Hoyekiyapi is the name given by my grandfather to my father and from my father to me. It means, “They Call for Him.” In English, we’ve translated it as “Calls for Him” because of the context of the story. To reflect my own pronouns, I’ve further adjusted it to translate as “Calls for Them.”
My name is a wartime name. One of my grandfathers was a veteran of World War I and was pinned in a foxhole during a battle. He was separated from his friend, pinned in a foxhole nearby. Throughout the night, my grandfather’s friend kept call his name. By morning, he went quiet and so did the shooting. My grandfather made it over to his friend, but he had died from his wounds.
To honor his sacrifice, he named his son Hoyekiyapi to remember his friend and all they went through. My father made it his own name by becoming an eyapaha (emcee/announcer) at the smaller community wacipis (powwows) on the Rosebud reservation. He had a talent for entertaining a crowd.
What I’ve discerned in how to make it my own name is I get called upon to recall the history of community, movements, campaigns, culture, and practices that I’ve remembered throughout my short life. As a storyteller who started as a journalist, I see it as my responsibility not just to inform, but to entertain like my father, all in service to the memory of our ancestors and their comrades who made sacrifices so that we could live and remind others that we have always been here and that we will always be here.
