A remarkable student at Sinte Gleska University was murdered. Dramatic as this sounds, this essay will be about what we taught each other, not about his death.

I remember Cordell Sun Bear for reasons that have little to do with the circumstances of his death or the way in which he lived his life. I know little about either the drama or the mundane of any student’s life. I learned from teaching writing that regardless of our differences, we learn from each other when we share our stories.

When we write well, it most often is the voice of goodness, whether we are writing about our fears, our shame, our misdeeds, or our joys. Cordell taught me that when we write authentically, we convey the goodness that sometimes is hidden within that which does not seem good.

Cordell was an authentic writer who happened to be ready to hear me, and I was ready to hear him. That is not always the case with student and teacher. Everything it takes to be a writer, after all, was within him — the desire to tell his stories and the ability to work hard at the craft. Was he gifted? Certainly. We all are gifted at being human and at attempting and often achieving goodness.

I know more about Cordell’s death than I do about other students and co-workers who have died while I have been in Mission. SD. I have felt connected to more deaths here in five years than all the other years of my life combined. Unlike many deaths in Indian Country, the details of his death were published in a newspaper. I poured over those words trying to make some sense of it—as if I could turn senselessness into logic.

Did I know beforehand that Cordell had some troubles in his life? Of course I did. He would disappear. He lost his notebook twice. He would give me crumpled paper with his poems for “safekeeping.” After the semester was over, he did not return to the university as a student, but he would visit me from time to time. He was going to go to California. I wouldn’t see him for weeks.

Two years ago, he and some other talented SGU students had their poems accepted in Tribal College Journal, which wanted a picture of the students and short biographies. I knew of no way to reach Cordell. The deadline was upon us, and I still thought that maybe he would appear outside my office. Instead, he appeared in the newspaper as an obituary.

This is what I want to tell you about Cordell: He had a sister he admired. He loved his children and nephews and nieces. He thought Crazy Horse would be disappointed if he were to come back and see the homeland. He saw the beauty in what might seem ugly to others. He cared and thought deeply. He had a vision of himself and the world and his place in it. He soaked up the craft of writing like “unci soaks rain.” He captured moments with words. He wore a humble pride. He taught and learned.

I remember one class where we were working on the difference between the abstract and the concrete. Young student writers, I said, too often have a love affair with abstractions and need to trust the image more—let it tell the story of the idea. All things have a story, and the stories are where the meaning lives.

The next day, he came to my office, handed me some paper and said, “I think I am getting this. I am in love with the trees, the leaves, the beat-up cars in the parking lot, and my torn-up couch.”

I unfolded the papers and read poems I still remember. “You had it all along,” I said. Although his face showed the marks of an uneasy life, his smile erased it all in those moments. That is the picture of Cordell I carry.

Kim Karaff is currently a staff writer for the Lakota Journal and a former writing instructor at Sinte Gleska University.

Caught

By Cordell Sun Bear

This is me looking bewildered
sitting by my coffee cup,
my sister, still
looking at me like I was some sort
of manifestation.
My dog looking in from the window
to watch the flash of the camera
which reflects his brown eyes and
captures our spirits into stillness.
As night approaches and the sun moves
away, we are still there
forever in the sunlight
by my coffee cup and white table cloth,
My sister looking at me like
it was not me there,
and my dog forever in the window.

(Reprinted from Tribal College Journal, Vol. 13, N.1)