Manifest Destiny — South Dakota

The most striking similarity amongst all of the big cities I’ve traveled through is the large presence of active construction projects. Locals everywhere seem to echo each other in saying, “This place is nothing like it used to be.”

Always with a look of sadness in their eyes—which from experience I’d presume is a reflection of the feeling of loss and also the feeling of being lost.

Watching the Bay Area go through the process of gentrification has meant watching families who have lived in their neighborhoods for several generations be forced to move elsewhere— somewhere unfamiliar and far less significant. This seems to be a trend across the country: young, wealthy people move into a city, strip it of its culture and vibrancy, and push out the folks who gave the place all of the characteristics that made it so desirable to outsiders in the first place. When I went to Mount Rushmore, followed by the Crazy Horse memorial in South Dakota, I realized that this is farther from a new phenomenon than any American tradition could be— this is the American way— “manifest destiny”.

When white folks stole the land we live on today from the natives who lived here, they were recorded as “pioneers” and “colonizers” in our American history books. Considering the astonishing parallels between this aspect of American history and the gentrification of neighborhoods and cities that is happening today, I can’t help but wonder if there is a more appropriate word for gentrifiers than “opportunists” or “hipsters”. I also wonder how this past decade will be remembered and whose story will be recorded this time around.

At the Crazy Horse Memorial I went to a dance performance. A native Lakota man spoke to me and other tourists about the history of his tribe and the land we were standing on. When he danced, most people sat in silence with a look of fascination in their eyes. But some, in their “Trump/Pence 2020” shirts, MAGA hats, and even more creative pieces of apparel sporting words like, “LIBERTY ISN’T FREE”, could be seen chuckling amongst themselves before mindlessly slinking off to their next attraction. The Lakota man appeared to be unaffected by the permanently smug expressions settled upon their faces, which made him all the more intriguing to me. I spoke to him after the performance and asked him if the soles of his feet hurt from dancing so hard on the concrete. His movements had been made with so much intent that they shook the floor, sending vibrations under all of us in the room.

“No, I’ve been dancing for so long that my feet barely feel anything anymore. There is no pain in this for me.” He shook my hand and then turned his attention to his grandson, who was running around the now empty room in light-up Batman shoes.

On my way out of the memorial, I went to the gift shop and bought a sticker for Vanna’s bumper and a postcard (my usual souvenirs,) before beginning my long drive to Minnesota. Just as Vanna and I made it down the twisting road that snakes away from the Crazy Horse memorial and onto the stretch of highway that would eventually lead us to Minneapolis, the sky broke open and fat drops of warm rain began to wash the thin layer of dust off of Vanna’s windshield. Storms in the Midwest are nothing like storms in the Bay Area. The clouds here come so close to the ground it feels like they are dripping down your shoulders and soaking into your clothes even before they release any droplets of water. And the rain isn’t cold and laced with sharp winds blowing off of the Pacific Ocean; it’s cool like a breeze on a hot day at the beach, when your neck is sweaty and the sand is burning the soles of your feet but you still get goosebumps because your suit is wet. This particular storm seemed to follow me for miles, or rather I was following it. Finally, the storm moved far enough away that the rain no longer struck my windshield and the dark clouds up ahead didn’t seem nearly as looming. Suddenly, the sun broke through behind me and the darkness burst into a rainbow that remained just ahead of Vanna and I until the sun set.

***Photo 1– Crazy Horse Memorial

***Photo 2– Highway Rainbow