The Sturgis Bike Rally, a massive annual event in South Dakota, is often portrayed as a celebration of motorcycles and freedom. However, from a Lakota perspective, the rally represents something far more troubling: a potent symbol of ongoing colonialism, racism, and profound disrespect for Native American culture and sacred lands. For many Indigenous people, the roar of engines in Sturgis is not a sound of liberation, but rather an echo of historical injustices and present-day marginalization within predominantly white towns in South Dakota where systemic racism persists. The rally, in this light, becomes another loud assertion of dominance over Native homelands.
South Dakota heavily relies on tourism, particularly during the summer months. The state actively promotes attractions centered around the “Old West” and the gold rush era, often romanticizing a history built upon the displacement and genocide of Native populations. Sacred Native sites are marketed as tourist destinations, generating revenue without genuine acknowledgment or education regarding the violent history that led to their accessibility. One such site, incredibly significant to the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho peoples, is Mathó Pahá, or Bear Butte. This sacred mountain, a place of prayer and ceremony for millennia, sits a mere 8.5 miles from Sturgis, disturbingly sandwiched between the raucous noise emanating from massive bars and concert venues like the Full Throttle Saloon and the Buffalo Chip.
The sheer scale and noise of the Sturgis Bike Rally directly disrupts the sanctity of Mathó Pahá. The constant barrage of motorcycle noise and festival clamor shatters the peace and quiet essential for prayer and spiritual practices. This disruption is deeply felt by Native people who continue to conduct ceremonies at Bear Butte throughout the summer, even as the rally unfolds nearby. For them, the rally is not just an event; it’s an imposition, a desecration of a place central to their spiritual and cultural identity.
Growing up in the shadow of the rally, the author’s early experiences painted a stark picture. Beyond the casual racism encountered from intoxicated rally attendees and the culturally insensitive appropriation evident in tourist attire, there was a more ominous reality: an annual spike in highway fatalities directly linked to the event. As understanding deepened, a disturbing historical context emerged. The Sturgis Bike Rally’s inception in 1938 predates the legal right for Native Americans in the United States to freely practice their religion. Furthermore, the town itself is named after Colonel Samuel D. Sturgis, a U.S. military figure prominent in the Indian Wars, a conflict rooted in the violent seizure of Native lands. Sturgis’s growth was fueled by the illegal Black Hills Gold Rush of the 1870s, a blatant violation of the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, which further underscores the town’s foundation in broken promises and dispossession. This historical backdrop lays bare the rally as a contemporary manifestation of a long history of exploitation and disregard for Native rights.
The Sturgis Rally again drew controversy in 2021, this time due to its potential as a COVID-19 super-spreader event. Public health concerns were largely ignored, mirroring a pattern of disregard for Native safety seen during events like Donald Trump’s 2020 Fourth of July rally at Mount Rushmore. This consistent lack of consideration for Indigenous communities’ well-being in the face of large-scale events hosted on their ancestral lands highlights an ongoing colonial mentality.
Driven by a need to understand the prevailing attitudes at the rally, the author and a cousin attended the event in 2023. Their aim was to gauge the level of awareness regarding Native history and contemporary Native life among rally-goers. A brief interview with a local attendee proved profoundly telling. When asked about his education regarding Native Americans, the curt reply was simply, “Nothing.” This stark admission, coupled with the palpable atmosphere of cultural insensitivity, solidified the need for direct action. In response, the author and cousin engaged in a form of counter-protest, using art and sound to challenge the dominant narrative of the rally, broadcasting Tanya Tagaq’s pointedly titled song “Colonizer.” Looking ahead, plans are underway to amplify this form of “guerrilla performance art” at future rallies, shifting from passive observation to active resistance.
To be unequivocally clear, navigating life as a Native woman in America presents challenges everywhere. However, Sturgis during the motorcycle rally escalates these difficulties exponentially, creating a particularly hostile and unsafe environment. The convergence of ignorance, a predominantly white demographic, and a political climate in South Dakota that emboldens far-right extremism fosters a chaotic atmosphere reminiscent of the lawless “Wild West.” In this environment, Native people do not feel safe, accountability is absent, and a sense of unchecked impunity prevails. But this reality must be challenged. It is time to stop the hate and demand respect for Native people, their cultures, and their sacred lands.
