White Clay: A Photo Essay

There's nothing here. Anywhere.

I find it difficult to believe that there is a place on earth where nothing exists. Whether physical or metaphysical. There are no buildings, trees, people, faith, oppertunity, money, education, charm or hope.

This is the story of my trip to White Clay. Through my eyes and words.


It all starts here. This is the landscape these people live in. Empty and forgotten they try to scrape up a few dollars for beer and sedate thousands of deamons, half of which followed them since the day they were born. The rest acquired along the way. Driving to White Clay, it didn't matter which direction I looked, they were all the same: abandoned. Rotting fences posts, gnarled trees, collapsed buildings. People long ago cared, but they're all in the cemetary overgrown with weeds. Their graves eroding a little more each day.

There was one part of the trip that invaded my heart and mind and left them as hollow as everything else here.


This man's name is Warren. He's lived here his whole life. Unfortunatly it's just the same day of his life over and over, only his body is a little more useless the next day. He's twenty-eight years old. He squats in Pine Ridge. He loves his son to death. His only chance is a job at Pizza Hut.

Anyone who has even the vaugest acquantance with Native culture will appreciate the rarity of this photograph.

When I met Warren, I was meandering around the Ghetto of Pine Ridge. Looking for something, but totally confused about what it was. He hailed us from the top of a hill and asked us what we were doing in White Clay. One of my fellow (travellors, strangers, pilgrims?) said we were searching for truth. We found it.

Warren walked up to us and said "I got your truth right here." He handed a can of Natural Ice to one of my companions.



Hurricane Malt Liquer. The "Slurricane." After the first beer we passed around two of these in the legendary circle. For my readers unfamiliar with the practice, it consists of all the present members of an area sharing liquer and jokes. Warren and his friends shared their beer with four total strangers. Anyone who knows the current situation in White Clay should be humbled by their generosity.


For every full Hurricane we saw in Pine Ridge, there were (two, three, four?) dozen broken, empty and tossed aside. The metaphor is so obvious, but so accurate. This photo was taken from inside the house we met Warren at. The house didn't belong to him, but his friends refused to be photographed and I respected their wish. However, this could be just as easily taken in Warren's house, if he has one, or anyone of a hundred houses on Pine ridge.


This is the bathroom of the house we drank at. I assumed these were taken to the mission in town for use. There was no running water in the house. Or electricity. Or gas. Only a kerosene lantern in the corner for warmth. One of the residents claimed he almost burnt the place to the ground in winter. I often wonder how far that fire would've spread.


These boots were in the dried up sink in the house. The strings were frayed and broken, the soles worn. I didn't ask why they were in the sink. Maybe a storage place for winter shoes in non-winter months. I'm so glad it was nice out when we arrived.


I don't know how these people can survive. That Warren made it to the age of twenty-eight is practically a miracle. This isn't Warren's place, but I promise he owns something like this. A shrine to a god who doesn't care (if he exists) and the last remnants of a child he's not supposed to see. His son lives at grandma's. She lives across the street. Warren can visit if he isn't drinking. He also happens to huff gasoline out of the lawnmower if he desperate.


I wanted my readers to see his face again. More clearly. This is a man. This is a human being. Made of the same stuff you and I are. He's chained in the empty dungeon of poverty and he'll never make it out. He's a convict on the run. He's been in fights, commited crimes and sniffed air freshners. With the little strength he has, he loves his son and misses his dead mother. He's been beat down and it's not likely he'll make it to the reservation's average life span of forty-eight.

These are the faces of my companions. I felt the exact same way after we left. Three men who didn't own anything except old boots and torn photos took the time to invite us into their way of life. They told jokes and their pasts to us. They all had potential, Warren said. They could've played basketball or run track, but drugs and poverty ran faster and over them. This is all they have now are memories.

All I can say to you, reader, is people live like this. Never forget that. Ever. People who just drew the wrong card and didn't have a chance. What I saw was maybe forty minutes worth of their same damn day. I'm not righteous for it. I'm not a good person for it. Sometimes I think I did something bad by documenting it. However, I did. And all I can do now is pass that on.