On May 5th, about a dozen advocates and relatives spoke on the steps of the state Capitol Building in Pierre to call for protection and justice for the state’s Missing and Murdered Indigenous People.
Speakers called for stronger laws and community diligence to protect women from domestic abuse and human trafficking.
As part of SDPB’s ‘Spotlight’ on Missing and Murdered Indigenous People in South Dakota, we bring you the voice of two attendees who lost loved ones.
Sharon Brings Plently:
One day, Sharon Brings Plently could not get in contact with her daughter, Tessa Lavae Curley.
“At the time, I took a job as a manager in a motel, so I couldn't go anywhere. I had to stay there 24/7. But the last day that I seen her was on a Tuesday, October 6th. She pulled up front of my yard. She didn't come in like she usually does. She always stops in and says, "Hi, mom. How you doing? Love you. I got to go run this person around. I'll be right back." She didn't do that on that day.
“I was sitting in on the couch in the living room with the dog, my other daughter's support animal. I should have got up off the couch, should have went outside. I should have went to see her, but I didn't know. I seen her from the window. She got out of the car, went and talked to her uncle, got back in and drove off. Little did I know that was the last time I was going to see her alive. Later on, I text her and asked her a question about a paycheck. And she said, "I'll get back with you later." And that was the last text I got from her. That was on a Tuesday.
“Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, I just got that real uneasy feeling. Something was not right. Something. Call it sixth sense, your gut feeling. I thought to myself, "Okay, if she fell off and started drinking, I'll give her a couple of days, and she'll call me." So I waited and waited. Nothing. Saturday that feeling got really bad, bad, bad feeling. Sunday I tried texting her, Saturday no answer, Sunday no answer. Sunday evening I closed up, went and got my brother and got the pit bull, and we drove up to her apartment. I said, "This is not like her. It's not like her at all." She's always texting and always calling to let me know she's doing this, she's doing that, she's okay. She's always saying "I love you, Mom."
“She's always open about her feelings. On that Sunday, October 12th, I went to her apartment, and I didn't have a key to get in the front door. Maybe I only stood outside about five minutes, seemed like half-an-hour. I somehow was trying to figure out how am I going to get in? I need to get in. I need to go see, got to find out. I happened to put my hand on the door handle, and that door came open. She lived on the third floor. I had hip problems, and I ran all the way up those steps. I said, "Something's going on."
“When I got to the third floor, [inaudible] I didn't have a house key, her apartment key to get in. I knocked on the door and called her name, no answer. I knocked again couple more times. Then I touched the handle and then the door just swung open, and it was pitch black in the apartment. So I started calling her name. I was asking her, ‘Where are you? Why aren't you answering me? Why is your lights not on? Why is it so dark in here? Where are you?’
“I turned the kitchen light on, went towards the living room, turned the light on there. I was calling her name. I said, "Why aren't you answering me? This is not so like you." I went to the bedroom, turned a light on. No, didn't know where she was. Went into that other room, turned a light on, and there she was. She was slumped up against the wall, and I called her name. I said, "What's wrong with you? Why are you sitting there? Answer me. What's going on?" I said, "Tessa, answer me." I went over and I touched her face, and it was cold. I went and got my brother and had him come and check and see, something's wrong with her. She's not answering me. Then we called the police department, and they came out.
“I didn't know what to think. Somebody murdered her in her own home. I never thought that would ever, ever happen to one of my girls. If only I'd gone out there on that Tuesday, if only, I should've, but I didn't. It's been seven months now. The investigation is still going on to this day. Not a day goes by I don't know what to think. It's hard. I don't know how to get through the day, but I pray and pray a lot. I pray for answers, pray for justice for my daughter Tessa. She didn't deserve to die like that, not for her mother to find her, something that I will never, ever forget, never get out of my mind."
Sage Trudell:
Sage Trudell's brother, Quentin, was shot point blank on the Cheyenne River reservation in 2005 at the age of 17.
“That's the day my heart broke. I didn't understand the loss or even the trauma that would follow that. I couldn't watch TV shows that had guns. I still struggle with being around them. They really remind me of just that day. I had never lost anybody close to me. So, Quentin's murder literally changed everything about my life. Within six months of the shooting, I had lost custody of my children. I had dropped out of college. I lost my home, my vehicle. I attempted suicide and I turned to alcohol. I was drunk almost every single day for several years. I started going in and out of jail. I had a really hard time because I didn't understand, like I didn't get it. And this was in 2005 where the awareness and the ability to be helpful to the people, it just wasn't there because it just wasn't there.
“And at that time, all I knew that I was angry. I was angry at the system. I was angry at Sam. I was angry at Quentin because he left me. I was angry at creator. I didn't understand why Tunkashila had come and take in such a part of me. I raised Quentin a lot. My mom went to school and she was a single mother and she struggled as well. So as the only girl, a lot of that responsibility fell on me. So when Quintin died, it felt like I lost one of my children, not just my brother, but the baby of our family.
“I ended up going to prison. In prison, I actually had to go there twice. But prison brought me back to the people. It brought me back to the women. And I had to make a decision. There was multiple factors happening then. My dad was dying of cancer. My mom was struggling with all of my children. And I just, I had used Quentin as an excuse to destroy my life, to let everything go, to not be responsible. So I started to feel shame, even some embarrassment as my mind got clear and a little more coherent and it wasn't so foggy anymore, I realized how I had felt that I had been disrespecting him by using him as an excuse to not take care of myself or any of my responsibilities, versus using him as a reason to really be grateful that I still had my life, that I had the ability to move forward.
“I think a lot when we focus on our missing and murdered relatives, we forget about the survivors. And there literally is trauma and the struggle to heal. Quentin, this year will be 16 years. And sometimes I can't remember what his voice sounds like. And I mean, it's those little tiny things where I could hear him in my head, but I can't quite hear him. But then he started to come to me. He started to come to me in the beginning. He actually came for me the day after we buried him. We buried him November 12th of 2005. And I had a dream. And in that dream, something was hurting me, something I couldn't see. And I have two other brothers on my mom's side. And they both left and I was crying in my dream and asking them to stay with me. And all of a sudden Quentin was standing there and he looked beautiful.
“He had on the hat we buried him in, and a white t-shirt, like a leather type jacket and jeans. And these like really cool boots, because he really liked his style. But he was just smiling at me and he just put it hand out to me. And I feel that he gave me an option. And I remember I went to take his hand in my dream and then I pulled it back and I said, I can't, I'm scared. I can't go with you. In our way, if I had gone with him, I wouldn't be here today. But I also feel like he gave me an option because he let me know that if I stayed, it was going to be hard. And there was going to be things that were hurting me that I couldn't quite identify, but that was, my heart broken. It never broke the same. It's never hurt that way.
“And he helped me. He's guided me a lot. I would have dreams about him telling me to be sober, to straighten up, to go back to the ways. And I got out of prison or I flatted out my number in January, of 2014. I had gone through treatment. I did parenting classes. I did all these things that I had just didn't want to because I needed my life back and my kids needed me. I needed to live because something in me died when he left.”