I had heard the stories.
Always spoken, never written.
Brave warriors, fast horses, and triumphant victories.
They made me proud of my heritage.
However it seemed the past was all I had to be proud of.
The reservation was a dark and desolate place.
Hope was as uncommon as decent food or warmth.
Oppression, the brutal treatment by the whites, was as plentiful
as the snow flakes that covered the ground early that year,
ruining what was left of the already meager harvest.
Our shacks were not homes.
The fruits of our labor not truly ours.
"This is civilization."
"This is how it should be."
"This is progress."
"This is better for you."
The whites always had a reason why the reservation was better.
What we deserved.
It demeaned us.
It degraded us
until we no longer were "us."
Just a sad group of people
condemned to the harshest place on earth.
Nothing to be proud of.
Nothing but the stories.