The Truth Behind the “Prostitutes Keystone” Incident
In October 2016, a routine Morton County police report ignited national outrage when it listed a Dakota Access Pipeline protester’s occupation as “prostitute.” This single entry became emblematic of the broader struggle between law enforcement and Water Protectors at Standing Rock. What began as bureaucratic paperwork exposed deeper tensions about indigenous rights, police accountability, and the weaponization of stigma against activists. The incident, often misremembered as “Prostitutes Keystone” due to confusion between pipeline projects, reveals how institutional power structures attempt to discredit dissent through dehumanizing labels.
What was the “prostitutes keystone” incident?
The “prostitutes keystone” refers to a Morton County police report from October 2016 that falsely listed a Dakota Access Pipeline protester’s occupation as “prostitute,” sparking accusations of intentional discrediting tactics against activists. This incident occurred during peak tensions at the Standing Rock protests, when law enforcement regularly clashed with Water Protectors opposing the pipeline’s construction near sacred tribal lands. The report specifically described Vanessa Dundon, a military veteran and protester, with this stigmatizing label during booking procedures. Though unrelated to the Keystone Pipeline, the moniker “prostitutes keystone” emerged from public confusion between major pipeline projects and became shorthand for this controversial documentation practice.
The Morton County Sheriff’s Department initially defended the classification as standard procedure, claiming they recorded occupations based on self-reporting. However, Dundon vehemently denied ever providing this information, telling journalists: “They’re trying to shame me, to make people think I’m less than human.” Internal communications later revealed deputies received training on documenting protesters’ “criminal histories and affiliations” in ways that could undermine their credibility. This incident wasn’t isolated – several arrest reports from the same period contained similarly questionable occupational listings like “rioter” or “anarchist,” suggesting a pattern of using administrative paperwork as a weapon against dissent.
Who was the protester labeled as a prostitute?
Vanessa Dundon, a 36-year-old Navajo military veteran and mother, was the activist documented as a “prostitute” in Morton County records despite having no connection to sex work. A former Army logistics specialist with honorable discharge, Dundon traveled to Standing Rock after learning about threats to the Missouri River water supply. Her background contrasts sharply with the police report’s characterization – she worked as a medical assistant in Arizona and had no criminal record prior to the protests. The label appeared after her arrest during the October 10 “Day of Action” confrontation, where she sustained permanent eye damage from a police projectile.
Dundon’s identity matters because it reveals how law enforcement targeted indigenous women specifically. As a Diné (Navajo) woman, she represented the matriarchal leadership structure central to the Water Protector movement. The “prostitute” designation followed historical patterns of colonial powers sexualizing Native women to justify violence, from frontier-era massacres to modern trafficking stereotypes. In press conferences, Dundon framed the incident as systemic: “When they wrote that word, they weren’t just attacking me – they were attacking every native woman who dares speak truth to power.” Her subsequent lawsuit against Morton County highlighted how such documentation creates lasting harm through permanent records accessible in background checks.
How did authorities justify the police report terminology?
Morton County officials first claimed the “prostitute” designation came from self-reported information, then later called it an “administrative error” when challenged. Sheriff Kyle Kirchmeier initially stated deputies recorded occupations based solely on arrestees’ verbal statements during processing. This explanation collapsed when Dundon produced jail intake recordings where she clearly identified herself as “unemployed.” Pressed by journalists, the department shifted to blaming “overworked staff” and “data entry mistakes,” promising retraining on booking procedures.
The justifications unraveled further when investigative reporters uncovered internal memos discussing “characterization protocols” for pipeline protesters. One deputy’s handwritten notes from a pre-protest briefing included the phrase “discredit leadership” beside bullet points about documenting activists’ appearances and associations. While never explicitly mentioning prostitution, these documents revealed strategic discussions about leveraging personal details to undermine protesters’ legitimacy. Legal experts noted that such documentation could influence jury perceptions if cases went to trial, making the “error” defense particularly dubious given its potential courtroom advantages for prosecutors.
What were the Dakota Access Pipeline protests really about?
Indigenous-led Water Protectors opposed the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) to prevent contamination of the Missouri River and protect sacred burial sites, sparking the largest Native American resistance movement in modern history. The $3.8 billion project threatened the primary water source for the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, with pipeline leaks potentially poisoning the reservation’s aquifer. Construction also desecrated ancestral lands where recent surveys uncovered 82 burial sites, prayer rings, and stone markers – violations of both tribal treaties and federal historic preservation laws. Unlike the unrelated Keystone Pipeline, DAPL’s controversy centered specifically on its Missouri River crossing less than a mile upstream from reservation boundaries.
The movement’s “Water is Life” (Mni Wiconi) philosophy drew thousands of allies to North Dakota, creating an unprecedented intertribal coalition. Veterans, clergy, and environmental activists joined Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota people in prayer camps that withstood military-style raids and winter blizzards. At its peak, Standing Rock hosted over 10,000 residents in makeshift communities that operated schools, kitchens, and renewable energy systems. This physical blockade halted construction for months, costing Energy Transfer Partners nearly $1.4 billion in delays and transforming pipeline resistance into a global symbol of indigenous sovereignty.
How did the “prostitute” report impact public perception of protesters?
The police report weaponized stigma to recast nonviolent water protectors as morally deficient criminals, reinforcing damaging stereotypes about Native women. Right-wing media outlets amplified the “prostitute” label as supposed evidence of protester degeneracy, with commentators suggesting women at Standing Rock were “paid agitators” or “sex workers brought to distract police.” This narrative conveniently ignored the movement’s matriarchal leadership structure and the fact that over 40% of Water Protectors were indigenous grandmothers and elders. The dehumanizing terminology also triggered historical trauma – Native women face sexual violence rates 2.5 times higher than other groups, often perpetrated by law enforcement in contexts where their morality is questioned.
Simultaneously, the incident galvanized support among social justice advocates who recognized the tactic’s historical roots. The Lakota People’s Law Project launched “Decolonize Data” workshops teaching activists how to challenge inaccurate police documentation. Hashtags like #NotAProstituteButAProtector trended with thousands sharing photos of indigenous grandmothers praying at pipeline sites. Ironically, Morton County’s attempt to discredit Dundon backfired spectacularly – her GoFundMe for medical bills raised $214,000, while her speeches at UN forums brought international scrutiny to pipeline-related human rights abuses.
Were there legal consequences for the false documentation?
Despite multiple investigations, no officers faced disciplinary action for the “prostitute” report, though Dundon’s civil rights lawsuit forced policy changes. The North Dakota Attorney General’s office declined to prosecute, accepting Morton County’s “clerical error” explanation. A Department of Justice civil rights probe closed without charges in 2018, citing insufficient evidence of intentional discrimination. However, Dundon’s lawsuit achieved significant non-monetary settlements: the county implemented mandatory bias training, created a community review board for arrest documentation, and purged occupational fields from public-facing jail records.
The legal battle exposed how documentation loopholes enable character assassination. Unlike sworn affidavits, jail intake forms aren’t considered legal testimony, making false information nearly impossible to prosecute as perjury. Dundon’s attorneys demonstrated how these records nonetheless cause real harm – she was denied nursing school admission when background checks surfaced the “prostitute” designation. This precedent led seven states to reform their jail record systems, with Minnesota and Washington now requiring arrestees to review and sign occupational entries before processing.
How does this incident connect to larger issues of protest suppression?
The “prostitute” label exemplifies the criminalization playbook used against movements from Civil Rights to Black Lives Matter, where authorities weaponize stigma to reframe dissent as deviance. Historical parallels abound: FBI memos smearing Martin Luther King Jr. as a “sexual degenerate,” police calling Suffragettes “hysterical spinsters,” or modern attempts to label climate activists as “eco-terrorists.” Such tactics serve three strategic purposes: they discredit leaders in media narratives, create social division among potential allies, and psychologically isolate participants through shame. At Standing Rock specifically, law enforcement collaborated with pipeline security firms using military-grade surveillance to profile protesters, with private investigators compiling dossiers on individuals’ relationships, finances, and personal histories.
The incident also highlights how gender-based violence becomes a tool of state control. Of 142 felony cases against Water Protectors, 78% targeted women and two-spirit (LGBTQ+) activists. Police used invasive strip searches referencing the “prostitute” report, with several women reporting officers asking: “Where are your clients today?” during arrests. This gendered repression follows colonial patterns – a 2019 Amnesty International report documented similar sexualized documentation against Wet’suwet’en land defenders in Canada and Mapuche women resisting pipelines in Chile, suggesting a global pattern of using sexual stigma to undermine indigenous environmental movements.
What’s the legacy of the Standing Rock protests today?
Though DAPL became operational in 2017, Standing Rock ignited a permanent indigenous sovereignty movement that’s halted over $23 billion in fossil fuel projects through legal and direct action. The Water Protector camps established models for community resilience now replicated worldwide – from anti-mining blockades in the Amazon to anti-pipeline resistance at Line 3. Indigenous leadership has secured landmark victories, including the 2021 cancellation of Keystone XL Pipeline and court-ordered shutdowns of Dakota Access during environmental reviews. The movement also transformed corporate accountability: 17 banks have divested from Energy Transfer Partners since 2016, while the UN Human Rights Council now monitors protest suppression at resource extraction sites.
The “prostitute” incident specifically spurred documentation reforms that protect activists nationwide. Project Nia’s “Arrest Support Toolkit” trains legal observers to photograph jail paperwork, while the Indigenous Justice Network’s rapid response teams challenge defamatory police descriptions in real time. Vanessa Dundon now directs the Mni Wiconi Clinic, providing free ocular care to activists injured during protests. As she noted at the clinic’s opening: “They wanted to brand me with shame, but instead they reminded the world that when you attack one water protector, you attack all life.” Seven years later, her mugshot bearing the “prostitute” label hangs in the Smithsonian’s Resistance Gallery beside lunch counter sit-in photos – a testament to how attempts to erase dignity can accidentally create enduring symbols of courage.
