Every Thanksgiving since 1995, Sullivan, 49, has made the 2,000-mile pilgrimage to the reservation located in one of the poorest counties in the U.S.—with its 85 percent unemployment rate—bringing a truckload of donated toys, furniture, diapers, canned food and clothing. A third of the Lakota tribe is homeless; others live in dilapidated houses without electricity or running water. "These people," says White Mouse, 39, "don't have a voice."
What they do have is Sullivan, who was himself broke and in the throes of a divorce eight years ago when on a lunch break he happened into a Quincy, Mass., Native American craft store and saw a brochure about sponsoring a Lakota child. "It cost $75, and I didn't have the money," recalls Sullivan, who lives in a two-room apartment. But after staring into the eyes of the Lakota kids in the pamphlet photo, he says, "I knew I would help."
With two daughters to support and zero disposable income, Sullivan raised the sponsorship cash by selling his Beatles CD collection—and a prized photo of idol John Lennon. He began corresponding with Isabel Marshall, a 4-year-old Lakota girl, sending her school supplies, clothes and other necessities. Soon he had adopted the entire tribe. "There's not a day I don't think about them," says Sullivan. "If I drive by a street and see a crib and it looks pretty good, I'll grab it." When emergencies arise on the rez—such as a family that can't afford propane gas to heat their freezing home—White Mouse calls Sullivan. "If I have $100," he says, "I'll send Marian $50 and worry about it later."
Sullivan's generosity has proved infectious. One Massachusetts middle school raised $1,000 for him to rent a truck, and another collected 300 bags of clothing. But the most astonishing gift came from Brown University senior Brian Swett, who took his $20,000 inheritance and created a nonprofit foundation to support Sullivan's travels. "John Paul just seemed like the kind of person who does things from the goodness of his heart," says Swett, 22.
Sullivan knows what it's like to struggle. Born to a photographer for the Navy and a telephone operator, both now deceased, Sullivan and his three brothers lived for 14 years in subsidized housing in Weymouth, Mass. After graduating from high school in 1969, he took the job he still holds at the phone company. Twice married and divorced, he has two daughters, Lauren, 12, and Christie, 11, who share his commitment to the Lakotas. Last July Lauren was diagnosed with diabetes, and a terrified Sullivan spoke of giving up his crusade to focus on her. "I said that he should continue," recalls Lauren, "that just because I got sick doesn't mean they have to suffer. He smiled and said, 'You're right.' "
Sullivan's devotion has not been lost on the Lakotas. "It's made a big impact since he's been coming," says White Mouse, who playfully refers to him as the Great White Hope. "You can see the way the people follow him around."
And honor him. When he drove to the Lakotas for Thanksgiving, 1999, with Lauren and Christie, tribe members wrapped him in a homemade quilt, planted an eagle feather in his hair and effectively made him a Lakota, a rare distinction for an outsider. (His Lakota name, Canku Waste, means "he's on a good road.") This year his daughters stayed home, but there is another girl that Sullivan cares deeply about. So he breaks from the welcoming throng at White Mouse's place and bounds outside, where Isabel eagerly waits to see him.
"Izzy," he says, "how you doing? Did you care if I was coming?" "No," says the giggling 12-year-old. She is feigning nonchalance but can't sustain it. Out of his earshot, she pronounces Sullivan "cool."
Christina Cheakalos
Anne Driscoll in South Dakota
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