We passed by few, but too many on our trip across the country. They were there, tiny and large reminders of the atrocities done to a people who had done nothing wrong. Reservation passed, reservation warnings, reservation sadness. It was sometimes enough to bring tears to our eyes as we drove through. We never saw one person outside. Just drove on through between buildings, vacant shops, and land. Lots of land and space in between, as if the rest of the world had either forgotten or wanted to forget about this space. And then there were the casinos, popping up seemingly out of nowhere and we passed them and viewed the whole thing over and over again. It sometimes made us wonder, why here? There are no places like this back home. Also sad. That means they were never given a chance there. My ancestors would be heartbroken. The ones I never knew, but was told about and confirmed in my DNA results. What would they think to know that their histories and very being had been wiped from the land for miles and miles that they had once inhabited by right and birth. It was stolen from them, much like life is being stolen all around us now. Did they have any reservations as they were forced onto reservations? Did the men that put them there have reservations about putting their fellow men out of their homes and rounding them up like sheep, telling them where they could and could not settle in a land that had always been theirs? Tears in the night and in the day in the open spaces with no one out of the homes walking the streets or land. The only signs of life are the cars parked outside the casino and the occasional passing car.