written April 2024
came to Pine Ridge and it's nothing like they said.
driving down the street's not the same as what i read.
lookin' at the landscape, amazed at how they lied,
the only source of tragedy's behind their bitter eyes.
the gravel roads and wire fences aren't the problem here.
the source of social problems' a condition more severe:
Wasicu came and conquered for at least 200 years;
the colonists have colonized, and they are still too near.
came to Pine Ridge and it's nothing like they said.
driving down the streets ain't the same as what i read.
tryin'a find the pity porn, but i can’t seem to find
the calamity, the misery that articles opined.
i guess your average tourist wouldn't understand this land.
i guess a couple years ago, i might've found it bland.
i might've made the same mistake as all those other Whites,
but now it's hard to see the world in any other light
than the beauty of the land, the beauty of this place,
the way it wears its history atop its craggy face,
the rolling tumbleweed, the horses' quiet grace,
the connection of a child to his ancestors' birthplace.
but how did all the writers get this research so wrong?
why did all my reading sing a very different song
than the songs of all the birds that i hear outside the door?
how did all those writers bastardize their sunny score?
for me, it didn't sink in 'til my feet were on the grass,
'til i'd watched the scenery roll past the window glass
that all the readings i had done were right about one thing:
the kind of learning nothing but experience can bring.
came to Pine Ridge and it's nothing like they said.
driving down the streets ain't the same as what i read.
the whisper of the wind, like the laughter of a friend,
makes the history i face so clear to comprehend.