from Ohio. I got your number from an e-mail I received, is Sheldon there?" "How about mom?" "Even better." "Hello, Kimberlee? This is your mother." There was so much to take in as the melodic tone of her voice rang true to my ear. The slower way of speech from that part of the country was surprising. We exchanged physical descriptions of each other. I talked to some of my brothers and sisters. On and on we talked for 45 minutes, the big question being when are you coming to visit? I called my mom and dad to tell them the amazing news first then my mother in law for she had supported my search in numerous ways. I told my friends who had been praying for me the whole time of searching. I e-mailed Diane Tells His Name, the owner of the web site "Young Once Indian Forever" She had reunited with her birth mom and had been such a wealth of information and support. Without her help, the search would have been much slower. I may have given up. The six weeks that followed were dreamlike and frustrating for I couldn't just drop everything and go to South Dakota or could I? I'd have to fly something I haven't done since my journey to Ohio. The cost would be exorbitant! I didn't want to leave my son for long because he was adjusting to kindergarten. What if I didn't want to come back? "When are you coming to meet all of us?" asked mom. "I don't know yet, when the time is right the way will be paved. That's all I know." I answered truthfully. "My parents will be traveling out your way before I will. Do you mind if they stop to meet you? I can't come with them they'll be gone three weeks." Mom agreed to meet up with my mom and dad. What supportive parents they are. I don't know if they realize how unique they are! Throughout the entire search process their only fear was that I'd be hurt. I'm glad they were well enough to travel. I sent a scrapbook along to give to mom. I tried thinking of all the big moments she missed but would like to see if only in photo and written word. "Why don't you call around and see how much airfare is for the three of us?" Jack suggested. " See about rental cars while you're at it." The next thing I knew our flight was booked and car reserved. There weren't any problems getting the time off work and the funds were available. We were on our way a few weeks later. Flying was a new experience for Mitchell and I. I had to pretend I was in a bus at first. Keeping Mitch occupied was a good distraction for me. In no time at all we were walking into the Sioux Falls Airport. Mom was to meet us there. No one was at the gate but as we stood on the down escalator Jack was jabbing me with his elbow. "There she is…there's your mom…" I looked at him in disbelief. The escalator kept on moving. I looked at the woman he was pointing out. It can't be. But she came forward with her arms opened and we embraced. Hugs from mom are the best! Even as a grown woman I snuggled right in as close as possible extremely blissful. "My girl I don't know what to say." "There is time for words later." There were news cameras up close and personal and I told myself some one who needs to see this is watching. We were both interviewed as to what we felt, what had separated us, what our plans were now. What is it like? Tell us. During the two-hour drive to mom's house I kept turning around to look at her. I wanted to memorize every detail of her face. It was the same searching way I'd looked at other women who could have been her before this reunion. Do I know you? Do you recognize me as your own? We arrived at the tribal housing and the large group of people gathered outside waiting for us was my family. My sister Lori pulled me out of the car. Someone wrapped a brightly colored star quilt around my shoulders reserved only for the most special times like these. I was introduced to everyone while my brothers began to drum the family honor song. Jack and Mitch hung in the background taking it all in. We were ushered into the community center and saw an enormous banner that read "Welcome home daughter, sister, Aunt, friend". "Kimberlee eat first as the guest of honor, no one will eat until you do." Lori explained. Thank God for Lori! The drum was carried inside. We sat down to eat Indian tacos. There was much laughter and good cheer. A family picture was taken to freeze this moment in time. On the Banks of the Missouri We stood on the banks of the Missouri River Where three-year-old Saxon drowned Loss was heavy in the air The ghost of who you used to be Before he died, mom, lives there Time stands still in separate places -Kimberlee Medicine Horn It's been twenty-three years since mom had stood on the banks of the Missouri where her three-year-old son, Saxon drowned. It's strange to know there is a brother I will not meet until the next world. Mom says the native way is to believe that when people die they come back as animals. They are always with us. This beautiful Sunday evening in October we are looking for the driveway that leads to the exact place where the drowning happened. Lori pulls her green van into a barely perceptible pathway that was once a well-traveled road. It is overgrown and there are deep ruts of erosion that make the way bumpy and uncertain. Tree branches scrape the windshield and top of the vehicle. But still we continue on with a purpose that means something different to each of us. We have gone as far as safety allows and will walk the rest of the way. Lori jumps out of the van first, then mom and Henry, her estranged husband, Lori's dad. Shelley climbs out with my nieces, Theodora and Kendra. My son and I get out last. Mitchell starts squirming and crying. He doesn't want to go down to the river. He is so sensitive to the unspoken feelings of others. He has bonded with his Grandma Christine and knows there are too many painful memories for her here. "Please Mommy, can't we just wait in the van?" "No, Mitchell we're here for your Uncle Saxon." I explain quietly. Still he whimpers uneasy, uncertain and unsettled. "May I pray over Mitchell and anoint him with holy oil?" I agree and Henry prays for Mitchell to let go of his fear. He anoints his forehead with the oil from a cobalt blue vial, blessing him. Seconds after the prayer is over Mitchell is calm and walks peacefully by my side. Henry goes on to bless his grandchildren and assure them Jesus loves them. The path to the banks of the Missouri is rutted and rocky. My brothers and sisters played here as kids. Lori talks of how it used to look. To me it looks as if long ago the water level was much higher. Too many dry summers have changed that. I look across its width and see only the danger of the water swirling in different directions. I show the kids how the water tells them it is too dangerous to play. While I speak with the children, Mom, Henry and Lori quietly pray and remember. Even though the appearance has changed time stands still. I listen with a heavy heart as Lori points to the curving part of the bank where Saxon was last seen. My brother Sheldon was five and had been playing with him. "They came running to get me to tell me Saxon went under. I dropped what I was doing and ran as fast as I could. I was so scared! It was too late by then. He was gone. I sat at the river for hours and hours unable to tear myself away. It was dark out then and I couldn't see anything. I could hear his cry 'mommy help me' It was louder than the coyote cries." Mom says. I put my hand on my mom's back and rub gently trying to comfort her in a way that seems barely adequate. It's been good for all of us to be here. A bridge has been crossed today. The daylight grows dim and we head back to the van. I bend down to pick up a rock that's perfectly balanced for my hand so I will remember the story. We emerge from the Otherworld and cross the road where the old tribal housing used to be. "What did they do with the houses" I wonder aloud. "They moved them up the road to Marty." Mom explains. What a mysterious notion that seems to me. We drive into the next jaw dropping moment. Mothers and Daughters on the "Rez" Surreal to see what would have been Had I been allowed to stay Thankful more than once My life took its separate direction Even though the cost was high to many Especially You and I -Kimberlee Medicine Horn On an October day in South Dakota on the rise of the rolling prairie I could see for 30 to 50 miles! The sky was huge with possibilities. This is my homeland where I would have grown into a woman. Someone, playing god decided to remove me from my mother. This horrific action was not an isolated event. It was not uncommon for Sioux women to have their children taken away from them. "Pull over here Lori, I have relatives who live here" said her Dad. Lori swung the green van into the snaking, uphill driveway. There were fifteen to twenty tipi frames at the base of the driveway. Further up two men in their twenties were building a sweat lodge. The house was being renovated, a startling sight in Indian country. We unloaded from the vehicle that had carried us around all day. Shelley stayed behind with the kids as we only expected to be gone a few minutes. The home was richly decorated and I wondered who the designer was. A staff with eagle feathers hung just inside the front door. Each wall was adorned with colorful artwork. A beautiful young Indian woman invited us into her kitchen where she diced turnips for the evening meal. Her shining, black hair, parted down the middle fell halfway down her back. She offered us lemonade. We all declined followed by a small, awkward silence. I commented on the beauty of her home and she explained they are planning to turn it into a bed and breakfast. "This is my Mom and my sister Kimberlee. They have just reunited after a 37 year absence." Lori introduces us. "Oh yes, I saw you on the news. How has that been for you?" Joan (not her real name) asks. "Great, so far, it's amazing. I believe the hand of God brought us together." I reply truthfully. Joan's hands fly up to cover her mouth and I am shocked to see how they tremble. I stand with my hands gently clasped behind my back ready to listen. "They took her from me when she was a baby, Mom explains," I thought they were going to watch her for 30 days like they said. I signed the paper. When 30 days was gone I went looking for her and she was gone. No one would tell me where she was. I cried so hard. Something came over me and I tore my hair out. Now she has come back to me. They told me when she got older she may come back. Look what the Great Creator has done!" " It happened to me too." Joan whispers. "When they took my daughter away I could not speak for the next year after. I was afraid to go anywhere. People might ask me about my kids. I couldn't tell them she was taken from me." Tears flow down her cheeks. Mom stands with her hands clasped behind her back listening. Lori and I look at each other thinking, so this is why we came here. God is working again, in inexplicable ways. Joan and Mom embrace, as tears wash away some of the pain. They comfort each other as only one who has been on that path can. Joan is young enough to be mom's daughter. These two and many other Indian women hold this common thread in their hands. For some it is the only thing they have left to grasp. It's hard to hold onto hope after so many years. They clasp hands together and share how it feels to live with the emptiness of not knowing where your daughter rests her head at night. Is she safe? Is she loved? Will I ever hold her in my arms again? Who will help me now? So much heartache. Every tear was essential to bring us to this day of reunion. Joan and mom briefly discuss what it's like getting used to their daughters after so much time has passed. We are mothers and daughters but in many ways still strangers. How will the gaps be filled? The entire room is filled with emotion and unanswered questions. This house will never be the same. It has been blessed by a moment of healing. So have we. The Day the Buffalo Danced The photo of my dad was unexpected Even now I grieve the loss Of never having known him I didn't know what to say at his grave Except "I finally made it home Dad" The headstone remained unresponsive -Kimberlee Medicine Horn |
The heartfelt welcome the entire Medicine Horn family gave me was a gift from God. When God blesses, He does so abundantly. It was all more than I ever could have thought or imagined. The small community center just as we entered the tribal housing was decorated and filled with the good smells of a native feast. In one corner of the room was a table set up with a sheet cake "Welcome Home Kimberlee" was written on it. Next to it was an 8X10 photo with a candle flickering softly in front of it. When someone explained it was my dad I was overwhelmed. Even now as I write I feel so blessed to have experienced that one big moment in my life. He looked kind and gentle. The non-identifying information I was given about my dad was wrong. Someone, a social worker perhaps did his job with extreme care for dad remained a mystery. I never thought I would see his face. One of the reasons for my search was to at least know my dad's name. A friend's words stuck in my mind "There are no secrets in Indian country. Someone somewhere knows your family." One morning we drove to Mitchell approximately 50 miles from Pickstown. I called my Auntie asking if she would sign a paper acknowledging her brother as my father. With out this my son could not be enrolled because he was 1/32 shy of ¼ blood quantum needed. I wondered what was in store for me there. We arrived at Auntie's house and my Uncle Louie was there, a man I loved as soon as I met him which came more as a surprise than a relief. He is the perfect balance for Auntie who to me seems made of steel in posture and in tone of voice, a very strong Indian woman. "Kimberlee what took you so long to get here? Your father waited all this time for you, until he couldn't wait any longer." Auntie wanted an explanation. "His name wasn't on the birth certificate. I grew up thinking I was Rosebud Sioux. The non-identifying information said he was in the Navy. Mom says the physical description was wrong and that he was a Marine." I explained. Auntie was indignant, with every right to be. I reeled from the comment he had waited for me. He had known about me! To hear he waited for me to return was powerful. On the way to the bank to get the paperwork notarized I confessed to her. "I took a ten year detour guided by mass quantities of alcohol. For quite some time there was little I cared about." I stated the truth simply. "It runs in your blood." Auntie said. She gave me directions to the cemetery where my dad was buried. Our last stop in Mitchell was to the local restaurant where Auntie Mae worked. She was listed as Godmother on my baptismal certificate. Her shift was over but I was relieved to find she was still there. I introduced myself and as we hugged and she said I hadn't changed a bit! A miracle after thirty-seven years! "Your dad was like the pied piper! All the little kids just loved him. He was just as silly as a kid was! I was the one who took care of him when he was dying. If you want to know anything about him I am the family historian!" By this time Mitchell was sitting under the table as we waited for lunch. "He's just like his grandfather!" Mae had the gift of gab and happily chatted just enough that I wished I could sit down to spend the afternoon with her. "I was the one who called the news channel to let them know you were coming!" When we were almost finished with lunch Auntie Mae came over to gave me her address and phone number. "Call me, I love to write also!" We headed back to Pickstown and I was overwhelmed. The tears began to fall and I named my emotions: love, amazement, sadness and grief for having never known the man who was my father. Back at mom's house we met up with Lori then drove to tribal enrollment before they closed. I presented the necessary paper and was told voting would be sometime next month. We discussed the changes in my blood degree and Mitchell's. We stopped at the cemetery in Greenwood where dad was buried and I took a photo of his grave. Jack took pictures in the four directions at the cemetery. We looked for the tribal buffalo herd. "The day your dad was buried we brought our drum with us to the cemetery and sang and drummed in his honor. I looked over in the field surrounding his grave. There was a huge buffalo whose four feet left the ground entirely to the beat of the drum. To this day we call your dad's funeral the day the buffalo danced." Open Books Amazingly we are open books to each other Knowing time is short How do we live thirty-seven years in five days? How will we build the bridges? And ignore the barriers? -Kimberlee Medicine Horn We stayed at the Fort Randall Casino in Pickstown, owned and operated by the Yankton Sioux Tribe. As a member of the tribe or perhaps because of mom we are able to stay for half price. It's great because I can temporarily leave my newly found family and get some quiet rest. If I stayed at mom's sleep would be elusive. Today we head out to mom's at the tribal housing to see what's happening. Lori called this morning to tell me my 18-year-old niece was having her first baby. We sit around the kitchen table and talk about how there is no hurry to get to the hospital because first labors are generally long. The other problem is no one has gas money to drive 100 miles round trip to Yankton. As we are puzzling over what to do, my older sister Renee calls from the hospital and asks when we will come. We have gas in our rental car and I'm not used to being the one equipped to lead the way. "Well what are we waiting for? Let's go! I'll drive if you tell me how to get there." I said. It was drizzling but mom says the rain never amounts much or lasts for long. I'm not crazy about driving in the rain but I didn't come to just sit around. Autumn is with us in the back seat. She is such an old friend of the family she is now part of the family. She was so excited to see this baby she drove over in her pajamas. She didn't even stop to shower of brush her hair. She is one who hears her own internal song and dances to it. Mom and I talk on the way to the hospital about the individual struggles in our lives. It is good to be like an open book with each other. When I tell her things I do not feel as if I am being judged, just heard. We started our life story together and it's the time to read the missing chapters. "You'll have to tell me where to go Mom I'm totally lost out here." "Just go straight. I will tell you when to turn." "Shall I turn up ahead?" I question. "Just go straight." She laughs at me, "You will tell your mother back home about how I keep telling you to just go straight." As a mother she has worried desperately over her kids at times, fearing for them in a deep, raw way. Life on the reservation is hard. "Your brother was in a terrible car accident. They told me he would not talk again. He may be just like a vegetable. His brain shifted because of the accident. I prayed to the Great Creator to help him. And you see him now, full of life." "I get the feeling Mom, part of why I came here is because of him. I felt the inner prodding when I first met him. There's a great unspoken need coming from him. I can't explain it. I have learned over time not to question it. He has survived this accident for a much greater purpose." It is scary to speak from the heart but mom just accepts what I have to say. I share with mom my ten years of addiction to alcohol along with my fourteen years of sobriety and she tells me it runs in both sides of the family. Some still struggle with the terrible burden of addiction but in both our cases we decided one day to never drink again and neither of us has. We are both spiritual with solid beliefs. Mom explains how the native way is to Sundance for another person in great need or to thank the Great Creator for good things. My white man's religion and her native ways seem to be quite similar; we have faith in our creator and pray to greater powers for strength, wisdom, and endurance. In Yankton, we enter the hospital and go to the maternity ward but we're too late to witness the birth. Instead we go into the nursery and watch the nurse bathe the fourth generation of Medicine Horn females. The little one has thick dark hair. When we get to my niece's room several red flags go up in my heart as I notice she doesn't want to hold her baby. She is perfectly content to watch television while her baby in the bassinet is pushed to the farthest spot across the room. She hasn't picked out a name yet. I hold the little one wondering how her life will be as mom must have done with me. I have a strong urge to run out of the room with the baby and take her back home with me. Every child should be wanted. I know women don't always take to their babies right away. I tell my niece she is the best person for the job yet I have serious misgivings. It is now past lunchtime and the immediate concern is how will we eat without money. Autumn goes downstairs to find the chaplain and see if she can get some food from him. She comes back up to the room victorious, holding four vouchers for food in the cafeteria. While the nurse comes in to check the vital signs of mother and daughter we go for lunch. We are the only ones in the cafeteria along with the worker. Every item is individually priced. Condiments are 3 cents each, cookies 50 cents, fruit 25 cents and on. We make careful selections to be sure we have enough in voucher money. "The fourth generation of Medicine Horn women means in native ways you are a grandmother to this baby." Mom explains. Yet I am used to white man's version of grandmother and as I explain they all laugh at me. I sit with my mother and older sister, Renee, who took care of me and witnessed my being taken - it seems so natural but still strange. They easily accept me. I participate in family events like I have never been away. All my life I've felt so different from those I am surrounded by daily. In South Dakota it has been like putting on my own skin. I am not a foreigner and feel relaxed and undoubtedly home. When we return to the maternity ward the young mother is still watching TV. We all take turns holding the little one without a name. The nurse comes in again to tell us the baby is losing body heat and someone must hold her very close to keep her warm. We wait to see if mom will volunteer and she does not. "I'd love to get a picture of four generations of Medicine Horn women, will you hold your little one and everyone else can gather around you." I snap the picture. I glance at my watch and realize we must leave soon. Autumn tells Renee where to find the chaplain for food vouchers. I learn the baby has no clothes or car seat. How different it is to white man's ways. In the car I voice my concerns to mom and feel relieved that she feels the same way. It has stopped raining and in passing I notice a brand new expensive house has been built. "Ooh, look at that house, I wonder how many people live in it?" Mom says. "Well in our area houses like that cost around three-quarters of a million dollars. It's not unusual for only two people to live in it." I tell her. "I remember when we all lived in a one bedroom apartment. We had to sleep in shifts but at least we had a roof over our heads." Mom laughs. I thank God at what I was spared being adopted out. I firmly believe God knew what He was doing. There are no mistakes. I think of how mom told me my adoption was for the best because I was able to get a good education. She could see the differences in me from her other children. I prayed to be able to make this journey to my homeland without sitting in judgment. The hand of God has paved the way to show us how to be open books. Goodbye is A White Man's Word Now that everything has changed We pick up the pieces of the puzzle And know instinctively where they go Even though we are 1000 miles apart I am holding your hand and Feeling your warm embrace -Kimberlee Medicine Horn I cannot think of any part of me that has remained unchanged by this reunion. My reflection in the mirror is different. It is more familiar and friendlier than it once was. I am prettier, thinner, taller and reachable. I can embrace myself and feel warmth in return. Ah! The power of a mother's love is transforming to those of us blessed enough to have it. I see the same love reflected in my son's eyes. Our last morning in South Dakota arrived too quickly. I awake from a night of too little sleep and tell myself there will be time for sleep later, when I get home. I worry and wonder how mom will be when it is time for us to leave. I am not concerned for myself because I knew our time was limited. I think of the two hours that we will have before it is time to go. "I hope you watched what your mom was doing, this fry bread tastes great." Jack enthused as he scurries around like a madman packing while I sit only able to do the bare minimum, my silent protest to the upcoming good-bye. I am tired and cranky. I had stayed over at Mom's until 1:00 a.m. the night before. We had a long day of travel ahead of us. I am saddened to leave. I am thankful Jack and Mitch are here with me because I'd want to stay otherwise. "What time does the plane leave?' Jack casually asks. "I'll check the tickets for oh, let's see, the one- hundredth time. I don't see why you can't take a peek yourself." "I know, I know, just do it anyway" He fathers me. The envelope crinkles as I fish out the boarding passes. Then comes the dawn as my other mom back in Cleveland would say. " Oh crap! We have to be in Sioux Falls for a 1:20 departure! That means we have to be there earlier than expected. Good thing you had me look." There was no time to pretend I hadn't been wrong. We had to get to Mom's quickly. We had only 45 minutes left. We packed the car and got on the road. At Mom's I had to come clean immediately and tell her of my gross miscalculation. "Mom, I screwed up. We have to be at the airport much sooner than I thought. I'm sorry, we can only stay about 45 minutes." I explain in a rush to her back as she washes the morning dishes. She and I are alike in that cleaning can help us with the moments we don't want to face but have to. She smiles brightly and offers us food. I want to tell her to just sit down and relax because I feel the urgency of our departure but I know she wants to prolong the time of my leaving. So I just sit in her reservation home with the torn screens on the window and think of the torn screen at my home from where the cat hangs until she is allowed in. The floor is bereft of carpet in her home as in mine. Flies gather in small groups, typical when there are cold nights and warm days. On occasion a roach hurries by to his important business. The food my brother planned to cook for us for lunch defrosts in the sink. I feel sad and am able to say so but the tears brew inside. Well time to go. I remember mom telling me goodbye is a white man's word and as I get up to hug her she holds me close and steadies herself for the absence of us. On the way out I say goodbye to Bullet: a reservation dog who I liken to a junkyard dog. He looks scraggly and mean but I ask him to protect the family inside. I know he understands and as an elder among the rest of the pack he is a leader. As we drive away passing places where magical events have happened I know a huge part of who I am and what I have always been is here on tribal land. I feel with a new clarity my spirituality is a mix of native ways and Christianity. I am one with each foot in a different world. As time goes on I will grow to learn how to use this gift. I'm unprepared for the feeling of my insides being ripped out as we cross the next mile and then the next. I reach for my throat to silence the forthcoming sob that would frighten my son. I'm amazed at the feel of my skin certain I'm no longer of the earth. The heartache of loss is heavy to bear. Grief is a dying to self. Is this merely a fraction of how mom felt when I was taken? Was this what I felt at age two, unable to put it in words or even begin to make sense of it all? Among all the joy and beauty I have witnessed, is this the price I pay for coming full circle and for walking in two worlds? The same feeling comes again as the plane lifts us up and away from South Dakota. Although the loss is there, so also are the missing pieces of the puzzle that make up my mom, myself and who we are together. I carry her warmth with me daily. Return To Homeland It has been nearly a year since my journey to homeland and still I am affected daily at the way the hand of God presents itself in my life. Nine months after I "found" my birthmother I "lost" my mom that raised me to recurrent breast cancer. God was preparing me as only He can. I think about the losses in my life: loss of birth mom, total loss of birth dad, my Indian identity and the life on the reservation. Now as I mature, I count the blessings - two parents at home raising me with stability, education, tolerance and love, the greatest of all gifts. I count my husband of fourteen years and my son who lives in a home that is safe and secure. I remember the horrible feeling of loss as we drove away from the reservation, like a hand reaching inside and ripping out my heart and soul. I carry that unexpected emotion with me still. Why do I hang onto it? It is the grief I believe I have always felt as a child separated from my home and family. It is okay to let it now. May it sprout wings and fly into the October evening sky! I don't need it anymore. I turn it over to God. Once again I lay my life in His capable and loving hands. Those same hands cradle not only me but also my Indian family every day with love and utmost care. I have seen how God and the Great Creator are one and the same. God doesn't see us the way we see each other. He looks inside our hearts and it doesn't matter if it's Indian or White blood that flows through them. We earthly creatures put those limitations on ourselves. How silly it all seems and how simple it could be. Forgiveness and love are the greatest healing balms and I wonder if my birth mom feels any more at peace now about the adoption. I hope it has completed a circle for her. My heart aches to go back and be with her. Yet my life and family are here. My dad needs me more than ever and I don't want to leave my family behind. These are the new struggles of being "found". Diane Tells His Name from the Young Once, Indian Forever web site was correct when she told me "You will know great joy and despair at the same time." When I first saw those words I couldn't comprehend them but how they ring true now. So for this year I will not return to my homeland. I don't want to feel the agonizing wrenching separation again. Quite frankly the time doesn't feel right as it did before. I know God will bring us together again if it is His will. Until then I will just wait on Him. |