"My mom buried her oldest son, my oldest brother, when he was a teenager. My auntie buried her beautiful daughter, my cousin, not too long after that. Since that time, I’ve sat and cried and tried to make sense when my aunties and uncles had to bury many of my cousins. Motorcycle accidents, gunshots, car accidents; I watched many of my playmates growing up taken from me one-by-one.

I still remember my mom’s moan and crying when she got that phone call about my big brother; I was only about my own son’s age when that tragedy happened, but I’ll never forget the sound that my mom made. It was profound and long-lasting—it sounded like a lead on an honor song by Northern Cree or Blacklodge or Young Grey Horse.

The sound of her cry tasted like the Massacre at Wounded Knee or the Marias Massacre; there was no hope for Indian people that day.

It made the soul cry."

Get the Story:
Gyasi Ross: Happy Mother’s Day: In Defense of ‘Mere’ Survival (Indian Country Today 5/13)