The image above is my Grandfather, born in Sibley Indian Housing, Mendota, Minnesota, in 1910.

My mom’s family had a deep relationship with horses, and I’d bet that everyone reading this’s families did, too. It’s just that ours is, in most cases, more recent than most. The very last horse in my extended family died this year, an elderly mare cared for by my aunt.

This marks a departure from a tradition going back into deep time, both with the whites and the Indians.

Actually the history with the whites goes back much further than the Indians, who got their horses, known as Sunkawakhan, or “sacred dog,” in the late 1600’s. Of course, the relationship with the horse amongst the Dakota was different than with the whites because their respective religious beliefs.

The whites, Christians, believed the horse was simply another tool, as God had given people dominion over the earth and its creatures. Animals do not possess souls or spirits. They and the land can be exploited at whim.

The Dakota believe that horses, and all other creatures, are part of us, creation, and we all have spirits and are equal. You don’t mistreat animals because they are relatives, kindred spirits. We, the animals, and the land are the same.

These are two distinct philosophies, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which you prefer.

I was raised white, mostly, but there were always “weird” things involving animals. There were other things as well, hidden remnants of our Dakota past. Now that I know the full story, warts and all, I’m not surprised, and some things that seemed strange as a kid make sense.

Some of my earliest memories involve horses. I was never a good rider, or particularly inclined to an interest in them, but I spent a lot of time around them. An obligation was their care. I can’t tell you how many times I curry combed, picked hooves, fed, etc. our horses. It was a lot. I’ve shoveled mountains of horseshit, and I’ve carried many tons of hay.

My mom told me that “Horses are your brothers, your best friends.” The church told me otherwise. Who was I to believe, my mom, or the preacher?

As a boy, I could see the souls in their eyes, and I called bullshit that they wouldn’t go to heaven—because they were things, to use up and exploit.

As a nine-year-old, I didn’t think that was right. I still don’t.

We and the land, and the creatures therein, are the same. Haven’t we had enough of laying waste to everything? Killing those who believe slightly different versions of the same thing? Casting out and abusing those who deviate from what one group or the other declares “normal?” Isn’t God supposed to be love? Because I’m not seeing much of it in today’s discourse. No. What I see is rampant hypocrisy, and elaborate justifications for the unjustifiable. I see people who want violence to punctuate their bored, seemingly pointless existences.

Me, I’ve had a belly full of fighting. Had enough misery, poverty, and want—the schools of the good soldier, to paraphrase Napoleon. I’ve had it up to here with people who want nothing but to dominate others, to force them to take their views, or die.

This is no way to live, and my ancestors of various stripes and creeds ran from this, or fought back, at times leaving their blood laying around in pools. I can’t escape the ancestors, nor do I want to. Because we are the land, and the people and animals therein are to be treated as brothers, with respect and dignity.

The ancestors also say that when your people are in danger, that whoever comes to threaten, chooses his path to the grave.

This is also the way. The land must be fed.

That’s the thing about wheels, or circles. They just keep on rollin’, and the cycle repeats. Each generation thinks they are hot shit, and their elders always clutch their pearls. The Great War folks roundly lambasted the Jazz Era generation as lazy, good-for-nothing, pleasure seeking idiots.

Huh. Pretty funny. That group of “degenerates” went on to crush the Nazis, and were later venerated as the “Greatest Generation.” Of course, the term “Greatest Generation” is kind of bullshit, because it implies that no one else will match them. I disagree. I have faith in our kids, because they are descendants of hardened survivors. They just haven’t had the right prompts, for which I am eternally grateful.

But the wheel keeps rolling, and tests, accompanied by pain, are coming.

I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

All of us, in the final analysis, return to the land. Some earlier than others, but no one escapes. It’s a question of how hard you want to deny this, or fight it; it matters not.

We are the land.