Powwow
By
J. Linn Rose
Even though my grandmother on my father’s
side of the family was full-blood Cherokee, she shared very little of her
history with the non-Indian members of the family, which included me, simply
because I had inherited my mother’s Nordic coloring. I was nevertheless fascinated
by and drawn to Etta’s side of the family, always in awe of the striking
physical beauty of some of my father’s cousins. But in retrospect I find it odd
that at the time there were few young children in the family other than my two
sisters and me, leaving us without peers with whom we might have interacted,
and from whom we might have learned more about our Cherokee heritage.
My father passed away in 1968; his brother,
Jack, in 1969; and Etta in 1970. I never saw any of the cousins after that, and
so ended my connection with the family, but not my interest; at least not my
interest in American Indian culture and history.
It was this undying interest that finally
prompted me in 1994 to attend my very first public powwow, the All Tribes Powwow,
an annual event held during the months of March and April in many states
throughout the
On a Sunday in March my husband Harry and
I drove to the Torres-Martinez Indian Reservation in
The day was warm and sunny, and as we
walked across the parking lot, heading toward the entrance gate to the powwow
grounds, I could smell the crisp aroma of fry-bread on the breeze, and hear the
deep percussive beat of ceremonial drums nearby. My husband bought our tickets
at the ticket booth and, in turn, received a brochure describing the powwow.
He then politely handed the brochure to me,
anticipating my request. We were and
are old shoes.
I opened the brochure and immediately read
that the word “powwow,” derived from the Indian pau wau, means a
gathering of people for the purpose of trade. The pamphlet went on to list the
scheduled dance events for the afternoon, and explained something called powwow etiquette. But I never got to
that paragraphed-section because the people, the music, and the merchandise
distracted me from reading the rest of the brochure. This was my first mistake.
My second mistake was stuffing the pamphlet into the back pocket of my
Harry and I stopped off at the very first
merchandise booth to the left of us on entering the grounds, and peered at the
lovely Navajo jewelry under the display glass. Turquoise inlaid silver Concho
necklaces and belts, coral and silver rings, silver and mother-of-pearl bracelets.
A handsome Navajo gentleman standing behind the counter smiled at us, and said,
“Ya`at`eeh,” the Navajo or Dineteh equivalent of the English “hello.”
My husband inquired after the jewelry in
the display case, striking up a conversation with the man. I noticed that while
the Navajo gentleman spoke, he looked past my husband, as though watching
something in the distance. I later learned that among traditional Navajos, it
is rude to stare into the eyes of the person to whom you are speaking: Conversely,
it is polite to look at the speaker while he, or she, is talking.
My husband bought a silver turquoise and
onyx ring, and then we moved on.
We hopped from booth to booth, talking
with people at every interval. At one point, I wandered ahead of my husband to
a booth displaying miscellaneous items from hair barrettes and combs to beaded
bracelets and chewing gum. The mish-mash of sundry items paled in comparison to
the handcrafted silver and turquoise jewelry in the other booths.
Feeling self conscious because I was the
only customer at the booth, while all the other display booths were busy with
patrons, I smiled and nodded my head to the dark haired gentleman seated behind
the display cases. Then I returned my attention to the merchandise.
The man broke the silence between us. “The
sun feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked.
I looked up at the sky and then at him,
and answered, “Yes, it does feel wonderful,” I agreed. But I was really hot and
sweaty. That part I kept to myself, however.
But I did feel at ease all of a sudden and
abandoned my feigned interest in bubble gum, realizing at once that it was his
broad reference to something greater than either of us that had somehow made me
feel less awkward and shy. I started chatting with him as if he were an old
acquaintance. I asked him who his people were. He told me he was Ogallala, and
that he lived in
I bought a leather hair barrette and a
pack of spearmint gum. We said our goodbyes, and I moved on to the next booth.
The
jewelry in the next display case was stunning, and I said as much to the lady
standing behind the counter. She smiled, and said that she and her husband made
the silver jewelry from sandstone castings. One bracelet in particular caught
my attention, a thick band of silver with two hands reaching toward each other.
I asked about the significance of the hands, and she answered that they
represented friendship, or “`ah-nah-se-yah,” as it is pronounced in Navajo. I
was so impressed I bought the bracelet.
My husband caught up with me right about
then, and soon after, the Women’s Competition began. Drums vibrated and voices
chanted. We looked for a place to sit where we could watch the performance, but
the enclosures encompassing the dance arena were full with people seated on
bales of hay.
After wandering around the arena for a few
minutes, we finally spotted an enclosure with a vacant bale. Nodding to the
people seated here and there in the booth, we walked over to and sat down on
the available bale.
The people in the enclosure stared at us
with quizzical expressions on their faces. We smiled at them, but they neither
smiled back nor said a word to us. They merely stared at us, baffled. I thought
perhaps they were staring because Harry and I are both light blonds, and at the
time we were rather florid from the sun.
If only we had read the paragraph on
etiquette in the brochure.
Feeling decidedly under scrutiny, we took
it as our cue to be quiet, therefore whispering to each other, mouth to ear, whenever
we had something to say to each other.
We watched dance after pounding dance to
the beat of singing and drumming, as women clad in dazzling outfits of buckskin
and beads, feathers and bells, performed an intricate hop-skip dance around the
arena. There must have been at least thirty women out there, two abreast moving
in a single line together, heads held high, voices respectfully silent.
Whispering into my husband’s ear, I asked
him if he had taken any photos yet. He said that he had not, and then he looked
at the camera, checking the film. It was then that we both realized we had
forgotten to load a new roll of film in the camera before leaving the house,
and had failed to include a spare one in the camera case.
We had only one shot left in the camera.
I whispered that he had better make it a
good one, since it was our only shot. He nodded his head in agreement, but then
fumbled the camera, accidentally taking a shot of his zippered crotch instead
of the dancing ladies.
I had to laugh at this point, because it
was so comical, especially since the people in the booth still had us under
tight surveillance, watching Harry act like Clark Griswald in the movie, Vacation.
He was so embarrassed he insisted we leave
the enclosure, and exit we did.
We spent the rest of the afternoon, into
the evening, observing the ceremonies while standing the entire time just a
short distance from the arena entrance itself. As the sun sank behind
I was glad we stayed.
The regalia and outfits representing the
various nations and people in this final ceremony were eye-boggling with beauty
and color, and the drumming, dancing, and singing moved my heart to tears. Then
everyone stopped dancing, and gathered together in the arena—men, women, and children
alike—and bowed their heads in prayer for those who had died from the Hanta
virus, which had claimed many lives in the Southwest during the early nineties.
Harry and I prayed too, and again I felt my eyes well with tears.
I was very grateful for my Cherokee
ancestry.
I had to know more. Then I remembered the
pamphlet in my back pocket. I reached into my jeans, took out the brochure, and
with the penlight from my purse I read the rest of the literature with my back
turned toward the arena.
Printed in bold typeface at the bottom of
the page were the words: Please ask
for permission before photographing a dancer in full regalia, and please bring
your own seating. The enclosures around the arena are reserved for the
performers and their families only, and are not for general seating.
I could have died right then-and-there
from sheer embarrassment.
Looking around the powwow grounds for
anyone fast approaching to throw us out on our ears, I stuffed the penlight and
brochure in my purse, and told my husband it was getting late, that we really
should be getting home to feed the cat and the dog.
Once we were in the car I explained to
Harry while he drove that what we did by entering that booth and settling our
fannies down on that bale of hay the way we did was tantamount to blithely
walking into a stranger’s home without knocking or asking for permission, and
seating ourselves on their furniture to read a newspaper. I think I saw him
shrink down into his shoes right about then, especially when he recalled taking
that shot of his crotch. He could only just see over the steering wheel to
drive.
Powwows are a great way to meet with and
learn about the first people of this land, to experience their art, their
culture, and their way of life. However, if one is new to the powwow scene, he
or she should keep in mind that there are a few simple rules to observe as a
guest. The brochures handed out to visitors at the ticket booth outline these
rules of powwow etiquette; but remember to read the entire brochure before
joining in on the fun to avoid making the same mistakes Harry and I made.
A final word of advice: Take extra film,
you will need it. But ask for permission first before taking a picture
of anyone. People find cameras invasive. I don’t blame them. I hate it when
someone sneaks off a shot of me too.
To learn more about the
For more information on powwows in
© J. Linn Rose 1998
All Rights Reserved