Authentic Native American

Hands of the Turtle Nation

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Upon the turtle’s ancient shell,
Four hands in colors softly tell,
Of earth, of kin, of spirits near,
Of bonds unbroken, year by year.

May every palm, from dawn to night,
Give more than take, bring more than fight,
Shape hope from clay, let kindness grow,
And heal the wounds we used to know.

We weave the thread, we mend, we tend,
In every stranger, find a friend,
For under moon, sun’s gentle light,
We are all related, bound in right.

The turtle walks, the feathers sway,
Carrying our prayers along the way,
That hand in hand, through time and tide,
We keep the sacred flame alive.

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Moses Brings Plenty - Oglala Lakota, born on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. He is fluent in the Lakota Language. He is a singer / dummer / actor.

Chief John Smith, known as White Wolf, is acknowledged as the oldest Native American in recorded history, having lived 137 years from 1785 to 1922. Throughout his long life, White Wolf witnessed immense transformations that profoundly impacted both his people and the nation at large. His life story encapsulates pivotal moments in Native American history, including interactions with European settlers and the efforts to preserve Indigenous culture. Chief Smith's legacy within the Native American community is characterized by resilience and survival, reflecting the strength and endurance of previous generations. The accounts of his life have enriched the historical narrative of Native American heritage, underscoring the resilience of its people.

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In a quiet forest long before the rise of cities, a young boy named
Takoda sat beside his grandfather as twilight brushed the sky with deep hues of purple and gold. The elders had gathered for the full moon, and tonight, the sacred drum would sing again.

Takoda’s heart beat fast with excitement and a touch of fear. His grandfather, a wise and gentle soul, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and whispered, “Do you hear it, grandson? The drum is not just a sound. It is the echo of Mother Earth’s breath. When we drum, we speak her language.”

As the circle formed and the drum’s first beat echoed through the trees, Takoda felt something shift. His own heartbeat fell in rhythm with the sound. Around him, the people swayed gently — red, yellow, black, and white — different faces, one spirit. With each beat, he felt the stories of the land, the animals, and his ancestors flowing into him like a river of memory.

That night, Takoda understood: the drum was more than a song — it was a bridge. It connected all hearts, all colors, all stories — to the living soul of Mother Earth.

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