Custer's ghost

A scene from a 1974 Native march in Farmington taken by civil rights journalist Bob Fitch. Marchers were protesting the lenient sentence of local teenagers who murdered three Navajo men. The teens were convicted and sentenced to reform school.

Consider the persistence of impossible beauty. By that, I mean even though the news brings much to despair over every day, there is beauty in the blue and green of spring. And of course, there is beauty when people rise against injustice and color the streets with protest. I’m thinking specifically about this part of the world in the spring of 1974 when Indigenous people gathered in downtown Farmington for seven consecutive Saturdays full of protests. The marches were in response to the brutal murder of three Diné men (John Earl Harvey, Herman Benally and David Ignacio), committed by a group of white Farmington teenagers. The slayings, which occurred in Chokecherry Canyon, came to be known as the Chokecherry Massacre. In the face of this heart-wrenching injustice, grieving Diné families took to the streets in righteous rage. 

I grew up hearing about these events from my elders. Sometimes when passing through downtown Farmington, my imagination would take all the stories I heard about the marches and recreate scenes of Indigenous folks taking over the streets with Red Power signs and banners.

Once on a drive with my uncle David, he described a standoff between Native protestors and white police. “Here’s where it all happened,” he pointed up and down the road as we passed the Totah Theater. “AIM members blocked off the ‘Sheriff’s Posse Parade.’ People were pissed, and pretty soon everyone started rioting.”

See, during those weeks of marching, Native folks were waiting for justice. They wanted the murderers held accountable. However, a judge denied the request to prosecute the white youth as adults. They were instead sent to a reform school for the murders they committed. The day after the sentences were handed down, the city denied a permit for another Native protest because the annual “Sheriff’s Posse Parade” was already scheduled to take place. The parade intended to “honor the Old West” and featured white men wearing frontier uniforms, which felt like an insult to the Indigenous community already upset by the lenient sentences. Native activists tried to shut down the parade, and inevitably, as my uncle recalled, a riot broke out. 

In college, I would return to this protest event as a topic for creative writing classes, but finding photographs or footage remained elusive. Fortunately, some years later, I would finally come across photos taken by famed civil rights journalist Bob Fitch of the Main Street marches. The images reaffirmed what I had imagined: waves of Dinê families and organizers flooding Main Street with signs and banners. “THE RED MAN IS HERE TO STAY,” one sign declares. 

What I cherish most about these photos is the Native children marching alongside their elders. One photograph features four Diné children holding a banner that says, “March for Navajo Liberation.” Crowds of elders and relatives are walking behind the children. This is what I consider beauty. And speaking of beauty, there’s another photo I must tell you about. It features a young Native girl displaying a big smile, ready to break into laughter. She’s holding a hand-painted sign that reads “IF ONLY CUSTER COULD SEE US NOW.” Another young Diné person stands nearby; they too are captured with smiles. 

Perhaps I don’t need to tell you why I hold this image close to my heart. This empire is annihilating itself, and I need those stubborn lights of beauty to guide me through the chaos and uncertainty. That’s why I love the transcendent message of Indigenous resistance coming through these photos. Yes, it’s a heavy history to carry, but we are still here fighting for justice and liberation. Yes, Custer’s ghost haunts courthouses and police departments on the stolen land of bordertowns. Yes, Custer’s legacy still lives on in settler violence like the Chokecherry Massacre. But you see, my people are still here fighting, the Native elders and youth together in the streets. Yes, there is much anger and sorrow, and there will be more tomorrow, but we’ll still find moments to pause and savor the miracle of a smile. The photo I’m thinking about could have been taken in the past or the future. See, I believe the smile on a Native child plants the seed for a better tomorrow. To all the Custers of the world, past and present, my people are still here fighting and thriving. We are still here.