Richard Moves Camp (Oglala Lakota) is a fifth-generation Lakota healer, tribal historian, and spiritual leader. He teaches at Sinte Gleska University and lectures on Lakota history, culture, and traditions. In 2021 he was named a Luce Indigenous Knowledge Fellow. Simon J. Joseph is a lecturer in early Christianity at the University of California–Los Angeles. He is the author of five books, including A Social History of Christian Origins: The Rejected Jesus and Jesus, the Essenes, and Christian Origins: New Light on Ancient Texts and Communities. Their book My Grandfather’s Altar: Five Generations of Lakota Holy Men was published last month by Bison Books.

Richard Moves Camp’s My Grandfather’s Altar is an oral-literary narrative account of five generations of Lakota religious tradition. Moves Camp is the great-great-grandson of Wóptuȟ’a (“Chips”), the holy man remembered for providing Crazy Horse with war medicines of power and protection. The Lakota remember the descendants of Wóptuȟ’a for their roles in preserving Lakota ceremonial traditions during the official prohibition period (1883–1934), when the U.S. Indian Religious Crimes Code outlawed Indian religious ceremonies with the threat of imprisonment. My Grandfather’s Altar offers the rare opportunity to learn firsthand how one family’s descendants played a pivotal role in revitalizing Lakota religion in the twentieth century.

Prologue

I remember the taste of wild chokecherries. They bring me back to my childhood days and memories of my grandparents, Winnie and Sam. It was August 1967. The day was clear skies, light breeze, midafternoon. My grandma was sitting on the ground in front of the thí ská (white house). She rolled out a canvas on the ground and began mashing chokecherries with two round stones, making patties out of them to dry. I was sitting next to her and helping lay out the patties. When she looked the other way, I would sneak a piece and put it in my mouth, thinking she doesn’t know. But she knew. Finally, she made me stand in front of her, put a dry patty in my pocket, and said, “Take a small piece of this patty and soak it and enjoy the sweet taste. It will last you a long time.” She dried a lot of chokecherries that day. It was for the winter so the family could eat wóžapi (sort of like dessert pudding). Sometimes they were made into wasná for ceremonies. Grandma would tell stories while she worked, and I would listen and enjoy her stories. Sometimes she would pause and drink some coffee or tea. She would talk about Grandpa, or my father, or my uncle Richard, the one I’m named after, and his horses and livestock. She would say, “A family has to all work together hard, and the Creator will bless the family.”

As she was talking, suddenly a man appeared from the north side of the house from the plum bushes. I looked and said, “Uŋčí, there is a man coming.” She paused and looked and said, “Ohhh he ye.” She yelled at Grandpa Sam, “Sammy, get up. He’s here.” My grandpa was taking a nap close by. The man was fairly tall, kind of an older person. He had white hair in braids tied with yellow cloth to hold them together. He was wearing a gray shirt and brown pants. His hat was brown and flat-brimmed, like an Indian hat. The shadow from the hat made it impossible to make out his face. Grandfather woke up, looked, and said with surprise, “Hey heyeee,” acknowledging his visitor. He got up and walked toward the man. They met each other a short way from us. They were having a conversation. Both looked north while talking. It didn’t seem very long until they parted from each other. Then the man walked back into the bushes and disappeared. Grandpa came back over and sat down to roll his Bull Durham tobacco, sighed, and said something like “Hown Hown heyyy,” a slang word my grandpa used all the time. I got up and ran to look where the man went, but there was nothing in sight, not even a car or a wagon or a horse in sight. My grandma and I sat next to Grandpa Sam as he explained why he had a sudden visitor. I’m sure he told the story to Grandma many times before, but I believe this occasion was meant for me to hear. Grandpa indicated that the man was his friend.

It was June 22, 1911, when he first met this man. Grandpa Sam was seventeen years old, and Grandma Winnie was seventeen years old as well. Grandma was pregnant with my father, Bernard. My father was born at midday, the same day my grandpa went on top of Eagle Nest Butte for haŋbléčheya (vision quest) for wóphila (thanksgiving). Back in those days, it was a cultural practice and tradition that when the first child is born, the father goes up on the hill as wóphila. Grandpa Sam’s grandfather, Wóptuȟ’a (“Chips”), put him on the hill. At that time, the man that came to see Grandpa was a little boy. He became friends with my grandpa and took him on a journey to other worlds. That little boy grew up along with my grandpa, and they journeyed through life together. On that day in August 1967, he came to visit Grandpa as an old man. Grandpa told us that day that his time was very near. He had to prepare for his journey to be with them. The man told Grandpa that he had chosen me to continue my grandfather’s altar and work. Grandpa told me, “Keep this to yourself until the time comes. If not, your relatives and friends will despise you and jealousy will come towards you and discourage you.” I went home and told my father privately about what happened. He said, “Better help your grandpa from here on after. There’s not much time that he has left.”

I was born in 1956. I grew up around the present-day Moves Camp village. As a young child I grew up around my relatives, my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some relatives would come to check in with us from the village in Wanblee. My relatives lived in log cabins, and my grandparents lived in the thí ská. In my early childhood I remember other people also lived around us down below, with hundreds of tents, tipis, and people as far as a person could see. But they never come up to our place, which was only less than a couple hundred yards. They lived along the creek. I assumed they were relatives of ours and never questioned or said anything to anyone, I figured my relatives also saw them and ignored them out of respect. Over the years I met a friend from down there, a boy my age. He’d come by when I was alone, and we’d visit and talk and hang out together. I remember that he’d never come inside our home, and I was forbidden to go to his camp. So we have an understanding.

*

It was around June 1968. My grandfather and I were playing cards. I asked him about our neighbors down below the creek. I said, “Kaká (Grandpa), how come those relatives never go anywhere, but they always have food and seem to be happy?” He paused and looked at me and said, “What people? Who are you talking about?” I said, “Those people down there at the creek.” So we both went outside and walked toward the east part of the house. I pointed at them. He took my wrist and held it and then he saw them, too. He kind of looked surprised and said, “How long have you seen these people?” I said, “All my life, since I can remember. I even have a friend from there.” I called out to my friend, who was nearby. He came running up and said, “Tókȟa hwo?,” which means “What’s up?” in Lakota. I said, “I’d like for you to meet my grandpa.” They shook hands, and my grandpa smiled. The more he looked in that direction, the more he began to recognize a few people from long ago. We both went back inside and continued to play cards. He said, “Did you tell anyone about those people?” I said, “Only my father.” We both agreed that someday soon I must go on the hill.

My father and I visited Grandpa Joe Ashley to talk about the rituals of Wóptuȟ’a and Sam’s way to haŋbléčheya. Grandpa Joe took the time to explain the meaning of haŋbléčheya, including the stones, the prayer sticks, and the pipe. Haŋbléčheya can be dangerous. If one makes a mistake, a person may not come back from this journey. But if done right, one can receive power. It was August 1968. I overheard Grandpa Sam talking to my father. My grandfather was saying that we need to put up his grandfather’s altar and help his tȟakóža (grandson, meaning me) because I had been around people from another world. My schooling began that night in August.

In June 1970 the time had come for me to go up on the hill. I prepared myself for a year or so to get ready. The most important thing that I remembered from Grandpa Joe was to prepare wóȟeyaka, a gift of honor to compensate the medicine man. That way no mistake would fall back on him. My grandpa filled my pipe, and my father and uncle put me back among the trees.

It was midafternoon. The sun was very hot. As they left, I kept hearing people’s voices—men, women, children—all over. It didn’t take long until I realized that the voices were coming from the trees. The tree nations are like people, too. They have feelings, voices. They’re people like us. It was evening time when my friend showed up. Suddenly, the wind stopped and the voices stopped as well. My friend said, “Kȟolá, it is time for you to tell Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka why you’re here.” I stood up and, for the first time in my life, I felt the presence of God and all other beings looking at me and listening. I asked that my grandpa could stay with us a little longer and that when he leaves us that his friends will not leave us, for we will have a very difficult time in our life. The dark cloud will come over us, and there will be hard life for all of us. I remembered what those old men had said. There will be substance abuse, incest, violence, and loss of honor among our people. My emotions got the best of me. I dropped my pipe and started crying. I cried so hard I felt my breath almost stopped. I fell to the ground. I begged for my relatives’ lives to be saved and that my grandpa’s friends would not forsake us. It didn’t matter who’d take care of his altar. I saw lights on the ground. I didn’t realize that it was raining hard. Suddenly my friend put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Kȟolá, do not cry anymore. We will never leave you.”

I finally stood up and picked up my pipe. My blanket was soaked with water. I hung my blanket on a tree branch and went back into the pit, using a second blanket to keep warm. Suddenly there was a tap on my canvas door. It was my friend. He said, “Kȟolá, these beings, the trees, have decided to give you a gift to take with you. It is wówačhiŋtȟaŋka—the power of patience and tolerance. From now on, for every year you haŋbléčheya, you will receive a virtue, a spiritual law. Then you will qualify to pursue the healing power.” My friend said, “Kȟolá, sing me a song. I will dance for wóphila and happiness for you.” The only song I knew was my grandfather’s personal song. I sang the song, and my friend started dancing like a traditional dancer, giving war hoops and smiling. As he was dancing, he started to become smaller and then vanished in thin air. His voice hollered from far away, saying, “They are coming after you now.”

Suddenly I heard a vehicle pulling up. It was my dad and uncle. I didn’t realize that I’d been out there for two days. The whole thing seemed like an hour. My grandpa was happy that I had made it. My grandmother, mother, and aunt cooked breakfast. My family did a wóphila ceremony that night. I was very honored to give my grandpa the wóȟeyaka that I had saved for a year or so. The wóȟeyaka is a gift to the healer for his services. I had collected a thousand dollars for him. From thereon after, I kept a very low-key profile and did not pursue anything any further. I did not realize that I was the last person Grandpa put on the hill.