A Boarding School Lesson Not Forgotten

A Boarding School Lesson Not ForgottenTim Giago -
Lakota Media Inc. Jan 15, 2005

We had lessons early on in life on how not to treat animals. I
was a student at Holy Rosary Indian Mission on the Pine Ridge
Reservation of South Dakota during those dark days of World
War II. At least we had a roof over our dormitory and three
meals a day.

Many of the young men and women of the reservation had
marched off to war in far off lands and many had come home
in pine boxes.

Near the end of the war a Jesuit priest named Father Edwards
arrived at Holy Rosary. I was about 9 years old at the time and
to many of us about that age he seemed to be a giant of a man.
We heard he had been a chaplain in the U.S. Army and he often
wore combat boots that stood out beneath his black robe. Many
days we would see him attired in hunting gear carrying his
favorite German Mauser rifle as he headed out toward the hills
surrounding the mission school on his way to hunt. Father
Edwards had already educated most of us to his limited patience
by whipping us mercilessly with a braided, leather strap he called
"The Cat." We assumed he took the name from the "cat-o-nine-tails"
in the stories about pirates we had read about in school.

We learned that when Father Edwards was about to mete out
corporal punishment he would make all of the students within reach
line up to observe. His favorite command of "assume the position"
became legendary at HRM. The "position" was one of reaching down
and grabbing and holding on to our ankles so he could have better
access to our posteriors. And then the flaying with "The Cat" began.
To cry or not to cry soon became the question. We noticed that if one
cried loudly enough, the whipping would not be so severe. If one
maintained the misbegotten stoicism of the Indian male, the beating
was prolonged, methodical and harsh. Father Edwards wanted us to
show fear and acceptance. He would, by God, get a scream and cry
out of us or else. And after the pain and shame, he demanded that
we say through out tears, "Thank you Father Edwards."

It was about this time that a scruffy little dog wandered on to mission
grounds. We didn't know much abut different breeds back then, but
in remembering, I would say the dog was part beagle. It had sad
brown eyes and its muzzle was pin cushioned with porcupine quills.
We hid the dog in the culvert that separated the little boy's
playground from the big boy's playground. At the end of the culvert
on the big boy's side the entrance was covered with bars. We sealed
off the back end of the culvert to keep the dog in and one of the
enterprising boys produced a pair of pliers and we began to extract
the quills from the muzzle of the poor mutt. We kept the dog hidden
for about two days. It wasn't a secret for long.

We were called to form company ranks one morning and Father
Edwards paraded in front of us with his German Mauser in hand.
He admonished us for breaking the rules and told us we had to be
punished. During this harangue we could hear the dog whimpering
at the bars of the culvert. Father Edwards bolted a round of ammo
into the chamber of his rifle and with great ceremony strode to the
end of the culvert, aimed and fired a round into the head of the dog.
Many of us had to fight back the tears.

We broke the rules again a few months later. This time it was a kitten.
It was small, gray and very hungry. This time we hid the animal in the
outhouse located on the little boy's playground. All of the boys knew the
cat was hidden there and used the outhouse with great caution so the
kitten would not escape. We sneaked food from the dining hall and for
about two weeks the kitten lived a good life with plenty of food and
plenty of hands to pet it. Once again it was in the early morning when
the command was given for us to line up in company ranks near the
outhouse. We all had lumps in our throats because we knew the kitten
had been discovered. Father Edwards cautiously opened the outhouse
door and extracted the kitten. In fear it scratched his hand causing him
to let out a loud "ouch" and causing a fearful titter to go through the ranks.
With theatrical flare, Father Edwards, who had become known as Eddie
Boy on our list of secret names for some priests and nuns, held the kitten
in the air and asked, "Now what do you thing we should do with this little
piece of contraband?" We knew he wasn't waiting for an answer from us
so we remained silent. Without further adieu. Eddie Boy took the cat by
the tail, spun it around his head several times, and then crashed its head
into a tree. The kitten reacted convulsively and died.

We were boys who had not even reached our teens as yet. Now what
possible lesson had we learned from this display of absolute cruelty?
Aside from developing an intense hatred for Father Edwards, I think
most of us came away with the lesson that never in our lifetimes would
we ever be cruel to defenseless animals. For me the lesson has been one
I have carried all of my life.

Tim Giago, an Oglala Lakota, is the former editor and publisher of Lakota
Media Inc. He is the winner of the H.L. Mencken Award and was a Nieman
Fellow at Harvard. He can be reached via e-mail at giagobooks@iw.net.
By: By Tim Giago (Nanwica Kciji), 2004
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Taken From: "Native Dreams"-
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NativeDreams