Face Time

Once upon a time, deep in the majestic Black Hills of South Dakota, where the air is never balmy and the elevation makes you feel closer to the creator, some douche bag decided to carve four presidents’ faces into the side of a mountain.

Why?
I don’t know. I guess this was the time in history (defunct…sure!) when White men were feeling extra self-congratulatory and wanted to wipe the face of the Red man in their self-congratulating Asses. This is my only guess.

Somewhere, between the Kansas Nebraska Act I took a turn into another time zone and what seems like another life.

I will affirm this- the Pacific Northwest is beautiful. South Dakota air is crisp, clean and clear, even the mist that stirs gently around the zenith of the hills in the backdrop of highway setting looks pure, like driven snow. The truck stops are cleaner too, or the truckers have just taken to shitting and doing meth in their cabs.

There are 10 people per square mile in South Dakota.

There are 26,000 people per square mile in New York City.

I90 west is a straight shot through this state. I drove the expanse to my destination- Mount Rushmore. The site of four guys’ faces.

A Brief History- Gutzon Borglum was the son of Danish immigrants who had way too much time (and too many wives-his father was a Mormon) on their hands in the Idaho territory. Gutzon grew up and became adept at sculpting. His artistic passion led to an obsession with scale, and one day, probably while he was smoking peyote he stole from an Indian, looked at the choppy, uncarved stones of the Black Hills and thought to himself, “You know what’s missing from this rock? Like four guys’ faces.”

Since he was pretty famous at the time because of his other work (I don’t know what his other work was, I am sure you don’t care) Doane Robinson and the United States Government thought this was a great idea.

Doane Robinson was a South Dakota historian who thought a great way to preserve the rich culture of the Lakota Sioux Indians who populated the area (before manifest destiny) was to place atop this mountain the face of the president responsible for manifest destiny along with three other dudes who were president too.  This idea, he thought, would make South Dakota more historical.

Self. Congratulations.

The mountain itself sits high atop a peak in Keystone South Dakota, apparently the only city with electricity (this was the perception coming off the highway) in an 80-mile vicinity.

Like most modest and dignified American historical attractions, a small, garish tourist town popped up at the bottom of the mountain. There are reptile farms, bear shows, a mystery cave that dares you to come inside and not be petrified out of your own natural mind, a museum dedicated to the history of the life of the sculptor and his White polygamist friends…It’s all very exciting.

The drive up the mountain requires an extra tank of gas-it is so steep that you really can’t travel more that 40 miles an hour, which is just as well.

When I came to the mouth of the Mount Rushmore, I was greeted with many state flags, some Indian, none confederate. I was a skeptical, thinking that the entire hullabaloo for a rock carving was bullshit.

I was half right.

The faces are seen immediately as you drive up the steepness of the terrain, like rocky sirens, tempting visual reward for your journey. The site itself is quite peaceful-almost the complete opposite of the dated shit show mountain town that goes on at the bottom of the hill. I stood at the mouth of the mountain and looked around-there were families from different parts of the country, busses full of tourists, a small squadron of missionaries who barreled out of a church van wide eyed and sweet faced, a Muslim family who didn’t speak English who kept looking over their shoulders, a gang of bikers clad in dusty leather who kept staring down the Muslim Family, and 2 other Black people.

Truly a cross section of Middle America.

When you walk close to the sculpture, the first face you see is that of George Washington, which I suppose is intentional, he is the father of the country. Next to him is his slave screwing homeboy, Thomas Jefferson, deep in the cut is good old Indian killing Teddy R, and lonely, lanky abolitionist Abraham Lincoln is set off to the side a bit, like the fat girl at the Junior Prom. George Washington, being the front man of this band is the only one with shoulders and clothes on.

I took heaps of pictures, and naturally I wasn’t the only one. There are so many perspectives from the bottom of the rock, after a while I couldn’t help but to admire the artistry-the look on their faces were not stoic like I imagined they would be. The eyes seemed alive, pensive, but animated. Teddy, the only one with facial hair, seemed just a little bit sad, lonely even.

I walked up the presidential trial which takes you up towards the faces-not too close, but closer than the beginning where all the flags are. Then I was drawn in. Maybe it was the outlay of the jutted rocks that encapsulated the exhibit, or the greenery that garnished the faces, but I wanted more. The closer I got, the better the lens I used on my camera, and I couldn’t get intimate enough. I found a park ranger and asked them if they were going to lead any hikes up to the top of the mountain.

“Hey, no,” he said. “We don’t do that anymore, ok.”

I couldn’t place his accent, so in my mind he sounded like a Canadian.

When I asked him why he told me a story of Greenpeace. Apparently soon after President Obama was elected Greenpeace scaled Mount Rushmore and unfurled a banner protesting against political leaders who were denying climate change. On this banner, there was a picture of Barack Obama. Ever since then, climbing up to the top of the faces was prohibited by law.

I was upset-I felt that standing on the Presidents Trial looking up at these quiet faces was nothing but a cocktease. I wanted to get closer, I wanted to see more, I wanted to touch the rocks and feel the wind at the top. I wanted to pick George Washington’s nose. I wanted to brush Teddy Roosevelt’s mustache. I wanted to put my finger through Abe Lincoln’s assassination head hole. I wanted to see if Thomas Jefferson had Sally Hemmings’ number in his pocket. Alas, all I got was some pretty cool pics from down below. On the Presidents Trial, there are markers that give the sightseers facts about the carving of the faces and the presidents themselves. I walked around and read some of the facts- no one died carving the faces, it took 17 years to complete, the presidents were chosen by Doane Robinson. On some other markers there were facts about the men on the rock.

When I got to Thomas Jefferson’s marker, I was standing there with a family reading in amazement about Jefferson’s accomplishments- the Louisiana Purchase and such- and they lamented when reading about his family about his children, some who did not outlive their parents.

“He only had 3 children grow to adulthood, what a shame,” the young portly wife said.

“That’s actually not true,” I chimed in. “He had about 5 more kids who aren’t on this marker with a slave named Sally Hemmings. My great grandmother, Beverly Hemmings, was his biological daughter. Naturally since she was illegitimate and Black they wont put her name on the marker.”
The couple looked at me with both awe and horror on their faces.

“Yeah, so I’m here kinda like a family reunion, visiting great gramps. Have a great day!”

When I got to my car at the end of the trial I saw the family again, and I waved to them vigorously with a huge smile on face. They hurried to their wagon and shoed their children inside before locking the doors and peeling away from the parking lot.

When my laughter had subsided, I wondered why the Rushmore people were so upset about Greenpeace putting up the banner. Was it because they staged a protest on the property, or because they used the face of a Black man on the mountain to do it?

After driving back down the mountain and eating at a restaurant that will serve you fries in the shape of the presidents’ faces, I walked back to my car and decided to go see the other face on the hills- Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse was a great Lakota Warrior, born sometime in the winter season in Montana between 1840-1845. He was a shy and introverted warrior, given to psychic visions, and loved children.

Crazy Horse’s most notable battle was the Battle of Little Big Horn, under the command of Sitting Bull, where it is reported that he personally killed at least 10 soldiers of the 7^th infantry of the US Army that lost that battle under General Custer.

He was a proud Lakota; after the war was lost he would not conform to reservation life and in 1877 was killed while resisting arrest.

Maybe it was the fact that I had just left Ferguson. Maybe it was the fact that I had just left Mount Rushmore. But I felt more akin to this man that any other historical figurehead I had seen since I can remember.

The Crazy Horse monument sits atop the same grainy peaks of the Black Hills Mountains of the Sioux land.  Two men: Korczak Ziolkowski & Lakota Chief Henry Standing Bear, one who possessed technical artistic acumen and one who remembered the face of the warrior sculpted it. Since no pictures exist of Crazy Horse, Korczak relied upon Chief Standing Bear to recall the stature of the Crazy Horse.

The rock is unfinished. Since this exhibit is privately funded and sculpted with almost no state or governmental aid it is taking a lot longer to finish than its 4 man counterpart 16 miles up the road. Because of that it is also impossible to venture all the way up to the rock. All that you can see is his face- stern and stoic, but not serene like the presidents- angry, brooding, staring deliberately to the west, overlooking the native Lakota Sioux lands that he died protecting.

Twice a day the Lakota people come upon the property and dance, right under the gaze of their fallen warrior father. The dance is a dance that celebrates life; father sky and mother earth marry at the horizon and you trace your finger all the way around this union until you come back to the beginning-a circle. The women carry hoops that represent this circle, life, a yin and yang of ground and sky. The men carry the drums. In Lakota culture, women don’t play, they just sing. The men are responsible for making and playing and carrying the drums, and they play them to honor the women. Twice a day, the face of Crazy Horse transforms from the sullen severe etching that captures the face of a tormented gladiator, to a discerning, almost satisfied, father who looks on, watching over his children carry on the traditions he died trying to preserve.

What the complete sculpture will look like is rendered in the visitor’s museum of the Crazy Horse memorial ground.  At the bottom of it is a quote-

“My lands are where my dead lay buried.”

I say to Crazy Horse, if that is true, then this land is your land.