American Powwow

--November, 2008: Nanticoke Indian Country, Delaware

Powwow is the Native American way of visiting with old friends and making new ones. In the time between two harvests, the Nanticoke Indian Powwow brought the nations together beneath towering stands of maple, oak, and pine. It was a day when the rhythms of the drum connected old and new Americans with each other, with Mother Earth, and with Spirit, in the Indian way.

I had driven inland about ten miles from the Delaware coast, to the town of Millsboro. Down the road from the Nanticoke Museum, I parked in a large clearing bordered by lush walls of sassafras and grapevine hung with over-ripe fruit. Smiling volunteers guided me to where newly painted tractors pulled the long carts that carried visitors from their cars to the ceremonies deep in the woods.

I chose to walk along the trail to spend more time with sweet, rich country smells. Between one tractor and the next, there was just enough time to imagine what it was like to live on this fertile land in the time of the First Nations, walking toward the Powwow grounds with the drumming and music getting closer and closer.

When I reached the crowded clearing, it reminded me of one of those little villages in Europe that go from town to country in a few short steps—no tapering off, no suburbia, no milling around on the edge of town. Look one way, and it’s countryside, wild and free; look the other, and it’s the bustle of civilization—or in this case, what looked like the social event of the year. The dances and honor songs hadn’t even begun, but the event was clearly in full swing.

Scanning the crowd, I realized how much the American Indian Powwow has come to resemble a really large church picnic, at least in Nanticoke Country. Not altogether inappropriate, since the United Methodist Church had provided lots of manpower and logistic support for the event. But in the midst of all that apple-pie familiarity, there was something else going on.

I could see that the Powwow had done more than gather in the Nanticoke Nation. The range of traditional dress ran from mere traces—a ribboned fringe, a hair-tie, a feather—to full if not flamboyant attire; and there was a very full racial and ethnic range of people sporting all the variations. It was obvious that truly all the nations the Nanticoke had embraced throughout the years—including the tribes of Europe and Africa—had been duly gathered in.

I thought of all the Americans I’ve known who have claimed Indian heritage, from one-half or one-quarter, down to even the tiniest percent. In a sense, all of us must have a certain share in our common Native American heritage, simply by virtue of having been born in Indian country. After all, people of European background claim African heritage by birth on African soil; and humankind is tribal, global and everything in between. Enlightened by my Sunday morning epiphany, I no longer felt like an outsider looking in. Neighborly ease and friendly folks helped me feel welcome as I went off in search of severed roots.

I had been advised to bring my own chair, since Powwows don’t always have enough seating for all comers. A blanket was all it took to reserve a place in the dancers’ circle, on the benches just inside the roped-off arena. These were filled to capacity, along with much of the outside ring of folding chairs. Some spectators sat as if they were there for the duration, chatting as comfortably as on a home visit. But the sitting and rising of a constantly milling crowd seemed to give everyone the rest they needed, when they needed it. There was a clear sense of ‘go with the flow’ that made room for all important things. I followed the crowd through a pervading scent of pine, toward the beckoning smell of barbecue and fry bread.



For all the heavenly smells, I had a devil of a time finding plain fry bread with nothing on it. I wasn’t looking for the taco variety, or barbecue—just that deep-fried doughy experience so bad for the arteries but so good for the soul. When I finally got around to burying half my face in all the soulful goodness, I got several understanding grins from passers-by. One woman teased, “Good, isn’t it?”—winking as if we were old friends from way back—her long, dark braids falling gracefully over a sky-blue dress, down to the matching fringed blanket she carried over her arm. She seemed to accept the muffled enthusiasm of my choked reply as all the response that was needed.

I had missed the morning service that opened the Powwow, and was told there had been nothing particularly ‘Native-traditional’ about it. “Just a United Methodist service,” according to my angel of information. I could never understand how a faith imposed by conquerors could develop such firm roots that they managed to survive such a long history of abuse. But faith and love seem to dwell comfortably in the present, along with the Powwow.

The Grand Entry—an opening parade of elders, dancers, and organizers into the arena—is another positive, modern twist on potentially oppressive memories. Preceded and honored by the American flag and other banners, the entry seems to carry no negative trace of its forerunner, which was the forced procession through town announcing Indian dances for public amusement. There is, indeed, a very strong sense of honor and decorum as the flag, normally carried by U.S. Veterans, signals respect for the duality of modern Native American existence. There is both respect for this country and for all who have fought for it as well as memorial honor for all the ancestors who have fought against it.

The song that framed the Grand Entry seemed to meld everything physical and spiritual around us. Chief Norwood had handed me a kind of holy-card along with his welcome:

“Jesus Loves You, Celebrate! God is Love. He wants you to remember your Spirit...”

And with the sudden silence still reverberating at the end of the procession, an opening prayer carried the same American Indian sensibility forward, into the dance:

“God of all creation and of all people, we come together today to worship you...”

The dancers had all been encouraged to wear traditional clothing, but no one was left out when the moment came. And there were dances for everyone—the gentle, understated movement of the women’s dance, the informal solemnity of the dance for veterans, the stumbling innocence of the dance for tiny tots, the dazzling color and bold strength of the warrior’s dance. The list went on, with experienced and novice performers all following behind Head Dancers. The routines for particular steps—snake, buffalo, trot dances—could be followed and learned on the spot, with leaders allowed to make a complete circle before others joined in.

The ceremonial drumming and vocables were ideal accompaniment for a leisurely stroll through the broad array of arts and crafts—pottery and jewelry, paintings, wall-hangings and dream-catchers, shawls and ribbon shirts.

Mother Earth’s Own Herbal Therapy offered natural herb packs for aroma therapy and the relief of pain. Artist Eli Thomas handed me his card, a torn bit of matting board that looked more artistic than torn. “The earth is our mother, the sun is our brother, nothing stands alone,” he said, explaining one of his paintings. Mark Barfoot sat sociably engrossed in his craft, among love flutes, dreamer drums, and lionheart knives hewn from elk bone. He shared a trade secret as he tightened a drumskin: “Elk skin’ll last for seven generations. Deer won’t last more than about two years. So I use elk skin. I just put aloe round the rim skin, and it’s a lifetime guarantee.”

As I watched a few relaxed browsers through the web of a large dream-catcher, I couldn’t help wondering how differently things might have turned out if only, after the first Thanksgiving, our country’s first two nurturing cultures had continued to respect and learn from each other. If only, instead of conquering the West, we had somehow managed to build it together.

From that rarefied perspective, an old dream-catcher legend came to mind:

Many years ago, on the Great Plains, an elder had a vision. Iktomi, the great teacher, appeared in the form of a spider, and began to spin a web with the old man’s willow loop. As he spun, he talked about the circle of life—our passing from infants to children, and on to adults, then our final return to infancy in old age.

“But in each stage of life,” Iktomi said, spinning his words, spinning his web, “there are both good and bad things. If you focus on the bad, you will go the wrong way. But if you pay attention to what is good, you will go in the right direction.”

The teacher finished his web and handed it to the elder. “You see,” said the teacher, “it is a perfect circle with a hole in the center. You may use this web to help your people. If you follow the Great Spirit, the web of life will capture your good dreams, but the evil ones will fall through the hole and will no longer be a part of you. Make good use of your dreams.”

· http://www.elithomasart.com/
· http://www.turtleislandarts.com/, http://www.wolfcreekart.com/
· Mother Earth’s Own Herbal Therapy, (570)-436-0012

© Copyright 2008 by Cary Kamarat . All rights reserved.

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