Every single day I am amazed by how proud and beautiful the “Native American” culture/way of life had been ,and still is.
I once had a few pictures of my mother ,from when she was a young woman. Her hair was so thick and shiny and black ,and her face wore an almost regal look that showed you Native American blood ran through her veins.
Her father was a drunken and abusive Irishman. Her mother ,though they were very tarnished and beaten down ,bore the same very “Original American” features.
My own father was a mentally and emotionally abusive man. He “ground” away at my mother’s spirit. I believe my mother felt she’d end up homeless or dead ,if she did not tolerate my father. My mother ended up anxious and depressed. She could not challenge my father too vehemently ,so became mentally AND physically abusive toward me.
But ,this is not about me and my journey. This is about my mother’s eventual release.
I spent my life watching my mother stand as tall and as proud ,as a perpetual victim could ever hope to be. I watched her battle cancer. I watched her sit outside in the middle of some of the very coldest nights. Her eyes would be closed. She was communing with what little bit of nature one could find in a miserable and dirty city. She was in a way ,asking whatever spirits she truly believed in ,to give her permission to die ,to transform into exactly what this statue/monument brings to mind.
And then ,one average morning ,as she was preparing for another invasive doctor visit she did not want to attend ,she sat on the living room sofa ,as her ancestors lifted her out of her beaten and broken mortal shell and raised her spirit toward her reward in the sky.
My father (the miserable,cheapskate,prick,bastard) called me at work. “Mom’s dead. Come home. I don’t know what to do.”
I was both saddened and elated. Mom WAS dead ,but she was free. Dad was devastated ,but finally without a free spirit to abuse.
I forgave my mother for everything,while attending her funeral. I happened upon my aunt Nancy. I hugged her ,and I finally cried. She was an almost mirror image of my mother. I made it “all about me”. I asked my aunt Nancy ,why my mother made it so FUCKING hard to love her. My aunt gave me a gentle hug ,and told me I would never know what my mother went through before she first held me in her loving arms.
I knew some of my mother’s story ,though. I once asked her why a wedding announcement (clipped from an old newspaper) was in a small keepsake box that also held some of first hair clippings and baby teeth. Her reply was “Because she’s your sister.”. Until then I’d thought I was an only child. I’d never know I had a half-sister.
Things started to make sense after that. Mom had a plastic serving tray in the kitchen. It had the last name “McCarthy” painted on it ,crudely. McCarthy was her maiden name. Mom said very little about it ,but mentioned painting her name on the tray while she had been young ,and away from home. A moron could piece things together. Mom got pregnant (out of wedlock) most likely in her teen years. She was SENT to a place where pregnant teen girls carried their yet to be born children. Mom birthed a daughter. Very likely against her wishes ,that daughter was handed off to be raised by (more respectable) people who could give her a better life.
My aunt Nancy was right. I didn’t know my mother well enough.
But I do know this….
My mother now stands on whatever plane her ancestors escorted her to. She maybe stands next to a daughter she had to wait a lifetime to hold and spend time with. And ,she is as vibrant and proud as the warrior/maiden spirit ,forged into this amazing monument. 🙂
True-Sky2066 on November 11st, 2025 at 11:23 UTC »
It’s beautiful
aclose78 on November 11st, 2025 at 12:14 UTC »
It's at a rest stop overlooking the Missouri River off of highway 90. It's very cool to see in person. It's a beautiful spot for it, too.
Edit: I found a picture I took on my own visit
typicalguy1964 on November 11st, 2025 at 13:22 UTC »
Every single day I am amazed by how proud and beautiful the “Native American” culture/way of life had been ,and still is.
I once had a few pictures of my mother ,from when she was a young woman. Her hair was so thick and shiny and black ,and her face wore an almost regal look that showed you Native American blood ran through her veins.
Her father was a drunken and abusive Irishman. Her mother ,though they were very tarnished and beaten down ,bore the same very “Original American” features.
My own father was a mentally and emotionally abusive man. He “ground” away at my mother’s spirit. I believe my mother felt she’d end up homeless or dead ,if she did not tolerate my father. My mother ended up anxious and depressed. She could not challenge my father too vehemently ,so became mentally AND physically abusive toward me.
But ,this is not about me and my journey. This is about my mother’s eventual release.
I spent my life watching my mother stand as tall and as proud ,as a perpetual victim could ever hope to be. I watched her battle cancer. I watched her sit outside in the middle of some of the very coldest nights. Her eyes would be closed. She was communing with what little bit of nature one could find in a miserable and dirty city. She was in a way ,asking whatever spirits she truly believed in ,to give her permission to die ,to transform into exactly what this statue/monument brings to mind.
And then ,one average morning ,as she was preparing for another invasive doctor visit she did not want to attend ,she sat on the living room sofa ,as her ancestors lifted her out of her beaten and broken mortal shell and raised her spirit toward her reward in the sky.
My father (the miserable,cheapskate,prick,bastard) called me at work. “Mom’s dead. Come home. I don’t know what to do.”
I was both saddened and elated. Mom WAS dead ,but she was free. Dad was devastated ,but finally without a free spirit to abuse.
I forgave my mother for everything,while attending her funeral. I happened upon my aunt Nancy. I hugged her ,and I finally cried. She was an almost mirror image of my mother. I made it “all about me”. I asked my aunt Nancy ,why my mother made it so FUCKING hard to love her. My aunt gave me a gentle hug ,and told me I would never know what my mother went through before she first held me in her loving arms.
I knew some of my mother’s story ,though. I once asked her why a wedding announcement (clipped from an old newspaper) was in a small keepsake box that also held some of first hair clippings and baby teeth. Her reply was “Because she’s your sister.”. Until then I’d thought I was an only child. I’d never know I had a half-sister.
Things started to make sense after that. Mom had a plastic serving tray in the kitchen. It had the last name “McCarthy” painted on it ,crudely. McCarthy was her maiden name. Mom said very little about it ,but mentioned painting her name on the tray while she had been young ,and away from home. A moron could piece things together. Mom got pregnant (out of wedlock) most likely in her teen years. She was SENT to a place where pregnant teen girls carried their yet to be born children. Mom birthed a daughter. Very likely against her wishes ,that daughter was handed off to be raised by (more respectable) people who could give her a better life.
My aunt Nancy was right. I didn’t know my mother well enough.
But I do know this….
My mother now stands on whatever plane her ancestors escorted her to. She maybe stands next to a daughter she had to wait a lifetime to hold and spend time with. And ,she is as vibrant and proud as the warrior/maiden spirit ,forged into this amazing monument. 🙂