Living on the Edge. Celine-Marie Pascale
a nearly equal number of tribal members living off the reservation. The population at Standing Rock is young; 46% of residents are below the age of twenty-four.16 While the national unemployment rate hovers at 3.1%, at Standing Rock that number is closer to 79%.17 And the poverty rate is 43.2%, nearly triple the national average. The scarcity of jobs and economic opportunities creates high unemployment and overcrowded housing. Most low-income residents live with family members, which can lead to overcrowded and unsafe conditions.18
On reservations, tribal and federal governments are the largest employers. At Standing Rock, the tribe owns and operates two casinos that employ almost 600 people, and several smaller businesses including restaurants, campgrounds, a convenience store, and a marina.19 This level of development is impressive, considering that all Indian lands are held in trust and managed by the federal government. Nearly every aspect of economic development on Indian land is controlled by federal agencies. For example, companies must go through four federal agencies and forty-nine steps to get a permit that would take only four steps off of the reservation.20 The occupation of Native peoples has been bureaucratized to devastating effect. The so-called guardian–ward relationship between the federal and tribal governments is not a trustee–beneficiary relationship, as is often claimed. Tribal governments are reduced to domestic dependent nation status and forced to rely on federal government agencies that are underfunded and difficult to access.21 The federal management of Native resources and economies has created levels of poverty on reservations on a par with undeveloped nations.
Standing Rock is a sprawling community organized by Districts, eight in all, each with their own governance structure and many with substantial populations.22 Many people at Standing Rock do not live in formally organized towns – even the two casinos/hotels are not part of towns. There are just three towns on the reservation, all about thirty miles apart: McLaughlin in South Dakota (population 679), and two towns in North Dakota: Fort Yates (population 200) and Cannon Ball (population 875).23
Fort Yates is home to Sitting Bull College and to the Standing Rock Tribal government. The beautiful college campus stands as a promise to the future in a community that prizes its children. The tribal government works hard to support youth, and just down the road from the college is a modern public school campus that contains buildings for elementary, junior high and high schools. Fort Yates itself is a crossroads with a grocery store, gas station, post office and bank. Just north from Fort Yates is the town of Cannon Ball. Half of the families in Cannon Ball have incomes below the federal poverty line; and, nearly half of the residents are children under eighteen.24
By morning on my second day at Standing Rock, a cloud of smoke from the Montana fires settles like a thick fog over the entire area. I can no longer see the rolling meadows stretching to the Missouri River, much less the expansive bridge that spans it. Beads of headlights travel on a slim thread of road moving across the reservation. I join the line of cars leaving the reservation and heading into Mobridge – a town that was built on land taken from the Lakota Sioux in 1906 for the construction of a railroad.
In Mobridge I find a gas station – and things quickly become confusing. The pump has a range of five options, all with various grades of ethanol. I have no idea which one the rental car needs and no way to make sense of all of the choices. I wait as an older white man washes the windshield on a woman’s truck; as he works, he calls out to everyone entering the station by name. The white woman behind the wheel of a very tired-looking Ford engages him in easy banter. It was a banter that I came to recognize as both a kind of community and a kind of wall. The banter isn’t open to everyone. I would bump up against it many times when dealing with white people in the area. After some time, I signal and make it clear that I’m waiting for help. In return they both look away, making it equally clear that they would finish their conversation without hurry. When the woman finally starts her engine and pulls away, I still seem to be invisible to the attendant and so I ask for help. Without a word, and without looking at me, the man picks up the nozzle for the 87 octane and begins to fill my gas tank. Then, with a sweeping gesture toward the gas pumps, says: “These are a gift from your Black president. Or I should say your former Black president.” I wonder how this older, white man sees me.
When I want to convey a sense of ease that I really don’t feel, as I did in this moment, I imagine someone I love before speaking. I smiled and shifted my weight to a relaxed posture. But then out of my mouth comes:
“What gifts are we getting from your white president?”
“Oh, so you’re going to be like that.” He takes a step back. Obviously, my smile isn’t always enough. But the exercise is helpful, and I don’t give up easily on the strategy.
“No, no,” I laugh. “I asked because of how you said it. Are you a Trump fan?”
“Definitely not. That election didn’t give us any choices. I know some think she would have saved the world. That woman is just … well, let’s just say neither one of them are looking out for us. They keep getting richer and you and I keep getting poorer. Nothin’ going to change that.” Maybe my strategy has worked. I seem to be on his side of the fence now. I don’t know how this happened but I’m grateful. I take care not to mention the name of “that woman” (Hillary Clinton) in our conversation about politics.
There are two main roads in Mobridge, one that is a throughway for traffic heading in and out and another that resembles the sleepy main streets of business districts in many midwestern towns. It’s about 10:30 in the morning when I drive down the main street in Mobridge. It’s a few blocks long and mostly empty, except for a string of pickup trucks parked in front of a local bar.
In my phone calls home, my family complain about the photos I send them: “Why don’t you take photos of places that have people in them?” The truth is that in struggling communities a lack of disposable income can make a town feel completely empty. This is certainly the case in Mobridge. Although noticeably larger and wealthier than the towns on the reservation, it is also clearly a struggling community. Most of the businesses are shuttered. The storefronts that are open do double duty: a single storefront serves as a craft shop, a florist, and a café. There are no bookstores, department stores, movie theaters or bowling alleys. As is typical among the Midwest towns I visited, the Ace Hardware store is the largest and most well-kept building in town.
Downtown Mobridge, South Dakota.
Mobridge is remarkable in that it has a restaurant and two full-size grocery stores. I shop in both on weekday afternoons and find that I am the only woman unaccompanied by a man as I wander the aisles. All of the women appear to be shopping with their husbands. In a town where everybody seems to know everybody else, I stand out – perhaps for more reasons than I can imagine. In the dairy section, I stand for a moment staring at an ordinary pound of butter that sells for $6.50. I can’t help but wonder why, after all of these years, I still expect groceries to be less expensive in poor communities. It has never been the case. The butter here is more expensive than in Whole Foods in Washington, DC. In this rural South Dakota community produce is more limited and less robust than in the DC area, and there are fewer options on the shelves. Add to these difficulties the fact that people on Standing Rock have to travel thirty or forty miles one way for a weekly shop. I wonder what that trip would be like in a South Dakota winter.
The next day I drive out to McLaughlin. Routes 12 and 9 intersect in McLaughlin and the intersection has the bustle of an agricultural hub – grain silos and massive trucks sit just off the crossroads. The town’s main street is a couple of blocks long, and is home to a small café, a gas station, and a senior center. McLaughlin has a population of about 670. In the 2010 census, white people were almost one-third of the population; by 2019 that number had fallen to 25%. Although a lot of Native people live there, there is an overwhelming presence of white people that makes McLaughlin feel like a white enclave on the reservation. Unfriendly doesn’t begin to capture the feeling I get from other white people in the town. White people consistently dismiss my interest in the place, interrupt my conversations with Native