I attended Genoa Indian School in east central Nebraska from 1927 until it was permanently closed in the spring of 1934. During my first three years I was also the smallest boy on campus and probably the youngest at age six. During those initial years I was not permitted to return home on the reservation. It was like being exiled from home, loved ones, and familiar surroundings. It was almost as if I had been given a sentence of death!
I remained on campus and had much free time during the summer months. This meant I could leave the campus and seek work for a little spending money. My problem was I could not speak English very well. An older summer student gave me a card on which he printed the words, “I want job.” I would show that card to prospective employers. Some would simply laugh, shake their heads and returned the card. But a few kind old women responded by giving me simple chores that I could perform with my limited occupational skills and linguistic short comings. I became an expert at picking potato bugs for an old woman who had a small vegetable garden in her back yard. I am now convinced this same woman may have been instrumental in spreading news in her neighborhood about a little Indian boy needing a job. Suddenly other women began offering me work.
Eventually my skills improved and I graduated from picking potato bugs to mowing lawns. Also, I no longer needed my employment card. My language skills became better so I could follow instructions without too much difficulty.
In those days we did not have gas operated self propelled lawn mowers. We had the kind that had to be pushed manually. I was young, eager, and in need of finances, so the jobs were like playing with a new toy. I took pride in creating neat lawns. Those old women were all very appreciative.
My wages were not at the union scale level, but I was happy to earn the extra cash. One woman did not give me cash. Instead she gave me food items like donuts or sweet rolls. I eagerly accepted them.
If I earned 25 cents I thought I was in hog heaven. This meant I could go to the movies. Our local theater charged 10 cents a ticket. Popcorn was 5 cents and soda pop was 5 cents. Compare these prices with the cost of treats at a theater today and you will understand why some of us no longer attend movies on a regular basis.
The movies were mostly westerns which some people call “horse operas.” They were about cowboys and Indians. Some of us little boys even cheered for the cowboys. They were the good guys who always wore white hats. We even got to know the names of their horses.
The other popular type of movies that we enjoyed were of the slap stick comedy type with pratfalls and other kinds of funny stuff. Also you didn’t have to read the captions.
Those early movies did not have color nor sound. The pictures were black and white and silent. Sound was provided by a fat lady who played the piano. If the scene was fast and exciting she played loud and fast. If it was sad she played slow and dreary almost like a funeral dirge. In later years I attended my first 3-D movie. I almost had a heart failure when the action on the screen practically landed on my lap, knocking off the special glasses that were required for viewers to were to wear for those types of movies.
At Genoa Indian School the students were required to live a very strict and rigid regimented life. Discipline was harsh and severe. We were required to wear Army type uniforms. Even the girls had to wear them. We marched in military formations to our classes for study and to the dining room for our meals. Time was set aside for us to practice close order drill. I can still hear officers barking orders and screaming at us if we did not obey their commands. There were inspections and dress parades. Coming from a home with loving grandparents who never raised their voices in anger, this new way of life was a totally different experience for me.
The most shocking experience for me was a strict rule that required all students not to speak in their tribal languages while on campus. Only the English language was allowed. Woe be to the student who did not speak in the authorized version! If caught violating that rule we were severely beaten and assigned to extra duty. How in the world was I going to communicate? I didn’t know how to speak English. Perhaps by sign language?
I am Santee but because I was born and reared among the Oglalas, I speak Lakota. That was my first language. I used to secretly wish that if the mean disciplinarian came to the reservation and began speaking English instead of Lakota, he would be given the same kind of flogging we received on campus. It seemed to me what the federal government was saying by its actions was God made a terrible mistake when He gave Indian tribes different languages and distinct cultures. So now the government was going to correct God’s mistake by insisting that English be the only language for our salvation!
The worse of that boarding school experience was yet to come. After three long, lonely years far from loved ones, the disciplinarian summoned me to his dreaded office. It must be remembered that going to the office was never a joyful event. It meant only one thing. It meant punishment. So it was with great fear that I entered the office and stood rigidly at attention to accept my punishment. You can imagine my surprise when he asked, “how would you like to go home, boy?” It never occurred to me that one day I would be permitted to return home. With great effort I was able to suppress my inner feeling simply responded, “Yes, sir!” He instructed me to take a shower, change into my dress uniform and bring any items I wanted to take home. I gladly followed his orders. He took me to the train station, purchased my ticket, and gave me money to pay for my lunch enroute to the reservation.
When I finally arrived at Gordon, Nebraska, I glanced out the window and saw my grandparents waiting for me. I practically leaped from the train. Grandmother with tears of joy running down her cheeks, embraced me like she would never let me go. She began speaking words of endearment. That’s when I discovered I could not speak Lakota! It had been beaten out of me. I wept bitterly and vowed I would relearn my own language. I have. In fact I am one of perhaps four members of our own Santee tribe that can still speak the language.
My boarding school experience was not an isolated happening. Many other Indian children were sent away to attend government operated schools far from their homes to get an education. It was reported some were even forcibly removed from their reservations. Perhaps it could be said in hind sight that the justification for such an effort was that it was with the best of intentions, but with a totally wrong approach.
After the shocking experience of my initial homecoming when I discovered I could no longer speak in my own native language, I wept bitterly and vowed that I would relearn to speak Lakota. Then I promised myself I would never lose it again. I am proud and happy to have successfully accomplished my goal. I can now speak, read, and write it fluently.
I returned to the school in Genoa for the duration of my grade school years. My wise grandfather could ill afford it, but he arranged for me to return home during the subsequent summers. This was a great blessing for me. Very little English was spoken at home. Everyone spoke Lakota. That was how I was able to recover a precious gift which had been beaten out me at the boarding school. I am eternally grateful. A wise old Lakota is quoted as saying, “the heart and soul of any culture is the language. Once it is lost, we are no longer a people. We become only a shadow of what we once were and could become again by regaining it.”
At Genoa we did not have a locally elected school board that had responsibility for the oversight of the school. This meant that students or their parents had no place to register complaints for abuse and mistreatment of students, or to report misconduct of government employees. The superintendent was the supreme law and he ruled with an iron hand. In a real sense he was the campus dictator!
In reviewing my past I have to conclude that I was not the only victim of cultural genocide. Many other little Indian children suffered similar experiences at boarding schools. Some died, perhaps from home sickness. At Genoa I am aware of three students who died on campus. One was a Crow Indian from Montana, whose name was, Luke Russell. The second one was a Winnebago from Nebraska and his name was Homer Russell. The third one was Albert Cottier, a Lakota from Allen, South Dakota. He was my classmate. There may have been other deaths on the campus during my years there, but I am not aware of them.
Every two weeks little boys from the Small Boys Building were subject to another indignity. A long table was set up in the basement. This was our play room during the winter months. On this table was taped a length of butcher paper. A basin filled with kerosene was placed at each end with a brush by older boys. Then they would begin fine combing our oil soaked heads. A score was kept on the number of head lice that came from each little boy’s head. This was the boy who had the most bugs. One week I was the “Champion Bugger.” I had more bugs than anyone! They didn’t offer any gold medals, but I strutted around like a real champion with that dubious title. No one asked for my autograph. I would not been able to sign it anyway.
Saturday was called, Draw Day. This was when boys who had money deposited for them went to the disciplinarian’s office to draw out their allowance for the week. When your name was called you answered and a slip of paper was given to you. You were required to sign you name before your allowance could be issued to you. The average amount for each recipient was .25 cents. Some of the affluent ones received a little more.
When my name was called I gladly accepted the piece of paper that was handed to me, but I had one problem I didn’t know how to sign my name! I could only stare at the piece of paper not knowing what to do. An older Lakota boy was standing next to me as he signed his piece of paper. When he saw the puzzled expression on my face, he whispered to me in our Lakota language, “my little brother what is your problem?” In a hushed voice I responded in Lakota, “I do not know how to write my name.” He took out a piece of paper and carefully wrote my name on it. I then slowly copied what he wrote and handed the paper to the superintendent. He gave me my .25 cents. Needless to say all during the following week I laboriously practiced writing my name until I could do it with a grand flourish. That Lakota boy’s name was, Christ Yellow Hawk. He was indeed a great life saver as far as I am concerned. His willingness to help a bewildered little boy was an act of kindness that will be remembered forever. I think about that when I go to my bank today and endorse my check. - Sid Bryd FSST Tribal Elder whom is going to celebrate his 94th Birthday this year. |
