Field Notes from Standing Rock

Network coverage on Standing Rock left me bitter and restless, so I gathered my Chase points, and booked a flight and a rental car. I had a light work load that week, and had nothing unmissable keeping me, so why not? To calm my family, I superficially searched for someone to join me, and wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed when no one was able; I was relieved to make the journey alone.
I told myself I wouldn’t post on social media about the trip; I was afraid of how it might be perceived — another ‘woke’ (*eye-roll*) white person going to Standing Rock. I was so oddly worried about this perception, I remember hoping that no one would find out I was there. I was genuinely curious about what was happening on the ground: Who was organizing? What did that look like? Was there actually any hope?
I flew into Bismarck airport, and had no particular plans beyond driving to the nearest Walmart (ironic, I know) to stock up on supplies for a week at Standing Rock’s Oceti Sakowin camp. I tried to make contact with the camp as well as some distant acquaintances who had been, but it was clear that I wasn’t going to get any solid answers prior to arrival.
I lost cell service ~1.5 hours out of Bismarck, and came across what looked like a mishmashed temporary settlement: a sea of tents, cars, tall colorful flags and a strange sign that didn’t say “Oceti Sakowin,” but felt like it might be the right turn off.
It was dusk and I wanted to find a place to camp before dark. My plan was to sleep in the back of my rental car (silly me, I didn’t realize cars turn into giant ice boxes in the winter), so I parked somewhere, and followed my nose towards the smell of hearty food. I found a Sioux woman stirring a tub-sized cauldron of mutton stew over a large fire with her right hand, and flipping fry bread with her left. The sound of crackling crisco made me nostalgic. That food camp became my home for the week. Our job was to prepare food for people on the front lines. Protestors.
I attempted notes after each day in camp, and although it was increasingly challenging to find the words that would justly encapsulate the experience, four lessons stood out:
White people like organizing.
After I confirmed my involvement in the food camp, I went for a walk to explore the lay of the land just before sunset, and noticed a Burning Man-esque large white dome. I curiously approached, and saw organizers with notepads bombarded by a group of recent arrivals and endless questions. No one made eye contact, so I began to continue my walk, and noticed two Native women standing at a fire, right beside the dome. I assumed they were somehow associated with the activities conducted at this large mysterious white dome, so I asked them what it was all about. They told me they had no idea. I was shocked — how could they not know what was going on right beside them?!
One of the women told me: “Ever since the white people started showing up, we’ve been divided. The people in the white dome are conducting some actions that aren’t approved by the elders — some are, but some aren’t. White people like organizing. A lot of their organizing is good, but they aren’t including everyone. They just do what they want.”
She told me about a young impassioned white boy who thought cursing at the police proved his commitment to the cause, but actually permanently tarnished the group’s image. “When we pray, we’re told that we’ll only receive help in obliterating the black snake (the pipeline) if every single one of us acts peacefully. We simply will not receive help from the spirits if one person acts non-peacefully.”
White people should experience what it’s like to be without privilege.
On my first morning at Oceti Sakowin, I attended an action meeting meant to prepare those who wished to participate in the protests organized for the following day. The woman leading the meeting passionately exclaimed her belief that every person of European descent should experience what it’s like to be behind bars, what it’s like to be without privilege (even though it’s likely they’ll be treated well relative to people of color there). After the logistical portion of the meeting, a woman spoke to us about what it’s like to be arrested and in jail — as she said, it was “not to scare [us], but to best-prepare [us].” She told us that the zip-ties used to arrest her made her hands swell up, and apologized for her hacking — “it’s from all the tear gas and pepper spray.”
An oversized ego stands out like an ugly duckling.
At Standing Rock, there are elders and then there are arrestables and unarrestables. If you decide to be on the front line as an arrestable, you sacrifice your body for the larger purpose.
You can “go” to protest, but being on “the front line” is an entirely different commitment. You’re subject to tear gas, tasers, rubber bullets shot at you, harsh physical/verbal treatment, etc. The police say they aren’t using lethal methods, but they are. “And you will likely be arrested; this is a hay-day for these officers; they’re enjoying this.”
Driving to the protest site the next day with my new friends from the food camp was a time warp. Sunny day, hair blowing in the wind, Bob Dylan blasting on the radio of a rickety old folk wagon.. were we Vietnam-era hippies? There was a raw, highly-addicting camaraderie to this. But was I there just to feel that rush of being an anonymous body within a collective that was so vehemently committed to something greater? Was I truly just there to “learn”? Even so, how selfish of me. At this point, there was no way I wasn’t going to stand on the front line. I was disgusted by my ego tripping in the wind, and I owed it to these beautiful people.
I wasn’t arrested during my time at Standing Rock, but a friend of mine was. We were walking side by side (post-protest at the DAPL site) — he stepped 4-inches off of the sidewalk, and was immediately hand-cuffed. I heard the police officer aggressively whisper to him: “You’re a piece of shit and you deserve to die.” I watched, surprisingly not-one-bit nervous over the fact I might be next, but rather overwhelmingly angry at what had just occurred.
White people ask too many questions they are capable of finding the answer to.
I don’t have a longer explanation for this one. I just heard an elder say it, and it stuck with me.








