Ancestor Approved Read online

  Dedication

  In memory of Michael Lacapa

  (Hopi/Tewa/Apache)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  What Is a Powwow? by Kim Rogers

  Fancy Dancer by Monique Gray Smith

  Flying Together by Kim Rogers

  Warriors of Forgiveness by Tim Tingle

  Brothers by David A. Robertson

  Rez Dog Rules by Rebecca Roanhorse

  Secrets and Surprises by Traci Sorell

  Wendigos Don’t Dance by Art Coulson

  Indian Price by Eric Gansworth

  Senecavajo: Alan’s Story by Brian Young

  Squash Blossom Bracelet: Kevin’s Story by Brian Young

  Joey Reads the Sky by Dawn Quigley

  What We Know About Glaciers by Christine Day

  Little Fox and the Case of the Missing Regalia by Erika T. Wurth

  The Ballad of Maggie Wilson by Andrea L. Rogers

  Bad Dog by Joseph Bruchac

  Between the Lines by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Circles by Carole Lindstrom

  Notes and Acknowledgments

  Editor’s Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Contributors

  Editor’s Note

  About the Editor

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Foreword

  Imagine you’re attending an intertribal powwow.

  Maybe it’s your first time. Maybe your family has been on the powwow trail for generations.

  You might make new friends or reunite with old ones. In line for fry bread, you could strike up a conversation with a vendor and buy a key chain from them later that day. From the bleachers, you could admire a dancer’s shawl and, that night, recognize her wearing everyday clothes on the way home.

  Through stories, poetry, and visual art, the contributors to this anthology coordinated their efforts—via phone calls, emails, texts, and an online task board—to reflect the interconnectedness of the powwow experience. We’ve filled this book with memorable characters . . . some of whom know each other, some of whom don’t, and all of whom are pleased to welcome you.

  What Is a Powwow?

  Kim Rogers

  A powwow is

  friends and family

  gathered together to honor the Creator,

  Kinnekasus, Man-Never-Known-on-Earth,

  who watches over us.

  A powwow is

  a way to remember those

  who’ve passed on,

  even ancestors we did not know

  who stay in our hearts

  forever.

  They are near us

  always.

  A powwow is

  a place to show

  our resilience

  and strength.

  We are still here

  generation

  after

  generation,

  into the future

  and beyond.

  A powwow is

  drums and songs and dancing,

  in jingles, feathers, shawls, and beaded buckskin

  regalia

  you and your family made

  with love.

  A powwow is

  eating fry bread and corn soup

  together,

  selling or buying

  artwork, jewelry, and T-shirts

  that everyone would be

  proud to take home.

  A powwow is

  prizes and recognition.

  But community

  is the best prize of all.

  A powwow is

  a place for belly-laughing late

  into a sleepy night with your grandpa Lou,

  then getting home after midnight.

  A powwow is

  where our hearts beat as one

  to the thump of the drum,

  together

  so strong

  where we belong.

  A powwow is

  healing

  and soul-soothing

  pure joy,

  a circle of life

  where the Creator,

  Kinnekasus, Man-Never-Known-on-Earth,

  smiles upon us.

  Fancy Dancer

  Monique Gray Smith

  Mom walked a bit lighter on the earth; my little sister, Suzie, giggled louder; and I—well, I gained a dad. Most people would call him my stepdad, but there’s nothing “step” about him at all.

  My father, the man whose genes run through me, had left two years earlier, when I was nine. One day, he just never came home from work. Mom tried to explain it to us, but we already knew that things weren’t good between them. Kids know. Adults don’t think we do, but we do.

  What I didn’t expect was that he never came to see us. He never even phoned. Ever. It was hard to see how much Suzie missed him. You probably think that as his son I must have been sad, but I wasn’t. I was the opposite. You see, my father was not a kind man. Not to me or my sister and especially not to my mom. That was the hardest part of all. Watching how he hurt my mom. His temper was only one reason why I was relieved when he left.

  When my parents found out they were pregnant with me, my father moved Mom far away from Saskatchewan and her family. While she kept in touch through email, I had never met my grandparents, aunties, uncles, or any of my cousins. No one had ever come to visit us. And we’d never gone to visit them.

  I looked it up on a map once, and Saskatchewan, Canada, is pretty far from Ann Arbor, Michigan. My father never said it, but I’m pretty sure he hated that my mom was Cree. Why else would he forbid her to speak Cree in our house, or practice our ceremonies, or do anything at all that was part of our culture?

  I do have one memory of my mom celebrating her culture. I was about seven or eight. It was the middle of the night, and I was thirsty, so I headed to the kitchen to get a drink. As I got close, I noticed a light flickering and music playing. The music was new to me, but the drumbeat was powerful. Like it was calling me closer. I peeked around the corner to see what was going on in the kitchen, and there was my mom, dancing. She stood tall, her head high, shoulders back, and her feet softly moved to the beat of the drum. In her hand was what looked like a bundle of feathers, and, just like her feet, she moved it to the sound of the drum.

  I watched until the music stopped and Mom blew out the candle. I made my way back to bed without her knowing that I had seen her dancing. That night I learned something really important. I had always known my mom was strong, but now I knew she was way stronger than I’d thought. In the middle of the night, she was keeping her culture, our culture, alive.

  Nine years of living with my father meant I knew almost nothing about who I truly was. I’m pretty sure he was ashamed of us, or at least that’s how it felt. He often told Suzie and me that we’d be better off in life if we had looked more like him and his Irish ancestors, but we didn’t. There was no questioning we were Native.

  I always knew Mom was proud of me, and that was all I needed. At least that’s what I thought, until she brought Paul home.

  Paul quickly became a regular at our dinner table and around our house. He’s Cree like us, but from Treaty 8 territory in Alberta. He came to teach for a semester and loved it so much, he stayed. Paul and Mom both work at the University of Michigan; that’s where they met. He came into the library looking for a specific book, and my mom, who is a librarian, helped him find it. They’ve been pretty much inseparable since then.

  Not long after Paul came into our lives, Mom got back in touch with her family. Our family. Although we hadn’t been able to go to Saskatchewan to meet them, we were using FaceTime a couple of times a we
ek. I was liking getting to know everyone, and there were a lot of them! I liked knowing I was part of a big family and that I looked like them. I especially loved watching how Mom laughed with her siblings.

  Now Mom walks every day just like she did that night I saw her dancing: head high, shoulders back.

  A couple of months after Paul moved in, we were driving home from a good day of fishing out at Olson Park when he turned on the stereo. Out of the speakers came the same music that Mom had on that night I saw her dancing in the kitchen. The drumbeat went right to my heart. I could feel the rhythm, and my head began to move to the beat.

  “You ever been to a powwow?” Paul asked.

  “A what?”

  “Guess that answers my question.”

  “What’s a powwow?” I asked him.

  “Only one of the greatest weekend events ever.”

  “And?”

  “And?” He glanced at me and could see I really had no idea what a powwow was.

  “Well, where do I begin? It’s both a ceremony and cultural gathering, where we dance, sing, visit, and laugh. There’s always a heck of a lot of laughing!” Paul chuckled. “Then there’s the food. My mouth waters just thinking about the fry bread loaded with butter and salt. Oh, and can’t forget the Indian tacos.” He turned to me with a grin. “No powwow is complete without at least one Indian taco. Mmm, mmm, mmm.” Paul wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. After a moment, he added, “But really, for me and how I was raised, powwow is a way of honoring our traditions, our families, and our Ancestors.”

  “Is it just us?” I asked. “You know, uh, Native Americans?” Our family had hidden who we were for so long that I wasn’t sure what to call us.

  “Mostly, yes. Native people travel from all over to go to powwows, but non-Natives are welcome too. That’s part of the beauty of the powwow, the sharing of cultures.” He turned his head toward me. “We have one of the biggest powwows in the United States right here in Ann Arbor. It’s called the Dance for Mother Earth Powwow.”

  “Really?”

  Paul nodded. “I noticed you dancing in your seat. I think you have the moves to be a fancy dancer.”

  “Okay, first of all, I don’t even know what a fancy dancer is. And second . . .” My father’s voice rang through my mind. Hope you got some brains in that head of yours, ’cause you sure ain’t got any hopes of being on any sports team. He had laughed and then mocked me more. Unless you plan on being the water boy, but you’d probably screw that up, too.

  I leaned my head against the window. “I’m not good at anything that requires coordination, like sports. So I’d probably suck at this fancy-dancing thing.”

  As we drove along Pontiac Trail, I watched the trees go by and wondered if I’d ever stop hearing my father’s voice in my head.

  We were almost home when Paul started talking again. “Your mom’s told me some of the stories of how your dad treated you. How he treated all of you.” He looked over at me for a moment and then back to the road. “I’m sorry that happened.”

  “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t, but I can still be sorry that you had to experience that. No child or woman should ever be treated like you, Suzie, and your mom were. It helps me understand a little bit why you think you wouldn’t be any good at fancy dancing. But for what it’s worth, I think you could be good. Dancing isn’t just about being athletic, it’s about telling a story to the drumbeat and revealing the strength that is in your heart.” Paul was quiet until we pulled into our driveway. He put the truck in Park and turned to me. “There is a lot of strength in your heart, Rory. You can let the unkind things your father said define you. Or—”

  “Or what?” I asked.

  “Or you can define yourself. Including what you want to be good at. There are always going to be people who want to pull you down. That’s the hurt in their heart. But it’s up to you whether you let them succeed.”

  We sat in silence except for the powerful beat coming out of the speakers. Paul was using his thumb on the steering wheel to keep up with the drum. My upper body began moving to the beat again. This time my head bobbed a bit, forward and back and side to side.

  “You know, Rory, I was quite a fancy dancer back in the day. If you wanted, I could teach you.”

  I turned to look at him. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’d love to.”

  Hesitantly, I responded, “Okay. Might help if I knew what a fancy dancer was.”

  Paul laughed. “I suppose it would. That’s what the first class will cover. Tomorrow night.”

  “Why not now? Or tonight?”

  Paul laughed again and slammed the steering wheel with his hand. “See, I knew there was a dancer in there! Give me a night to clear out the garage. We’re gonna need space for you to get your moves on.”

  “I can help you clean it.”

  “I was counting on that.” Paul turned to me and tousled my hair. “Maybe we can get your mom and Suzie to help us.”

  After dinner, the overhaul from garage to dance floor began. We had to clear out all the winter and summer toys we no longer used, old paint cans, and bins of clothes that Mom had saved from when Suzie and I were little. The next night I had my first fancy-dance lesson. We started by smudging. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Paul showed me how to take the smoke from the sage in my hands and run it over my head and then down my body. He explained it was like having a shower, but instead of cleaning my body, it cleaned my spirit. Paul said smudging would help me feel good inside, and he was right. There was something about the smell of burning sage that gave me a peaceful feeling.

  When Paul turned on the music, he told me, “Just close your eyes. Let the drumbeat and the song wake you up. Notice your breathing. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

  My body wanted to move, but I was afraid to give in to the urge. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it right.

  It was like Paul could read my mind. “It’s okay, Rory. There’s no right way, only your way.” He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in my eyes. “Your body remembers how to dance. Your ancestors have been dancing like this for generations.” His hands moved up to cradle my face. “Trust yourself.”

  Paul dropped his hands and took a step back. “I want you to start by moving your head. Feel the drumbeat move through you.”

  After a couple of months of practicing two nights a week, I could feel my whole body getting stronger. I loved both the dancing and the smudging, but especially the time with Paul.

  It was an icy-cold January morning when I found it. Lying there in front of my cereal bowl. A flyer for the annual Dance for Mother Earth Powwow. On the flyer Paul had written, I think you could be ready to dance at this, but it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think. Love, Paul.

  I shoved the flyer into my backpack and left for school. At lunch, I pulled it out as I began to eat my ham and cheese sandwich.

  I could just imagine what my father would say: How Indian are you trying to be, Rory? Maybe he was right. But I felt different when I danced. More like me. It was all so confusing. I crushed the flyer into a tiny ball and tossed it into the garbage with the rest of my uneaten sandwich.

  That night I pretended to have a sore tummy. I excused myself from dinner and my night of dancing with Paul. I was lying on my bed feeling sorry for myself when there was a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?”

  Paul opened the door a smidge. “Can I come in?”

  “I suppose.”

  He came and sat on the side of my bed. “If you can’t come to the garage to dance, then the dancing is going to come to you.”

  “I really don’t feel like it.”

  “I know. That’s why I brought some homework for you.”

  I rolled my eyes at the word homework.

  Paul reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “If I’d had homework like what I’m about to give you, my life
sure would’ve been different.”

  I watched as he opened his wallet, pulled out an iTunes gift card, and placed it beside me on the bed. “I want you to go online and download your favorite powwow music. That’s the first of your homework.”

  I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. A smile crept across my face.

  “Then I want you to practice standing on one foot at a time, up on your tippy toes. I want you to focus on your breathing, like I showed you. We have to get your mind and body believing in each other.”

  I gave him a what are you talking about? look.

  “The song is the bridge between your mind and your body. But right now, your mind and your body don’t trust each other. We have to build that bridge of trust. When you truly learn to believe in yourself, all of you . . . then that is the greatest gift learning to fancy dance will give you.”

  That night, as I practiced my balance, and then when I lay in bed listening to my favorite songs, I felt a determination I’d never felt before. I decided I was going to prove my father wrong. But mostly, I was going to prove to myself that I could do it. I was going to dance at the powwow. I was going to be proud of who I was.

  The next morning, over a bowl of mush and blueberries, I announced, “Soooooo. I’m gonna do it.”

  “Do what?” asked my sister as she shoved oatmeal into her mouth.

  “I’m going to enter the Junior Boys Fancy Dance at the powwow.”

  “Yes!” Paul said loudly, and raised his fist straight up.

  Mom reached over and hugged me. “Oh, my boy. I’m proud of you.”

  I had just over two months to get ready, and not just physically. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually too.

  A couple of weeks later, I found two boxes on my bed. One was large and the other was ginormous! I noticed the return address was my mom’s home community in Saskatchewan. I opened the large one first and pulled out the most beautiful regalia. I had been watching fancy dancing on YouTube and hadn’t seen anything quite like this. It was turquoise, white, and black, and when I held it up to myself, I knew it would fit.

  I quickly opened the ginormous box, wondering if maybe it had a bustle in it? Sure enough, wrapped very carefully in tissue paper, was a bustle that matched. At the bottom of the box there was a letter. I sat down on my bed and opened it.