Last week,
I accompanied a group of 8th graders from Cherry Hills Christian Middle
School on a mission trip to South Dakota to share God’s love with the Lakota
people on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.
Part of our job was to assist at the Lone Man School, which educates
almost exclusively Native Americans.
Traditionally these people are, at best, wary of white men and, at
worst, distrusting and opposed to them.
On our first day there, we
were greeted with enthusiasm and curiosity by eighteen 1st graders. The teacher appeared overwhelmed, and I soon discovered that her class had just been combined with another 1st grade class. As we entered and introduced ourselves, she told me quietly that in addition to the last minute combination of classes, her photocopy quota had mistakenly been exhausted, leaving her unable to make copies of schoolwork for the large class that was on the border of unruliness. She leaned to me and said, "These kids don't do well with visitors." Already there were 3 strikes against us.
Ms. Hespe, the teacher, suggested our 8th
graders read to the little ones, and she was then able to leave the classroom to prepare for the day. As the older kids began to read to the youngsters,
I scanned the faces of the 1st graders. I
was looking for the difficult ones: the ones who struggled with the
assignments, the ones who wouldn’t sit still, the ones who were making trouble.
They had warned us before
coming to the school that we should never assume that girls were the ones with
long hair. On the Lakota reservation,
many of the men and boys continue to wear their hair long as part of their
culture. With this in mind, I was
careful to not make any assumptions.
Though I wasn’t aware of this child initially, I was taken aback when a
small 1st grader with a pierced ear, a round face, and a long black braided ponytail stood in line for the boy's bathroom. This was my first real encounter with
Mackenzie Red Cloud and the first signal that I should look deeper below the surface.
I had spent the morning
with a few girls in the class, and after the bathroom incident, I began to
watch Mackenzie. His school papers did
not have any recognizable letters or numbers on them, only the scratches of a
few random lines. He was distracted and listless,
uninterested in any of the classroom activities. He sat alone during reading time, and no one
seemed to notice.
It wasn’t until lunch that
I began to really see Mackenzie. He sat
at the long lunch table with his head down, his food untouched. I watched as the teacher attempted to get him
to eat and finally to put his tray away.
He struggled to follow directions, and as the class lined up, he pulled
away from the other children, wandering away from the rest of the kids. As the class walked in a line down the hall,
Mackenzie ran ahead, on his own path towards the classroom. It became more and more clear that the
teacher, having double her class size, would not have the time to deal with
Mackenzie, so I decided at that point he would be my adopted Lakota.
The class filed in and took
their seats, with Mackenzie sitting in the hall, head on his knees. I got the feeling that this was not his first
time sitting in the hall outside the classroom door. Ms. Hespe briefly went outside to speak to
him, with no noticeable response. I
motioned to her that I would sit with him, and she nodded and returned to the
17 restless children waiting inside.
I sat down and realized
that Mackenzie was crying. As I quietly
prayed, God began to show me strategies for helping him. I asked him what had happened, and he said
that none of the boys would play with him at recess. It became apparent that
this was also not the first time that the darkness of rejection had found its
way into his heart. I spoke
encouragement to him and told him of God’s love for him, and that I had come to
his school because of that love. Bit by
bit he emerged from his despair, and after convincing him to wash his face, he
decided to return to the class. He was
in the class, but still not engaged.
I imagined what his home
life was like. The teacher had explained
to me that very few parents ever showed up during family events. Only 2 children had any books in their home
or only a few had ever heard a bedtime story.
As I stood at the back of the class, dizziness overwhelmed me, and I recognized
this as spiritual warfare. Within the Lakota
tribe, as with many Native Americans, the dark spiritual forces of their
ancient religious practices combine with culture, rejection, and loss of identity
to cause significant confusion. Why this
boy was important, I did not know. But
this initial encounter of sharing God’s love caused a backlash of
disorientation that made me realize that my actions must be having impact in
the spiritual realm.
As our first day drew to a
close, I saw more and more that Mackenzie was disconnected from the class.
While the other children were writing words on their own and drawing pictures,
Mackenzie’s papers simply had a few marks, with nothing distinguishable as
words or drawings. He randomly got up
from his seat during class, and though the teacher attempted to keep order, he
was not used to following her directions.
Our 2nd and
final day arrived in Ms. Hespe’s 1st grade class, and we walked in
to find order and quiet, unlike the day before.
On entering the class, my dizziness returned, as did my resolve to make a
difference for Mackenzie. After quiet
reading, the teacher announced that all the children were going to write their
own stories. Intimidation threatened to sway my resolve, but I determined that
God was with me, and His power would help to overcome any obstacle.
I knelt beside Mackenzie,
and began asking him questions. The
first obstacle to writing is choosing a topic.
These children had been isolated on a reservation in a remote part of
South Dakota for all of their life, and had little experience outside those
borders. An idea came to me: they were
going on a field trip that Friday to the circus! Perhaps Mackenzie could write an imaginary
story that began there.
As I asked more and more
questions, and guided him along, Mackenzie began to come alive. When we started
to write the first sentence, I realized he didn’t know the letters to write,
nor could he write any words (unlike some of the other 1st graders). How would I overcome this? I
found a piece of 1st grade lined paper and carefully wrote the words
from his first sentence. As I began to write, he began to copy. We recited letter by letter together, and the
sentence began to take shape. Done! One sentence down and 4 to go.
There was no time to lose
as he gained momentum. The process
continued with me asking questions and making suggestions for the next sentence
in his story. Who would he take? How
would he get there? What would happen
when he arrived? After about 20 minutes
of painstaking effort, writing, reading, and rereading, the following story emerged.
“I am taking my cat Luigi
to the circus. We will ride on the bus. We will see elephants and eat
popcorn. I am happy.”
I was happy too! What an accomplishment! Yet the daunting task of illustration still
loomed ahead. “How about drawing an
elephant?” “I can’t draw an
elephant.” “What about a cat?” “I don’t
know how.” I decided that copying had worked before and it could work
again. I drew out some very simple
drawings and watched as Mackenzie energetically reproduced them. He began to add his own details of steps and
a self-portrait. His smile emerged,
exposing several silver teeth. A smile
brightened my face too.
I encouraged him to show his teacher, Ms. Hespe, wondering what she had struggled to do with these 10 children who
most assuredly did not meet the standards of Common Core. As he showed his story, she smiled and shook
her head in awe. I saw her eyes moisten
as she admired what this boy had produced.
The class continued on and
so did my dizziness. I walked to the cubbies to get reoriented. There printed
above the cubes it was: Mackenzie Red Cloud.
Red Cloud. I had heard that name yesterday when we visited the elite (by
Lakota standards) Red Cloud School. Red
Cloud School was a private school where the more promising students
attended. It was named after Chief Red
Cloud. Now I knew. Here was the great, great, great grandson of
the famous Chief Red Cloud. He was a great warrior and leader, and was very
respected by his tribe. And here in the 1st grade Lakota class was his legacy, struggling to
find his way, forgotten amongst even his own people.
Then I knew.
My part to play was to share the love of God with this boy – not in a
Sunday School story, but in a real encounter of patience, encouragement, and
support. That’s the power of God,
allowing us to be more than we think we are.
He is life and light. And when we
share that, life and light come to those we touch. On another level, I was here to play a small
part in righting a wrong that occurred more than 100 years earlier. My
ancestors had oppressed, killed, and stole from his ancestors. We had seen the
Pine Ridge Cemetery where the Battle of Wounded Knee occurred. US Soldiers had brutally killed more than 150 men, women, and children of the Lakota tribe over a misunderstanding with an
elderly deaf Lakota man. There is power in
forgiveness. There is power in kindness,
encouragement, and love. There is power when skin color and age are ignored, and a person is
treated with the dignity and respect meant by his Creator.
