Biography

256

"Hidden Heritage...the Story of Paul LaRoche" tells the inspiring biography of LaRoche who was adopted at birth and didn't uncover his Native American heritage until he was in his mid-30s. Risking everything to reunite with his blood family on the Lower Brule Sioux Reservation, LaRoche walked away from his engineering background in Minneapolis to discover his true ancestry and bridge the gap between White and Native America. The result is a musical synthesis of the two cultures. Now one of the top-selling Native American recording artists, LaRoche and his award-winning band tour the US year-round.

BookHouse Fulfillment
Barbara Marshak

Reconciliation. That’s exactly what the music and passion of Brulé was all about. Maybe—just maybe—it was coming through. The long hours, the cramped living quarters, the hard work…this is what kept Paul and Kathy going.
For all that Paul LaRoche loved performing in front of people, sharing his story, and watching fans enjoy the music, sometimes the pace and life on the road caught up to him. “Time to go home again,” he’d tell Kathy. Spending quiet time on the South Dakota prairie stirred his spirit and rejuvenated his soul.
As soon as he and Kathy had made the move from Minneapolis to the South Dakota prairie there was no looking back. No regretting—even once—the move to tiny Lower Brule. Six years later they still lived in the same small house on the Little Bend. The only difference was now there were three full-sized trailers parked in the yard between gigs. The eight miles of gravel took a toll on the equipment, the dust penetrated every tiny crack, coating their sensitive electronic equipment. Paul was thinking about getting a place closer to a paved road.
Once again, he took his walking stick and crawled through the fence in jeans and a tee-shirt, heading toward the bluff’s edge along the riverbank. He stooped down to pick a sprig of sage. Back on the bend only the female variety of sage grew, with a shorter, more delicate stem. He twirled the herb in his fingers, studying the leafy texture. The South Dakota prairie also produced a low-growing cactus with a beautiful yellow flower, similar to a rose.
Initially the land had been selected for an Indian reservation because the terrain was non-agricultural, basically barren and useless. Good enough for the Indians. The Pine Ridge Reservation—which shared land with Badland National Park—was a good example, still one of the poorest areas in the entire United States. But as Paul scanned the surrounding view, to him it was some of the most beautiful land in the whole country.
He climbed down the angled bluff to the shoreline along the river. Paul walked along the sandy shore toward an archeological site that had been studied a few years earlier. He thought about the rich history he’d learned from people in the community, great insights from the likes of Grandma Bessie, Emet Eastman, and brothers Altwin and Noah Grassrope.
Traditionally an oral heritage, he’d come to believe that American Indian elders held a goldmine of knowledge within, wisdoms that needed to be shared. Many things he’d been told by the elders contradicted the things he’d been taught in mainstream America his whole life. For example, corporate philosophy was linear, existing daily to get from Point A to Point B. An ever increasing pace where individuals strive to accumulate, materially, as much as possible along the way. Since Point B ends such a great distance from Point A, it is easy to ignore much of what is in between. The biggest house he and Kathy ever owned was the one on Darnell Road in Eden Prairie, yet it was probably the unhappiest they ever were as a family. Now they lived in an unassuming rambler on the rez and his soul was undeniably fulfilled. It brought a peace that surpassed material possessions.
He remembered too his parents’ auction and seeing all their belongings stamped with price tags. If he’d have known of the giveaway concept, he would have given it all to those in need, and at the same time, given a remembrance of Clarence and Irma.
Paul hiked the narrow shoreline, the water lapping against the small rocks lining the edge. Here the bluff was a vertical wall 20 to 30 feet, sometimes as high as 50, but across the river it sloped gently upward to the plateau. Numerous cottonwood tree trunks lay along the shore, washed up whenever they broke loose along their base. Now barkless and smooth, they presented a reminder of the land lost to the damming of the river.
Paul continued until he reached the site that had been excavated. He poked his stick around the water’s edge, loosening a couple rocks that were wedged into the sand. His eyes caught a log floating mid-river and a story that Altwin Grassrope once told him came to mind.
When I was about 12 years old, ‘they’ took me off the rez and told me I had to go to boarding school in Fort Pierre. I didn’t want to go, but my parents told me, ‘you must go or they’ll make it difficult.’ I didn’t want to leave my home and family, but I didn’t have a choice. I had a bad teacher and they made me cut my hair. They didn’t treat me real nice, so I escaped three different times.
Paul pondered Altwin’s choice of words, ‘escape’, one usually associated with something much harsher than a school.
The last time I escaped, I snuck out of my room at midnight and went down to the river. It had just rained and the Bad River was running pretty swift, but I didn’t care. I stepped into the black water until it was chest high and I let the current carry me away in the darkness of night. I could hear someone out looking for me, but they didn’t come down by the river.
The Bad River flows into the Missouri and there I caught a log and hung on through the night. When the sun came up, I was tired and didn’t know how far I had floated. I looked up and saw some trees that looked kinda familiar, so I started swimming for the shore. By the time I reached the shallow water, I was exhausted and could hardly pull myself onto dry land.
Just then I saw a rider on horseback. I ducked down in a thick grove of sandbar willow, worried they’d send me back to boarding school. I glanced back at the swift current, but I was too tired to swim any farther. Then I heard a voice and turned around to see Fred LaRoche. It was your dad on the horse, and he gave me a ride home. Your dad was a real nice man.
The words floated across the river as though Altwin had just said them. “Your dad was a real nice man…” Paul closed his eyes, imagining his father riding up on horseback to save the young Grassrope boy, dead-tired and half-drowned. Paul knew that the Bad River entered the Missouri in Fort Pierre, a good 60 miles from Lower Brule. How desperate Altwin must have felt to be swept away in the river’s current rather than remain at the ‘school.’
Had Paul yet reached a point where he understood the foundations of his people? An elder named Emet Eastman once noticed Paul’s uncertainty about life’s complexities and told him to follow the Seventh Direction, one of the Seven Concepts of the Sioux Nation. He had read them, studied them, and contemplated the truths within. The concepts went deeper than mere words on a page. Rather, they expounded an entire way of life.
Hours passed as he poked around the ruins of the archeological site where Indian relics were more than likely still buried far beneath the soil. He heard a low rumble and glanced to the west where a thundercloud was beginning to form.
Follow the Seventh Direction…

Concept of the Seventh Direction, the most important of all, for it is within. Follow the heart, for it is the truest direction of all, but the most difficult to follow.
Concept of the Brotherhood, observe the animals, for they are the innocent ones, the truthful ones who follow obedience as God intended.
Concept of the Giveaway, it is believed that the love of possessions is a weakness to overcome. It appears the materialistic part of life, if allowed its away, would disturb one’s spiritual balance.
Concept of the Circle, all of Lakota life is viewed in a circular philosophy, emulating the Creator. The circle connects all and all are related, Mitakuye Oyasin, we are all related.
Concept of the Elders, those who come before us are important in the making of this great nation, the most important and respected member of the family, community and tribe.
Concept of the Pow Wow, an event that draws together and unites an entire village or band, a time where all can participate and enjoy friendship and food. Song, prayer, and dance all add to the social event.
Concept of the Vision Quest, only a few understand the importance of the Vision Quest. It is simple, really. A person goes off alone to a quiet place, away from all distractions for several days and nights to fast and pray. Many answers to life’s problems will come this way.

Until they moved to Lower Brule, Paul rarely went off to a quiet place alone. Now he did it with great frequency, and he felt restored each time. Maybe the most important treasures from the past weren’t the artifacts buried beneath the soil. No, the real treasure was in the depth and meaning of the Native Peoples concepts, often shared in a soft voice from one person to the next, through simple, uncomplicated words.
Paul’s eyes studied the large thundercloud across the plateau. The massive head towered thousands of feet straight up, dark and churning at the bottom, but snowy white at the top. Just then another deep rumble rolled across the wide open prairie. It was still a good 45 miles away and Paul figured he had roughly an hour to get home before the storm hit. He followed the shoreline back, his own single set of footprints still visible in the wet sand.
By the time Paul neared the pasture, loud cracks of thunder accompanied each jagged, dancing, flash of light. The thunderous roars were deep enough to shake the ground under his boots. The dry, dusty pasture thirsty for the drenching rain was now barely a half mile away. A gust of wind blew his hair in front of his eyes and he brushed it back, daring one last glance at the approaching storm.
Boom-Crack! the sky roared again, like the mighty voice of Watan Tanka, God the Creator.

* * *

They said Grandpa Ben was the ‘elite of the reservation,’ honest as the day was long. He had integrity, a willingness to help others, and a wonderful sense of humor. Like others on the reservation, he was a farmer and a rancher, which equaled a hard worker. Life for the Thompsons, like many, centered along the ever-flowing Missouri River.
Grandpa Ben’s parents, Joseph and Mary Thompson, possessed great insight and were married for 65 years. Imagine, 65 years! Did Paul even know anyone else who’d been married that long? Their love must have been true and strong because they died within months of each other, just like his folks, Clarence and Irma.
His great-great-great grandfather, Strikes the Ree, the Yankton chief, stood out as a man of great character. When he died in July 1888, his tribe erected a monument at the Greenwood Agency, the very place Lewis and Clark first met with the Yankton Sioux. Inscribed at his tomb were the words, “Padaniapapi Huhu Tawa Den Wanka Ihanktonwan Iye Tokoheya Christian Wocekiye En Mniakastanpi.” Translated it said, “Here lies the remains of Struck-By-the Ree, the first Yankton to be baptized a Christian. He was in his day the strongest and most faithful friend of the whites in the Sioux Nation.”
This was a man born in the year 1804 in the vast and unnamed territory of the Northern Plains, yet he received medals from United States presidents Franklin Pierce, Ulysses S. Grant, and James Garfield. Imagine meeting three presidents!
Paul could feel the pride in his heritage overflowing at times. Yet he knew that his adoption journey was unique. Not everyone could return to such a warm and welcome embrace, Indian or non-Indian.
The truth remained that many families who had grown up on the rez were not as fortunate. Alcohol stole healthy, productive lives and passed the associated dysfunction from one generation to the next. Native Americans struggled to live in areas with high unemployment, forced to swallow the bitter belief thrust upon their forefathers that it was better to “become like the whites.” As a matter of survival they lost their language and culture, diminishing their self-worth. Other concerns arose for those who were part-Indian and part-white. Not being full-blooded Indian or white can also be a rough spot to live in, with neither race fully accepting.
Prejudices were still alive and well in central South Dakota. Whenever students from Lower Brule competed against non-Indian schools, players and spectators could count on name calling and harassment that often led to the police being called. Without fail, law enforcement always approached the Indian side of the bleachers first. Paul’s brother and his wife knew firsthand how it felt to be on the receiving end of racial slurs and cruel comments. They heard it thirty years ago when they were in high school, and they still heard it directed at students from Lower Brule today.
There were however, homes on the reservation that reflected great pride, and people within the community were doing good things to restore the culture. Lakota language classes were available, adults were teaching children how to sew regalia, students from the Boys and Girls Club participated in events where they could dance and perform.
Coming home brought great joy for Paul, but a part of his heart cried for the lingering effects of the wrongs from years ago, when darkness entered the Lakota world. Walking stick in hand, he cut through the pasture toward the river. It was here, walking the shoreline of the great Missouri where the voices of the past called out to him in whispered breezes.
There lies a mission, a purpose…take the positive from both worlds and blend it into his music. He could have never created this scenario, only the Creator knew how the pieces would come together. In truth, it was merely his life experiences—he and Kathy, along with their children, Shane and Nicole. Something declared that it had value—and worth sharing with others.
Over the years he too had searched and questioned things in life like most people, but now he was privileged to have walked in two parallel but vastly different worlds. He had been welcomed back and honored with an Indian Name, Sicangu Woileciceya, Advocate for Burnt Thigh. Yes, he would accept it with great pride, and move forward with great purpose.

Coming home brought great joy for Paul, but a part of his heart cried for the lingering effects of the wrongs from years ago, when darkness entered the Lakota world. Walking stick in hand, he cut through the pasture toward the river. It was here, walking the shoreline of the great Missouri where the voices of the past called out to him in whispered breezes.
There lies a mission, a purpose…take the positive from both worlds and blend it into his music. He could have never created this scenario, only the Creator knew how the pieces would come together. In truth, it was merely his life experiences—he and Kathy, along with their children, Shane and Nicole. Something declared that it had value—and worth sharing with others.
Over the years he too had searched and questioned things in life like most people, but now he was privileged to have walked in two parallel but vastly different worlds. He had been welcomed back and honored with an Indian Name, Sicangu Woileciceya, Advocate for Burnt Thigh. Yes, he would accept it with great pride, and move forward with great purpose.