I go to your Pow-wows; I sit on the edges.
I am aware my blood is different;
What flows through my blood
Is not from your Seven Nations.
I go to your Pow-wows, I watch your dances -
The prairie chicken, the jingle, even the Navajo -
Looking for a way to join.
At length I saw you, A mother in the center
Doing the shawl dance, confidence amid the diverse dancers.
Perhaps I read too much into the symbolism.
I admired you; You knew your past and reclaimed it.
Rightfully took pride in it.
In hindsight I now wonder -
Was it too much?
From the edges, I searched you out afterwards
Hoping my steps towards you would be steps towards a friend.
A friend of a different blood.
Steps towards friendship, towards understanding,
In this nation, we are all different blood, mixed blood;
I hoped we have learned to value
And share the differences.
I found you as I had hoped, a mother surrounded by her children.
I was nervous � What could I,
A mother who recently bereft of her child, say
To a confident matriarch amid her place?
I asked if you would show me how to dance;
Hoping for that opening towards conversation,
Knowing in both our cultures Teachers are respected.
I expected a rebuff,
But not the tone.
You took offense; said it was Insulting for a �Non-Indian� to ask,
Like teaching a �non-Indian� to dance
Would steal the dance,
Would steal your whole recovered culture.
That my �assumption� that the Pow-wow Image
Was some Las Vegas show, all show and no substance;
You �refuse to be the stereotypical squaw�.
Strange, in refuting my �prejudice�, You exposed yours.
You saw me as a �Non-Indian�.
True, my blood is different from your Seven Nations.
I did not descend from surplanters of the Oregon Trail
But from poor farmers, escaping an inhospitable Oklahoma
What flows through my blood is distilled Cherokee.
But, were it more pronounced, perhaps you would have accepted me;
But mixed with the Irish, the German, the Welch,
It merely makes me look slightly Hispanic.
Strange, that also is not in my blood.)
The Government has not affirmed my ancestors;
They do not lie on any tribal list
But on my Grandmother�s marriage license.
They say my blood is too diluted.
Perhaps I could still recover her culture if I were willing to leave
And go back to my Grandmother�s land.
But I am now unwilling; This land here is now in my blood.
Like my ancestors, new people have become My People.
After being rebuffed by you, I went back to the edges;
More cynical, less trusting.
When will mankind learn you can�t fight prejudice
With more prejudice.
With my different blood, I will still wait until I am home alone
To play my Grandmother�s flute.
� Ariel
