Doug took the long way home, wanting her to get a feel for the land. “This is the land of your ancestors, of Maggie Otter Tail, your great-grandmother whose mother ran from the Seventh Cavalry through the snow to Stronghold and survived the massacre.”
“You mean Wounded Knee?”
Doug nodded. “This is our land, but it comes with the memory of much loss. There is pain here, the genetic trauma of terror and violence, but there’s hope, too.”
The landscape was beautiful, but the way people lived…
Naomi wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she was astonished by the poverty as they passed dilapidated trailers and ramshackle houses that didn’t look fit for human habitation, children playing in the dirt.
“Out on this end of the rez, there’s no running water or electricity. People use car batteries or generators when they can.”
“This is like …” She stopped herself, not wanting to offend.
“It’s like a third-world country?” Doug nodded. “You’re not the first person to say that. This is the poorest county in the United States. Our median annual income here is four thousand dollars.”
Naomi stared at Doug, shocked. “How do people survive?”
“Charities. Government commodities. Relatives. Odd jobs.”
Outside her window, teenagers sat in the bed of a broken-down pickup truck with no tires, its paint long since bleached away by the sun.
“People who visit see the poverty. They see the crumbling houses and the rusted-out vehicles. They read about the alcoholism and the high dropout rate and suicides. But they miss the real story—the economic growth, the rising number of kids finishing college, the strength of our elders, the sense of community, the resurgence of our language and culture. The story of the Lakota is a story of survival against all the odds—and that’s your story, too, Tanagila.”
“That’s what Grandpa Belcourt said.”
Doug grinned. “Elders like him are important to us. They know the old ways, and those ways will make us strong again.”
They reached the town of Pine Ridge an hour later. They passed a Subway, a Catholic church, a Pizza Hut, then Doug turned down one of the streets and pulled into the driveway of a blue, two-story house.
“Look what the kids did for you.”
A hand-made banner hung over the garage. Covered with smiley faces and handprints, it read, “Welcome home, Naomi!”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “How sweet.”
Doug helped her out of the vehicle. “You go on in. I’ll get your things.”
The door opened, and a woman Naomi recognized as Star stepped out.
She was petite and prettier than her photograph, a bright smile on her face as she hurried over to Naomi and drew her into her arms. “What a long road it’s been for you, Naomi, but now you’re home. Welcome.”
Three weeksafter Naomi came to Pine Ridge, her tribal enrollment was approved. Her story had been big news around the reservation since she’d turned in her application, word of her ordeal spreading. The local newspaper, radio station, and TV station dredged up the old articles and news footage from when she’d been found as a baby, sharing clips and quotes. Naomi had never heard or seen any of this before, and reading and listening to it wasn’t easy, especially when the TV news ran a photograph of her taken at the hospital the night she’d been found.
“Why did your mama throw you away?” Kimímila crawled into Naomi’s lap, her gaze on the TV screen. “You were a pretty little baby.”
Naomi swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
She would probably never know.
Star stepped in. “Naomi’s mother, whoever she was, must have had some kind of sickness in her mind. We should pray for her.”
“I’m glad they found you,” Chayton said.
“So am I.”
Star and Chumani had baked a cake to celebrate Naomi’s enrollment, her nickname written in squiggly scrawl in white icing—Tanagila.
“Now that you’re official, I think it’s time to get everyone together and introduce you. It would be a good time for a naming ceremony.”