Every year in late June, Custer's Last Stand is reenacted on the

“Every year in late June, Custer's Last Stand is reenacted on the high plains of Montana. When Custer led out the 7th Cavalry in 2003—the year I witnessed it—the audience stood and cheered with turbo-charged patriotism.” Thus spoke Clive Sinclair, reflecting on a ritual that binds history, memory, and identity into a single act of pageantry. His words remind us that the past, though filled with tragedy and blood, is not only remembered in books, but is breathed again upon the earth through reenactment, through the fire of storytelling, and through the thunder of patriotism.

The origin of this reflection lies in the tradition of remembering Custer’s Last Stand, also known as the Battle of the Little Bighorn. There, in June of 1876, General George Armstrong Custer and his men met their fate against the Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne, led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. It was a battle that became mythic, wrapped in both glory and defeat, valor and folly. Over the decades, Americans have returned to the site not only to mourn, but to celebrate, to wrestle with what the moment meant for the nation. For Sinclair, standing among the cheering crowd in 2003, the spectacle revealed not just history, but the power of patriotism reawakened.

To the ancients, such reenactments would not have been strange. The Greeks staged plays recounting the triumphs and tragedies of their heroes; the Romans reenacted great battles in their amphitheaters, letting citizens relive the glories and sorrows of empire. Such spectacles were not only for entertainment—they were lessons, reminders of who the people were and what they had endured. In like manner, the annual remembrance on the Montana plains keeps alive the story of Custer’s fate and the voices of those who fought.

But Sinclair’s words point to something more: the crowd’s “turbo-charged patriotism.” For in that moment, as Custer rode forth once more, the audience did not see only the man or the cavalry—they saw the spirit of their nation, bold, defiant, and proud. Even in defeat, the tale of Custer has been woven into the myth of American resilience, of courage against odds, of sacrifice upon the frontier. Patriotism does not always spring from victory; it can also rise from remembrance of struggle and loss.

Yet, wisdom demands we look deeper. For the same story that inspires patriotism for some carries sorrow and grief for others. To the descendants of the Lakota and Cheyenne, the Battle of the Little Bighorn is not simply Custer’s fall but their ancestors’ triumph against encroachment and broken promises. Here lies the paradox of history: one event, two truths, both deserving of remembrance. Sinclair’s observation shows us how memory, charged with emotion, can stir the hearts of a people, but it also warns us that patriotism must be balanced with understanding, lest it become blind to the fullness of truth.

The lesson for us, then, is to cherish the reenactments of history not as hollow play, but as living mirrors. They remind us of bravery and sacrifice, yes, but also of the complexity of the past. We must let them stir us to patriotism, but also to humility, to empathy, and to the wisdom of learning from both the victories and the defeats of our forebears.

Practical actions follow from this teaching. Attend the commemorations of your land. Learn the stories they tell, but also seek the voices less often heard. Let your patriotism be not merely the cheer of the crowd, but the quiet resolve to honor all who walked before you—whether they wore cavalry blue or carried the eagle feather into battle. Let reenactment become not only a spectacle, but a summons to live with courage, respect, and remembrance.

Thus, Sinclair’s words echo across the plains of time: “The audience stood and cheered with turbo-charged patriotism.” May we too stand—not only to cheer the past, but to embody its lessons. For history is not dead; it is alive in us, shaping the way we honor our country and how we carry its stories into the future.