Lost Bird: Survivor of Wounded Knee, Betrayed by the White Man

Today is the 122nd anniversary of the  Massacre of Wounded Knee, and for that reason I am re-posting a story that I first posted last April, about a  baby girl of the Lakota tribe who was found alive four days after the massacre under the frozen body of her mother.  Her story is one of the most tragic chapters in the saga of what Native Americans suffered at the hands of the White man.

The Story Behind the Photograph

This antique photo is the most expensive and I think the most interesting one in my collection.  It’s an Imperial—which means a giant version of the cabinet card-- and measures  about 7 by 10 inches;  an albumen print mounted on decorative board.  It was taken in Beatrice, Nebraska by a photographer named Taylor.

As you can see, the photograph shows a handsome, stern-looking military officer in a general’s uniform holding an adorable Native American baby.  The officer is Gen. Leonard Colby who adopted this baby and had the photograph taken—as a public relations gesture.

This baby girl was found alive beneath the frozen body of her mother four days after the killing of hundreds of Lakota men, women and children on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota on Dec. 29, 1890, in what came to be known as the Massacre of Wounded Knee.

She was named “Zintkala Nuni” -- “The Lost Bird” by the tribe’s survivors, who tried to get custody of her, but she was adopted –also as a public relations move -- by  Brigadier General Leonard W. Colby, whose men came to the killing field after the massacre was over.

Over the protests of the Lakotas, he adopted the child, claiming that he was a full-blooded Seneca Indian.  He promised to bring food to the surviving tribe members if they’d give him this living souvenir of Wounded Knee. Then he had this photograph taken.  On the back Colby wrote in lead pencil on the black cardboard, words which are now nearly indecipherable:   “…..baby girl found on the field of Wounded Knee…mother’s back on the fourth day after the battle, was found by me.  She was about 4 or 5 months old and was frozen on her head and feet, but entirely recovered.  The battle occurred Dec. 29, 1890, about fifteen miles walking from Pine Ridge, South Dakota.” 

Gen. Colby adopted the baby without even consulting his wife, Clara Bewick Colby, who was in Washington D.C. at the time, working as a suffragette activist, lecturer, publisher and writer.   The well-meaning adoptive mother brought the infant to Washington where Zintka, as they called her, grew up, buffeted by all the current social trends of the time—women’s suffrage, rejection by her own people, exploitation of her background by Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, early silent films and vaudeville. 

As an adolescent, longing to return to the West to learn more about her origins.  Zintka went to Beatrice, Neb., to live with Colby, who by then had left his wife and daughter and married her former nanny.  The girl may have been sexually abused by her adoptive father, because she became pregnant under his care and was shipped off to a prison-like home for pregnant women.  Her infant son was stillborn but the girl was confined to the reformatory for another year.

Zintka returned eventually to her mother in Washington, then married a man who infected her with syphilis.  She tried different careers, including working with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, which exploited her Native American background.    She tried to work in vaudeville and the early movie business—dressed as an Indian, of course-- and reportedly may have worked as a prostitute as well.

Zintka had two more children—one died and she gave the other to an Indian woman who, she felt, could take care of him better, because she and her ailing husband were desperately poor.

She fell ill in February of 1920 during an influenza epidemic, and on Feb. 14, Valentine’s Day, “Lost Bird” died at the age of 29 of the Spanish flu complicated by syphilis.  She was buried in a pauper’s grave in California.

The only bright light in Zintka’s story is that her bones were exhumed in 1991, seventy-one years after her death, by the Wounded Knee Survivor’s Association, to be returned to the battlefield and buried with great ceremony while news media and hundreds of Native American descendents watched.  A Lakota woman said, “Lost Bird has returned today to the same place she was taken from.  This means a new beginning, a process of healing is completed.  We can be proud to be a Lakota.  To our sacred children, this means a beginning.”

The story of Lost Bird is so steeped in irony that it reads as a fable of the exploitation and torture of the Native Americans by the white invaders.  On her own trail of tears, during her short life, Zintka was robbed of her name and her mother and any opportunity to learn about her own culture.  Despite her adoptive mother’s love and good intentions, she was terribly unhappy—prevented from going back to the West to find her kin and then sexually abused when she did return to the West. She was exploited and stereotyped by the film and entertainment world, eventually to die before she reached 30.

Lost Bird’s story has been told by Renee Sansom Flood in the 1998 book “Lost Bird of Wounded Knee: Spirit of the Lakota”, and Ms. Flood also spurred the effort to find Zintka’s grave and bring her home.  The author was a social worker in South Dakota when a colleague showed her a faded photograph that set her out on her years of research and writing.  That photo, found by the woman working with Renee Flood in an old trunk in her late father’s attic, was the same photo I own today—with Colby’s writing on the back. Renee Flood became so obsessed with telling Lost Bird’s story and bringing her home to be buried with her people that she had recurring dreams of the little girl until she fulfilled her obsession.

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I know that owning this historic photograph is a serious responsibility. I, too,  would like to  spread the story of Zintka’s  sad life.  The story of Lost Bird is a vivid illustration of how a faded old photograph, over a century old, can have the power to move people to make discoveries long after the subject and the photographer are dead.

Amalia's Grecian Odyssey, Chapter 3 - Monemvasia

Siting on our balcony in Nauplion, Mommy Eleni and Papou Nick planned our route driving to Monemvasia, our next stop on Amalía's grecian odyssey, and on Thursday, Aug. 9, we set out.

Luckily Amalía slept through most of the harrowing drive along narrow mountain roads. (Lesson learned, if there's a choice between a scenic route and a faster route inland on modern highways, do not pick the scenic route.)

Monemvasia is a medieval city carved out of large rock, something like Mont Saint-Michel in France.  It's connected to the mainland by a causeway.  No vehicles can go inside--you enter on foot through the tunnel-like gate and climb up the winding cobbled streets.  Everything is accessible only on slippery stone stairs.

Our room was part of the Theophano Art Hotel, opened this past March.  Like every room in Monemvasia, it was cave-like, with arched ceilings, because all the buildings are basically carved out of the rock.  Amalia loved going up and down that ledge you can see behind her and the steps to the bathroom.

Here is the alcove where Yiayia Joanie slept.

At twilight we went to a nearby taverna/bar to watch the sunset.

It gave Amalía a chance for her favorite activity: pushing chairs around in a restaurant.

And stealing cutlery.

We had dinner at our favorite restaurant on the island: Matoula's.

The next morning we had a delicious homemade breakfast at the main building of the Theophano Art Hotel, far below.

Here is the reception area.  They sell art works and have musical events as well.

This window looks out onto the quiet square outside.

On the way out of town we stopped at the studio of artist Gregoreas Manolis and Eleni bought one of his works just as Yiayia Joanie had bought one many years before.

Then we were off on a drive to the region of Greece called the Mani.  We stopped for lunch at  the scenic town of Areopolis

Where Amalía discovered a new favorite food: fried zucchini patties.

Amalia's Greek Odyssey Days 2 & 3- Nauplion

Staying in Nauplion--first capital of modern Greece--at the Hotel Marianna in a Turkish-style house under the crusader castle --the Dreaded Palamidi, as we always call it, perhaps because you have to climb 999 steps in the rock to get there (or drive up the back way.)

Napping and ignoring the view of Nauplion below.

Amalia had her own crib but as always prefers Mommy's bed.

First Greek beach--Karathonas outside Nauplion.

Hate the hat.  Won't wear it.

In the water with Yiayia Joanie.

Breakfast with Papou.

On the limani (harbor) in Nauplion with the lighted Bourtzi former prison in the background.

With Yiayia at dinner at Kypos on the harbor.  And then to bed in our room beneath the dreaded Palamidi.

Amalia's Odyssey--First Time in Greece

Monday August 6--Packing--Don't forget the giraffe.

Looking stylish in the security line.

Checking carry-on size.

Here's my passport.

Now where did I put that giraffe?

Sleeping on the plane.  Dreaming of tomorrow when Papou will meet us at Athens airport with a car and drive us to Nauplion for Day One of Amalía's Grecian Odyssey.

Amalía Fashionista Wraps up Summer

 Amalia wears a maxi dress in a tropical print while informing her staff that it's time for her afternoon snack.

For Suri Cruise, fashion guru of the pre-school set, it’s been a pretty crumby summer, what with her parents splitting up and then her Mom, Katie Holmes, refusing to buy her that puppy that she fell  in love with.  So she threw a tantrum. In public. 

 Between avoiding the paparazzi  and worrying about being kidnapped by Scientologists, Suri  was forced to hide out with her Mom in their new Manhattan digs and didn’t provide much fodder for the blogs devoted to her fashion choices.

For our granddaughter Amalia, however, 11-month-old fashion guru of the pre-potty-trained set, it was a summer of jetting about, from Manhattan to San Francisco to Nicaragua to Miami to Worcester, MA, where she celebrated her baptism on July 8, surrounded by 131 close friends and relatives.

This peripatetic summer called for swift, cutting-edge fashion decisions and packing skills and  challenged Amalía’s innate gift for accessorizing.  Here’s what the country’s youngest fashionista was seen wearing in the Summer of  2012:

The bathing suit is, of course, the most important summer fashion decision, and Amalía rocked these three.  The one-shouldered black suit embellished with a large camellia may make you think "Chanel", but in fact it's from Baby Gap.

They were perfect for Amalia's first dip in the ocean, in the water park, and in Papou's pool, where she floated in her very own turtle boat.

She chose an embroidered dress from Nicaragua for Father's Day brunch with Papi, and a patriotic frock for the Fourth of July party in Massachusetts, where she happily ripped a flag-printed paper napkin to shreds.

On the day before her baptism, in the company of Abuela Carmen Oyanguren, Amalía wore a nautical number while surveying all the goodies ready for the party, including Greek sweets, a large candle for the ceremony and a basket holding her new after-baptism outfit brought from Corfu by her godmother Areti Vraka.

She danced at her baptism party wearing the new dress, then added its jacket for taking communion in Miami on the second Sunday after the christening. (It's expected for the baby to take communion for the three Sundays following the baptism.  On the first Sunday Amalía was in Managua, Nicaragua, and on the second and third in Miami Beach.) The outfit worked equally well for driving around the supermarket on the way home.

Romper, skort, shorts and a sun dress were her choices for climbing a wall, strolling in the park, browsing through cookbooks and indulging in a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity.

Here's what she wore for catching butterflies and balloons, hanging out in Central Park with Mommy, and dashing off to Lincoln Road for some serious shopping.  Notice the eclectic accessorizing of the elephant-embellished romper with the turquoise handbag and the lime hair bow. 

Daring fashion choices for sightseeing, blowing bubbles, phoning Grandma on speed dial and programming the I-Pad.

Like Queen Elizabeth, Amalía has mastered the royal wave to acknowledge her fans and the paparazzi.  She can even do it while reading a book upside down.

But life is not unbroken parties, parks and fun in Amalía's world.  Sometimes she has a bad hair day, which enrages her until she rips out her barrette and throws it on the street.  And some mornings, especially on weekends, her parents like to lounge in bed instead of taking her  for a walk, which causes her to climb into their bed and say, "I'm bored.  There's nothing to do around here."

The Mom with Messy Hair (The Story Behind the Photo)

I love it when one of the antique photographs in my collection poses a mystery that sets me off on research in an effort to solve it.  Often the solution remains frustratingly elusive, as in “Is This a Lost Portrait of Lord Byron?” which has brought me fascinating e-mails from Byron experts around the world, but has never identified the painting of Byron that was photographed in that early ambrotype. I’m still convinced that my ambro records an important unknown oil painting of Byron that  will show up some day in a musty English stately home.

The photograph at the top, of a charming family with five children, has had me puzzled for many years.  I call it “Mom with Messy Hair.”  It’s a large (half plate) ambrotype, which is the photographic process that emerged during the 1850’s, after the daguerreotype.  An ambrotype is a negative image on the back of a glass plate, which becomes a positive image when you put a dark background behind it.

I was fascinated by this very attractive family because, in an era when women never let their hair down in public, but always had it severely pulled back and up, how can we explain this mother’s hairdo which seems to have been “combed” with an egg beater? (To see examples of 19th century women's severe hair styles, check out my post “Diane Arbus and Spooky Twins”). 

With my usual penchant for tragedy and drama, I imagined that perhaps this woman was an invalid—at death’s door—and the photographer had been called in to record her image with her family before she passed away.  But this mom looks perfectly happy and well, except for what’s on top of her head.

There was also the question of the towel or piece of cloth that has fallen on the floor at her feet. Is there a towel on the floor because this is a sickroom?  I once developed a theory, because so many people in early daquerreotypes and ambrotypes were clutching a white handkerchief, that these were symbols of mourning and loss, like the black arm bands and woven hair bracelets often worn  in the 1800's.

Turns out I was completely off base with that theory.  More savvy collectors told me that those white cloths and handkerchiefs were in the photo to help the photographer focus, so that he wouldn’t get solarization—a white glare or aura around something like a white shirt front that often mars early photos, due to the bright sunlight’s reflection. (Remember there was no electricity back then, so the photographer could only work on sunny days.)

After years of puzzling about the woman’s hair, I recently posed my question to a fellow collector and member of the Daguerreian Society, Joan Severa, who is the ultimate expert on the history of fashion.  She can look at the garments, collars and sleeves, shoes and hairstyles, brooches and ruffles, and tell you exactly when an antique photograph was made and the social class of the people in the photo.

Joan Severa has written a number of books on the subject, including “Dressed for the Photographer: Ordinary Americans and Fashion, 1840 – 1900” and “My Image Taken”. Her books are invaluable tools for any historian or collector.

Here’s what I wrote to Joan about the “Mom with Messy Hair”.

 “What fascinates me, of course, is the attractive mother of five children, sitting with her family, with completely messed-up hair.  Surely that hair was never in fashion?  Because she also seems to be without the usual tight boned corset  I thought that maybe she is ill and in the equivalent of a dressing gown?  Yet she looks quite serene and well in the photograph”.

And here’s what Joan Severa replied. As usual, she knocked me out with the detail and depth of her knowledge of the fashions of the period:

First, let me tell you that the mommie in your first image does not have “messy hair!  Her locks are combed down and full over her ears very smoothly, then swept up in back into a crown of twists or braids, which she has then crowned with an ultra-fashionable “coiffure”, or headdress, of flower buds and ribbon, which hangs down both sides. The image dates to the first couple years of the ‘50s, when wide whitework collars were the latest word, skirts were very full and supported by 8 or 9 petticoats, and the corset was still the bust-crushing long one of the late ‘40s.  She is, too, wearing a corset. 

 Her gown is of a light silk, puffed in the bodice and with open sleeves and fancy “engageantes” or undersleeves of sheer white frills.  It is a fancy “at home” dress, in which she would have received callers.  The oldest girl is wearing the long corset too, as witness the pointed waistline, and she and the next-oldest wear “bretelles”, tapered frills like those of a fancy apron, from shoulders to a point at the waist.

So there’s the end to the mystery.  My heart-breaking scenario of an ill or dying mother was complete fantasy, but I don’t mind.  I love learning about things like “engageantes” and “bretelles.”  And I’m glad to know that the mom with the messy hair was in perfect health and rocking a headdress of flower buds and ribbon.

But I still think, if I had turned up with a headdress like the nineteenth century mom above, no matter how fashionable, my own mother would be quick to say, “You’re not going out of the house with your hair looking like that!”

Shrewsbury Street on a Summer Night

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

I’ve been taking a course called “Night Photography” at the Worcester Art Museum from photographer Norm Eggert, and our assignment on Wednesday night was to transport our cameras and our tripods to Shrewsbury Street, the “Restaurant Row” of Worcester, MA. and take pictures.

We who live in Worcester get rather sensitive when outsiders refer to our city as “Wormtown” and call it a “sleepy industrial backwater” long past its prime.

But on Wednesday, Shrewsbury Street was humming with life on a balmy summer night.  It was more like a street in Europe.  People were sitting at tables on the sidewalk, deep in conversation, with not a cell phone or I-pad in sight.  Cars rolled by with music blasting, kids hung out in Cristoforo Colombo Park, everyone was friendly and no one was afraid.

The Boulevard Diner is the Queen of Worcester’s famed diners (all manufactured right here by the Worcester Lunch Car & Carriage Company between 1906 and 1957.)  It was at the Boulevard that Madonna and her entourage ordered a hearty spaghetti dinner after a performance nearby.

 On  Shrewsbury Street, as you can see, there are plenty of places to get a drink—many of them resembling the friendly neighborhood bar in Cheers where everybody knows your name.

And there are elegant restaurants with valet parking and cuisines from every corner of the world.

At the end of Shrewsbury Street is a large rotary where the restored Union Station stands, looking just as it did when it welcomed thousands of immigrants to the factories of Worcester, in search of their American dream.  Finished in 1911, it was called “A poem in  stone,” and considered one of New England’s primary  architectural treasures.  But in 1963 the last passenger train pulled out and for more than 20 years the huge building was deserted and deteriorating, huddled in the shadow of the wrecking ball. The twin towers had been removed in 1926 because they were weakened and in danger of falling.

The city managed to restore Union Station to its former glory with the help of  alumni of WPI--Worcester Polytechnic Institute. who created new towers out of fiberglass.  It re-opened in 2000, once again a major transportation hub.

On Wednesday night as I approached  Union Station, half a dozen fire engines screamed by, and then a huge pack of motorcyclists descended—there were dozens—reminding me of the furies in the film “Les Mouches.”  I watched the traffic circulate in front of Union Station, with its new mascot—a statue of Christopher Columbus--  overlooking the scene.  Eventually it was time to walk back up Shrewsbury Street, to find a place for dinner and perhaps raise a toast to Worcester’s slow but steady renaissance.