From a Lakota standpoint, the annual Bike Rally In Sturgis, South Dakota, has consistently presented a profound and multifaceted issue. Sturgis, much like numerous other predominantly white towns across South Dakota, is a place where the deep roots of racism and the ongoing effects of violent colonialism remain firmly entrenched. Historically, the negative portrayal and marginalization of Native people have become essential components in the narrative constructed to reinforce settler identity. In essence, the massive gathering that is the Sturgis rally serves as yet another, and undeniably loud, manifestation of dominance over our ancestral homelands and a stark display of white supremacy.
South Dakota’s governing bodies often choose to disregard these critical perspectives. During the peak summer months, tourism plays a vital role in the state’s economy. Both the state and various private enterprises actively promote South Dakota to tourists, emphasizing the allure of “Old West” towns and the romanticized narratives of the gold rush era. Simultaneously, they commercially exploit Native American sacred sites as key attractions to generate revenue. This promotion occurs without providing meaningful education about, or even genuine acknowledgment of, the devastating history of genocide that paved the way for the existence of these tourist destinations.
One such sacred site, known to us as Mathó Pahá – Bear Butte in English – is located a mere 8.5 miles from Sturgis. Tragically, this site is geographically positioned between two of the most prominent and noisiest entertainment venues in the region: the Full Throttle Saloon and the Buffalo Chip, each situated approximately five miles away on either side. For countless generations, Lakota people, along with Cheyenne and Arapaho nations, have journeyed to Mathó Pahá to engage in prayer and sacred ceremonies, most notably Hanbleceya, the practice of crying out for a vision.
The profound cultural and spiritual significance of Bear Butte cannot be overstated for the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho peoples. However, the immense noise pollution from the roaring motorcycles and the overall atmosphere of revelry during the Sturgis bike rally significantly disrupt the tranquility of this sacred area and the surrounding environment. This disturbance leads to numerous complaints from local residents seeking peace, including many Native individuals who are actively engaged in ceremonies at Mathó Pahá even as the rally’s clamor intensifies each summer. The cacophony directly interferes with our ability to conduct these vital spiritual practices in the intended environment of peace and contemplation.
From a very young age, I was instilled with a deep understanding of Mathó Pahá – its essence and its profound meaning. During my childhood, my father and our family actively participated in awareness runs organized to educate people about this sacred site and our perspectives during the Sturgis rally. My early experiences with the rally were marked by unpleasant encounters – disapproving stares from intoxicated white pedestrians, tourists offensively donning headdresses, and the grim reality of increased fatalities on the highways surrounding Sturgis.
Even as a child, the picture was disturbing. As I grew older, a more unsettling realization took hold: the Sturgis rally’s origins trace back to 1938, predating the time when Native Americans in the United States were legally permitted to practice our own religions freely. The town of Sturgis itself was founded in 1878 and named in honor of Colonel Samuel D. Sturgis, a prominent military figure who commanded the 7th Cavalry during the U.S. Indian Wars. It is a chilling historical irony that one of his sons perished at the Battle of Greasy Grass, known to many as the Battle of Little Bighorn.
The growth of Sturgis was fueled by the illegal Black Hills Gold Rush of the 1870s. This gold rush blatantly violated the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, a treaty meant to guarantee our land rights, and instead drew thousands of prospectors and miners seeking fortune onto our treaty lands. This history of broken treaties, resource exploitation, and disregard for Indigenous rights has laid the foundation for the ongoing exploitation evident in South Dakota’s conservative political climate, its extractive industries, its tourism sector, and, indeed, in the very existence and nature of the Sturgis bike rally.
In 2021, the Sturgis rally became a focal point of controversy due to widespread concerns about the transmission of COVID-19. Public health officials and many local residents voiced fears that the rally would become a super-spreader event, a prediction that unfortunately proved accurate. Earlier in the pandemic, similar anxieties were raised regarding then-President Donald Trump’s rally at Mount Rushmore on July 4, 2020. This pattern reflects a consistent and blatant disregard for the safety and well-being of Native people by contemporary colonizers and those who benefit from these systems. When Trump revisited South Dakota on September 8, 2023, Lakota Law, alongside other Native nations in South Dakota, organized protests to voice our collective opposition.
Despite the persistent COVID-related concerns, and as a vaccinated and healthy individual, I made the decision to observe a day of the Sturgis bike rally with my cousin this past year. Our aim was to gauge the level of education or awareness among the average rally attendee regarding Native American history, culture, and contemporary life. This observation was intended to inform our planning for more impactful actions in the future. The first person I interviewed, a local man with gray hair appearing to be in his late 50s, provided a starkly telling interaction.
I posed a simple question: “What did you learn about Native Americans in school?”
His response was curt and dismissive: “Nothing.”
Between this disheartening answer and the pervasive toxic atmosphere that enveloped the event, my cousin and I felt we had gleaned all the necessary information. We spent the remainder of our evening at the rally engaging in a form of low-key protest, playing with rubber band guns and subtly challenging rally-goers by blasting Tanya Tagaq’s powerful song “Colonizer” from a car speaker. Looking ahead to next year, armed with a clearer understanding of the landscape, we intend to make a more significant impression. My (fake) Winchester rifle and I will return to the rally not as mere attendees, but as participants in a form of guerrilla performance art, designed to disrupt and provoke thought.
Let me be unequivocally clear: simply existing as a Native woman anywhere can be challenging, but being in Sturgis during the motorcycle rally elevates those challenges and dangers exponentially. The convergence of ignorance, a predominantly white demographic, and motorized bikes in South Dakota – a state where far-right extremism finds open support among figures like Governor Kristi Noem – creates an environment so chaotic and volatile that it genuinely evokes the lawlessness of the Wild West. In this atmosphere, Native people do not feel safe, accountability is nonexistent, and armed, intoxicated individuals move with impunity. Perhaps this sense of unchecked freedom and intimidation is precisely the intended outcome, but it’s time to stop the hate that fuels this environment and perpetuates these injustices.
