pow-wows are a sure sign of spring
Yesterday I went to my second pow-wow in the last three weeks. It's hard to explain why I love them so much: the community, beauty, tradiion, and athleticism are only part of it.
I've always felt a kinship to Native culture, always. I was watching a special on PBS this week, "We Shall Remain", a history in five parts from a Native point of view (I've only seen the first part so far). Beautifully done, by the way, everyone should watch it. At one point, and as a repeated theme, they talked about the Native worldview, and how it's closely tied to the land. They don't OWN, the land, they ARE the land, and it is them. The word, in Wampanoag, isn't just "my land", it's "I am my land, and my land is me". It's how I feel about this desert: it's a part of me, it's inside me, it shapes who I am and the way I interpret the world, and I can never truly beseparated from it. Of course it's natural that I relate so strongly with a culture that is built on this land, made from this land.
I am Irish by blood, more than anything. I've got the squat build and freckles to show for it, plus my name (also my hair used to be quite red/auburn, but it's darkened to chestnut lately). But I've always felt so removed from those stories, set in some lush green land like a fairy tale. Fog, peat bogs, lochs, grass, potato plants? Not my world, not my life, not my land.
But coyotes, turtles, cacti, sage, red earth, reptiles? That's me, that's my life. These dances, these people, these languages, these costumes . . . I understand them. They make sense to me, because they come from the same place I do. We are made from the same clay. So when I go to a pow-wow, it feels like . . . coming home. Thundering drums, plaintive crying songs, feet pounding earth, the regalia and pageantry of it all, create this feeling of excitement. It's more than that, though, in a way I don't feel like I have the right words for. Joy, comfort, interest are included, but somehow not synergystic enough to be accurate.
At the same time, I'll never be truly part of it. I have no right, not really (although apparently there is a Native woman on my mom's side a couple generations back). I am an interloper, a spectator. If I tried for anything more, I'd be a white poser, an intruder, no matter how true and pure my feelings are, no matter how much I relate or how much kinship I feel. But for those few hours, when the grand entry starts, and the drums pound to the beat of my heart, and my eyes feel like they're gorging on all the beauty and spectacle, it doesn't matter. I'm home.
I've always felt a kinship to Native culture, always. I was watching a special on PBS this week, "We Shall Remain", a history in five parts from a Native point of view (I've only seen the first part so far). Beautifully done, by the way, everyone should watch it. At one point, and as a repeated theme, they talked about the Native worldview, and how it's closely tied to the land. They don't OWN, the land, they ARE the land, and it is them. The word, in Wampanoag, isn't just "my land", it's "I am my land, and my land is me". It's how I feel about this desert: it's a part of me, it's inside me, it shapes who I am and the way I interpret the world, and I can never truly beseparated from it. Of course it's natural that I relate so strongly with a culture that is built on this land, made from this land.
I am Irish by blood, more than anything. I've got the squat build and freckles to show for it, plus my name (also my hair used to be quite red/auburn, but it's darkened to chestnut lately). But I've always felt so removed from those stories, set in some lush green land like a fairy tale. Fog, peat bogs, lochs, grass, potato plants? Not my world, not my life, not my land.
But coyotes, turtles, cacti, sage, red earth, reptiles? That's me, that's my life. These dances, these people, these languages, these costumes . . . I understand them. They make sense to me, because they come from the same place I do. We are made from the same clay. So when I go to a pow-wow, it feels like . . . coming home. Thundering drums, plaintive crying songs, feet pounding earth, the regalia and pageantry of it all, create this feeling of excitement. It's more than that, though, in a way I don't feel like I have the right words for. Joy, comfort, interest are included, but somehow not synergystic enough to be accurate.
At the same time, I'll never be truly part of it. I have no right, not really (although apparently there is a Native woman on my mom's side a couple generations back). I am an interloper, a spectator. If I tried for anything more, I'd be a white poser, an intruder, no matter how true and pure my feelings are, no matter how much I relate or how much kinship I feel. But for those few hours, when the grand entry starts, and the drums pound to the beat of my heart, and my eyes feel like they're gorging on all the beauty and spectacle, it doesn't matter. I'm home.