The Sturgis Biker Festival, a massive annual event in South Dakota, is viewed by the Lakota people as more than just a noisy gathering. It represents a deeper issue rooted in the history of racism and colonialism prevalent in predominantly white towns like Sturgis. For the Lakota, the festival is another stark manifestation of dominance over their ancestral homelands, echoing a long history of white supremacy.
South Dakota’s government often overlooks these critical perspectives, prioritizing tourism revenue during the summer months. The state aggressively promotes the romanticized narratives of the Old West and the gold rush, capitalizing on Native American sacred sites as tourist attractions. This promotion conveniently ignores the brutal history of genocide and dispossession that paved the way for these attractions.
One such sacred site, Mathó Pahá, known as Bear Butte in English, lies just 8.5 miles from Sturgis. This site, revered by the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho people for millennia as a place for prayer and ceremony, particularly Hanbleceya (vision quest), is now surrounded by the noise and chaos of the biker festival. Flanked by massive bars and concert venues like the Full Throttle Saloon and the Buffalo Chip, the spiritual serenity of Bear Butte is constantly under siege during the event. The roar of motorcycles and festival revelry disrupts the peace, disturbing not only local residents seeking tranquility but, more profoundly, Native people engaged in sacred ceremonies.
From childhood, Lakota children are taught the profound significance of Mathó Pahá. The author recalls participating in awareness runs during the festival to highlight the site’s importance and their community’s perspective. Early experiences of the rally included confronting prejudiced stares from intoxicated tourists and a somber awareness of increased highway fatalities during the event.
A disturbing realization dawned upon the author as they grew older: the Sturgis rally began in 1938. This was a time when Native Americans in the United States were still denied the legal right to practice their own religions freely. The town itself, founded in 1878, is named after Colonel Samuel D. Sturgis, a military figure who commanded the 7th Cavalry during the U.S. Indian Wars—a unit infamous for its role in conflicts against Native peoples. Adding to this fraught history, Sturgis’s growth was fueled by the illegal Black Hills Gold Rush of the 1870s. This gold rush violated the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie and drew waves of prospectors to Lakota territory, setting the stage for further exploitation and injustice. This historical context underscores the deeply embedded issues of resource extraction, a biased political climate, and a tourism industry that continues to disregard Native rights and perspectives, all culminating in the controversial biker festival.
In 2021, the Sturgis Biker Festival ignited further controversy due to its potential as a COVID-19 super-spreader event. Public health officials and concerned citizens feared the rally would amplify virus transmission, a prediction that unfortunately came true. This mirrored earlier concerns surrounding then-President Donald Trump’s rally at Mount Rushmore on July 4th, 2020. For many Native Americans, these events are seen as part of a pattern of blatant disregard for their community’s safety by modern-day descendants of colonizers. When Trump revisited South Dakota on September 8, 2023, the Lakota Law Project joined with various Native nations in protest, underscoring the ongoing resistance to such disrespect.
Despite the lingering pandemic concerns, the author, being vaccinated and in good health, decided to attend the festival for a day in 2023 with a cousin. Their aim was to gauge the level of awareness or education about Native American history, culture, and contemporary life among rally attendees, with an eye toward planning future advocacy actions. Their interaction with the first person they interviewed, a local man in his late fifties, proved to be profoundly telling.
When asked, “What did you learn about Native Americans in school?” the man curtly replied, “Nothing.”
This stark response, coupled with the palpable toxic atmosphere of the event, provided all the insight needed. The author and their cousin spent the remainder of their time at the rally using rubber band guns and challenging attendees by playing Tanya Tagaq’s song “Colonizer” loudly from their car speakers. Armed with a clearer understanding of the landscape, they plan to return next year, not as mere observers, but to stage a more impactful guerrilla performance art piece. The author emphasizes they will return with intention, not as attendees, but as active participants in protest.
For a Native woman, simply existing in many spaces can be a challenge, but Sturgis during the biker festival escalates this difficulty and danger significantly. The convergence of ignorance, a predominantly white demographic, and the presence of far-right extremist sympathizers, emboldened by figures like Governor Kristi Noem, cultivates an environment of chaos reminiscent of the Wild West. In this atmosphere, Native individuals feel unsafe, accountability is absent, and armed, intoxicated individuals move freely. While this may be the intended atmosphere for some, it’s time to stop the hate and demand respect and recognition for Native peoples and their rights.
