Nativeamerican lover

05/17/2026

Dad said nobody will wish me Happy birthday. Cuz I'm not pretty

05/14/2026

So very true😪

05/13/2026

05/10/2026

Afternoon light warms the face of Devil's Tower, in the Black Hills of northeastern Wyoming, which rises dramatically 1,267 feet above the surrounding terrain over the Belle Fourche River. It's summit is 5,112 feet above sea level. Devil's Tower was the first National Monument, established by Teddy Roosevelt in 1906. The Lakota Indian names for the tower translate as "Bear Lodge," and "Brown Buffalo Horn." "Devil's Tower" is a mistranslation of the original Indian name. It came to national attention in the 1977 movie, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," when the aliens landed on it at the end of the movie.

05/08/2026

Billy Walkabout (March 31, 1949 – March 7, 2007) is thought to be the most decorated Native American soldier of the Vietnam War. He received the Distinguished Service Cross, five Silver Stars (one upgraded to a Distinguished Service Cross), ten Bronze Star Medal, five with Valor device, one Army Commendation Medals (including one valor device and two oak leaf clusters), and six Purple Hearts.

Walkabout served as an Army Ranger in Vietnam, in the Company F, 58th Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. Walkabout (then Specialist Four) distinguished himself by exceptionally valorous actions on 20 November 1968 during a long range reconnaissance patrol southwest of Hue.

After successfully ambushing an enemy squad on a jungle trail, the friendly patrol radioed for immediate helicopter extraction. When the extraction helicopters arrived and the lead man began moving toward the pick-up zone, he was seriously wounded by hostile automatic weapons fire. Sergeant Walkabout quickly rose to his feet and delivered steady suppressive fire on the attackers while other team members pulled the wounded man back to their ranks. Sergeant Walkabout then administered first aid to the soldier in preparation for medical evacuation. As the man was being loaded onto the evacuation helicopter, enemy elements again attacked the team.

Maneuvering under heavy fire, Sergeant Walkabout positioned himself where the enemy were concentrating their assault and placed continuous rifle fire on the adversary. A command-detonated mine ripped through the friendly team, instantly killing three men and wounding all the others. Although stunned and wounded by the blast, Sergeant Walkabout rushed from man to man administering first aid, bandaging one soldier’s severe chest wound and reviving another soldier by heart massage. He then coordinated gunship and tactical air strikes on the enemy’s positions. When evacuation helicopters arrived again, he worked single-handedly under fire to board his disabled comrades. Only when the casualties had been evacuated and friendly reinforcements had arrived, did he allow himself to be extracted. He retired as a second lieutenant.

He suffered from complications arising from exposure to the Agent Orange defoliant used in Vietnam. He was waiting for a kidney transplant and took dialysis three times a week. He died of pneumonia and renal failure in a hospital in Norwich, Connecticut, survived by his wife and several children from earlier marriages.

He was honored in a portrait, Walkabout: A Warrior’s Spirit, by Cherokee artist Talmadge Davis.

05/07/2026

Yes 🥰🥰

03/05/2026

The Vatican has returned sacred artifacts that had been held for more than 100 years to their indigenous communities.
The items were originally removed during periods of colonization, when cultural and spiritual objects were often taken without consent.
Their return involved formal ceremonies acknowledging both cultural significance and historical harm.
Indigenous leaders emphasized that the artifacts are not museum pieces, but living symbols of identity and tradition.
The importance of this moment extends beyond restitution alone. As institutions worldwide reassess their roles in cultural displacement, acts of return represent steps toward reconciliation, historical accountability, and respect for spiritual sovereignty—signals that long-held power structures may finally be shifting toward repair rather than possession

02/23/2026

When Black Elk stood above Wounded Knee in the snow of December 1890, he understood he was witnessing more than an ending—he was watching the deliberate erasure of a world he had been called to protect.
Born in 1863 into the Oglala Lakota, Black Elk received a vision as a child that would define his life. He saw horses dancing across the sky, thunder beings moving through clouds, and a sacred tree meant to shelter all peoples. The elders who heard his vision understood it as a calling. He would carry responsibility for his people through the darkness that was coming.
What came was the systematic dismantling of everything his vision had shown him.
At thirteen, Black Elk witnessed the aftermath of Little Bighorn, where Lakota and Cheyenne warriors defeated George Armstrong Custer's forces in 1876. The victory felt like vindication. It lasted mere months. Retaliation arrived with crushing force. Land was seized. Treaties signed in good faith were torn apart openly. Reservations became prisons dressed as protection.
By the late 1880s, desperation had taken root so deeply that many Lakota turned to the Ghost Dance—a spiritual movement promising renewal and the disappearance of the forces destroying them. U.S. authorities saw not prayer but rebellion. They responded with soldiers.
On December 29, 1890, at Wounded Knee Creek, those soldiers killed more than 250 Lakota men, women, and children. Black Elk was there. He carried the wounded through frozen ground. He lifted bodies that would never rise again. He watched snow turn red with blood and then fall silent under more snow, covering everything as if it had never happened.
Later, he would say that the nation's sacred hoop—the circle that held his people together—was broken there and scattered beyond repair.
But Black Elk did not break with it.
Survival demanded adaptation. He converted to Catholicism and worked as a catechist, teaching the faith of those who had conquered his people. Outsiders would later argue whether this was compromise or betrayal. Black Elk never saw it as either. He understood that survival sometimes requires speaking in the language of power while keeping the old language alive in quieter places.
In the 1930s, he shared his life with writer John G. Neihardt, and together they created Black Elk Speaks. The book brought Lakota worldview to millions, but it also filtered his words through a non-Native perspective. Parts were simplified. Some meanings were lost in translation. The world listened, but not always to what Black Elk actually said.
That tension lives in his legacy still.
Black Elk was not a prophet trying to predict the future or resurrect the past. He was a witness determined to document what was taken and what remained. He did not speak to preserve some imagined purity. He spoke to preserve memory itself—because he understood that stories carry weight when land and sovereignty have been stripped away.
Black Elk did not fail to save his world. That was never within any one person's power.
What he did was refuse to let its destruction be forgotten or distorted. His vision was never about reversing history. It was about ensuring that even in defeat, truth could survive and be transmitted forward.
When Black Elk said the sacred hoop was broken, he was not abandoning hope.
He was placing it carefully into the hands of anyone willing to remember what was done, who did it, and why forgetting would complete the work that violence had started. He understood that bearing witness is itself an act of resistance—and that the stories we refuse to let die become the seeds of what might still grow.

02/20/2026

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