Russell Means, Pro Se

I’m not sure Russell Means ever knew my name, even though I once strolled (quaking in my boots) into his hospital room in search of an interview. He did deign to answer a couple of questions. I also covered a couple of his news conferences while he was in prison, and spent a half hour or so with him at Camp Yellow Thunder in South Dakota’s Black Hills in 1981.

But any time our paths crossed, the look on Means’ face and the tone of his voice totally communicated that he considered me nothing more than a racist, establishment gnat of a twentysomething journalist.

He was probably right in more ways than either of us realized then.

It’s been a strange year for those of us who were reporters in South Dakota in the late 1970s and early 1980s, what with former Governor Bill Janklow, former Senators George McGovern and Jim Abdnor, and now Russell Means all dying. The other three knew my name, at least for a while; and yet it was Means’ death that made me cry.

I think his impact had a lot to do with his attitude. He gave the impression of thinking almost anyone he ran into was inferior to him or was out to get him.  He didn’t fit the time’s stereotypes of native Americans (though he would later play some of those stereotypes in movies).

Russell Means, love him or hate him, generally looked out for Russell Means. And he generally did a good job of taking care of himself, no matter what you thought of what some called his stunts at Plimouth Plantation and Mount Rushmore or which side of 1973’s Wounded Knee occupation or Custer County Courthouse riot you came down on, not to mention the Minnehaha County Courthouse riot the following year. That riot occurred blocks from the high school where I was a senior, sparked by the refusal of Means and others to stand when the state judge entered the room. I think it was his only conviction; he served a year in prison, and ultimately got a pardon from Janklow, with whom he had a complicated relationship.

But as for Russell Means and me–he showed me a part of me that a supposedly right-thinking, educated, young woman didn’t want to see. He made me wonder how it was that someone my age who had lived in South Dakota all her life knew more about Selma and Montgomery than Wounded Knee I and II. He made me wonder why my very large high school had seemed welcoming of African Americans, but native Americans had been nowhere to be found among the cheerleaders or drill team or football or basketball stars. Thinking about these blind spots made me cry for my state in 1981, the year before I left, when Russell Means’ young niece was killed by a drunken driver as she took part in a spiritual run, and the guy only did fifteen days behind bars.

The last time I saw Russell Means in person was late 1981 or early 1982 when he was in federal court in Pierre as part of some legal action, probably related to Camp Yellow Thunder and the native Americans’ claim to the Black Hills. A man approached him before court began; Russell stood up, delighted smile on his face, and shook hands and hugged the guy. The friend asked something about which of the bevy of attorneys for the native Americans was representing Russell in his personal piece of the case. Russell drew up to his full, not inconsiderable height and said, “Pro se” (representing himself). That’s the way I’ll remember him: Russell Means, pro se.