Brave Girl: A Story on the Wind

By Scott Woster and LaRayne Woster

"Brave Girl: A Story on the Wind" paints the vivid picture of LaRayne Woster's journey through life, set against the backdrop of central South Dakota. Born to a mixed heritage of Lakota and Irish, LaRayne grapples with her cultural identity while navigating the ups and downs of life. Amidst joy and tragedy, her family evolves, challenging her to embark on a spiritual journey that intertwines her roots with her future path.

Scott infuses this heartfelt tale with a strong sense of family and the urge to stay truly present amidst the changing seasons of life. He takes readers on an intimate voyage of self-discovery, introspection, and an unflinching exploration of one's cultural roots. Through LaRayne's story, he showcases unyielding courage in the face of formidable events, large and small.

Those fascinated by history, Native American culture, and the quest of finding one's place in the world will find "Brave Girl: A Story on the Wind" an enriching and enlightening read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350910612

Book preview

TȞATÉ (WIND)

Tȟaté, my friend

Worn and torn and frayed

A long night’s journey

Be not afraid

Tȟaté Iyáyo (leave, wind)

Today I wish to ride

Seeds from the grasslands

Riding wind for days

Much work for many branches

Earth blanket for your stay

Tȟaté Iyayo

Today I wish to ride

Full circle is the way

Sunup, sundown, a brand new way

Brother, sister, a loved sibling

The circle among us is a sacred thing

A long night’s journey

Be not afraid

Chapter 1

Tióšpaye

Family

Fittingly, as I gaze to the wiyóhiŋyaŋpata (east) and begin to write this story, the slightest hint of rising wi (sun) is becoming apparent as an icy shade of tȟo (blue). I sense a new journey taking shape and am excited to tell this story and am curious as to how it will unfold as words on paper.

My wife LaRayne, the subject of this book, and I teach and learn from young Lakȟóta / Dakȟóta / Nakȟóta wakȟáŋyeža (children) at St. Joseph’s Indian School on the banks of the Missouri River in Chamberlain, South Dakota. Since I was 25, in 1994, I have worked as a counselor at the school. The bulk of the work I do is with boys and young men in grades 7-12, but our school is small enough in terms of space and relationships, that it’s not difficult to interact with all of the 200 or so hokšíla (boys) and wičhíŋčala (girls) at some point during their time there. LaRayne has been at the school as the Native American Studies instructor since 2002 and works with all the kids during their time at our school.

I pray with our young men and guide them to look toward the east for understanding about their lives. I remind them that, each day, the sun rises over the horizon and the Aŋpaó Wičháȟpi (morning star) greets the dawn. I try to help them begin to comprehend that, just as the sun and the morning star herald the beginning of each new day, we too can have Óhiya tȟéča (new beginnings) each new day, each new moment, each new oníya (breath). The lesson taught by nature is that we all make mistakes in this life and this world (in fact, mistakes are expected and are what make us human), but we can always begin anew.

In full disclosure, I have to admit that I have never been able to spot the morning star. I realize it would be as simple as turning around to where LaRayne sits as I gaze and type, and asking her to point to it from our bedroom window. But we’ve been married for roughly 18 years and I’m stubborn. I don’t want to show her that I don’t have that wóksape (knowledge) stored somewhere.

Another reason I don’t want to ask for guidance to recognize the morning star is that I want to take it on faith that the morning star is there without actually seeing it. Much of Native American culture and spirituality is rooted in myth – things, objects, and ideas that aren’t obvious. The idea of belief in spite of the lack of tangible evidence is in my comfort zone. The morning star doesn’t need to present itself to me each morning in order for me to be guided by it, for me to learn from it, or for me to pass along lessons from it. I just need to believe in it. And I do.

My wife’s Lakota name is Aŋpaó Wičháȟpi Wíŋ, or Morning Star Woman. She is a citizen of the Sičháŋǧu Oyáŋke (Burnt Thigh Nation). This was also the name of her uŋčí (grandmother), Nellie Ohítika Hokšíla (Brave Boy), who passed on to the wanáǧi tȟamákȟočhe (spirit world) in August 1988. This name was given to my wife in ceremony at the Milk’s Camp wačhípi (powwow) in 2010. In my mind and in a way, we are part of everything our ancestors once were, but a Lakota name handed down from an ancestor who was admired and loved was a special blessing for LaRayne. So, that is where this story will begin, with her ancestors.

LaRayne’s maternal grandma, Nellie Andrews, was born in 1907 to Millie Fly Jaw, a full-blooded Lakota wíŋyaŋ (woman) who was the daughter of a man recorded only as Jaw (born 1857, deceased 11/5/1898) and a mother recorded as Red Mouth (born 1857, deceased 7/9/1932). Nellie’s father was James Andrews, whose mother was known as Nation Woman, a full-blooded Lakota woman who married John Andrews, a non-Indian.

I only mention blood degrees because when LaRayne’s ancestors were alive, that is how the United States government identified them. I pored over the ledger with the names of LaRayne’s family members and they were all identified by their tribal enrollment number and their blood degree.

Examining the brackets of the family tree, I find it interesting that, of LaRayne’s grandparents, great grandparents, and great great grandparents on her mother’s side, the only one of her great grandparents to have been non-Indian was John Andrews, her great great grandfather. Thus, John’s son James Andrews had one half degree of Indian blood, and Nelly had three fourths Indian blood. LaRayne’s mother Bernice and her aunt Marie were designated in the ledger as seven eighths Lakota.

When Bernice married Jack Moore in 1952, this introduced Jack’s Irish blood into the equation and LaRayne was born roughly half Lakota and half Irish. Since that day, February 2, 1969 (Groundhog’s Day), she has taken equal pride in her Irish and Lakota heritage.

Obviously, a family birth ledger isn’t going to give much information about her great great grandparents. All that we know are the names, dates of birth, dates deceased and limited ethnic information. For that matter, not much is known about her great grandparents beyond those same facts. I imagine the legends that would have been told around the campfire from the mid to late 1800s, when her ancestors were living, would be worthwhile stories to pass down from generation to generation. But, as far as LaRayne and her mother know, those stories have been lost to time.

The lives of LaRayne’s grandparents are recorded and remembered much better. LaRayne interacted with them and is able to recall memories of her grandma Nellie. She remains heavily influenced by Nellie to this day and probably becomes more so as she gets closer to becoming the next generation of elders herself. Her lalá (grandfather) Alexander, or Alec, as he was known, died long before LaRayne was born. Stories of his life have survived with her though, especially the account of his tragic murder, which I will share shortly.

Grandma Nellie was born in 1907, 17 years after the Wounded Knee massacre, which essentially ended Native American resistance to the United States government’s westward land grab. She was born during the origination of boarding schools, as Indian children were being taken from their thiyóšpaye (families) and forced to reside in European-styled boarding schools in order to have the Indian taken out of them. Nellie attended Saint Francis boarding school in Saint Francis, South Dakota. There, her culture was deliberately stripped away and replaced with European customs, language, and religion. In Nellie’s case, Christianity.

Later in life, although she was still able to speak Lakota fluently, Nellie rarely did. She recognized the necessity of instructing her young daughters, Bernice and Marie, to be like the white man and to learn English. She also realized that if her kids didn’t assimilate, as she herself was trying to do, they could be severely punished. Nellie had seen many of her people punished when they presented any resistance to the new culture and spirituality. She appeared to have been given a forced vision of what lay ahead for her people and her family, and she understood its importance.

LaRayne has little knowledge of any Native American culture learned from Grandmother Nellie, but did gain many lessons and skills from her. LaRayne remembers drying wagmíza (corn) and picking čhaŋphá (chokecherries) and making wígliuŋkaǧapi (fry bread), all activities that bring her joy now. Nellie and her hiŋgnáku (husband) Alec owned cows and chickens on their farm in Šíča Oyáte (Bad Nation), near Wood, South Dakota. LaRayne has also been told their house was filled with music. Her grandfather Alec played many instruments, including the saxophone and piano. Although they grew up in a time when Indians were not allowed to drink and reservations were dry of alcohol sale and consumption, Alec was allowed to drink when he was performing music for people, and he reportedly did from time to time.

LaRayne and I took her mother down to the old place in Bad Nation in late October 2022; Bernice was 91 years old. We drove south on the gravel Highway 53, which meanders around the bluffs of the White River. We came to the Bad Nation cemetery, a small plot of graves at the crest of a hill several miles south of the Makhízita (White River). The plot is a grassland area, as is much of that region, sparsely populated by humans and trees alike. There are some areas of plum thickets along the creek beds and, when it rains, the mní (water) meanders towards the White River, which flows westward into the Mníšoše (Missouri River) just south of Chamberlain.

At the cemetery, we found the tombstones for Alec and Nellie. It is a tranquil spot and it didn’t appear that much visiting takes place there. LaRayne has been there a few times in her life and Bernice hadn’t been there for many years. We all thought it would be a beautiful spot to be buried and to find repose after a full life lived not far away.

We left the cemetery that day and continued itókaǧatakiya (towards the south) on Highway 53. We came to a corner,