This won’t be one of my most masterful or poetic posts.   But it may well be one of the most joyful.

You see…I have yearned for many years to attend The Gathering of Nations, one of the most well respected and attended pow wows in the Native world.

This year, I finally made it.

And this was, of course, the first and only time it didn’t take place indoors at the “The Pit” one part of  the University of New Mexico’s big circle of sports venues.   It was, to my unending chagrin, held on an unseasonably cold and blustery weekend outside in the huge UNM football stadium where, without binoculars or a zoom lens, the dancers were distant, whirling blurs of day glo fabric, feathers and footwork.

So I and my Hopi “sister,” affectionately nicknamed “Doll,” (but you don’t mess with our Doll as she’s a tribal judge up on the rez) , mostly sat swaddled in and shivering beneath the Pendletons we’d brought to cover ourselves as is the custom for women, should spirit move us to join in.  

And you know what?   Didn’t matter a damn.

We were there together, my sister and I.  With about 20,000 wonderful, beautiful Native people (scroll WAY down to skip my commentary and watch some of the best dancing) who also don’t get to see each other much except at gatherings like these. 

The first windy day,  we gawked at the massive first Grand Entry--the moment when the dancers of all nations come into the arena from the four directions as a signal that the contest dancing is about to begin.   And we got to know, and love, the gregarious and hilarious “emcee” whose name we kept trying to figure out.  We never did.   But  Robin Williams quick, steeped in tribal history and culture and highly intuitive—like all “sacred clowns” in Native cultures--the emcee is the “glue” that holds the gathering together. 

This one was a smooth—and side splitting--operator.   He told the single ladies that if they didn’t find Mr. Right they might find Mr. Right Now, but warned them to remember that while what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, what happens at the pow wow…goes on Facebook.  Facebook has, indeed, become the new “moccasin grapevine.”   And all the “Facebook Indi’ns” were teased all day both days, too.

The non-Indi’ns didn’t escape, of course.  For them he patiently defined lots of familiar rez terms.   Always facetiously.   For instance, he defined “snag” as a “deeply meaningful one night relationship.”  The Natives snickered and rolled their eyes—snagging is anything but meaningful and definitely not a relationship.   It is…as it sounds, actually.

One of is best moments came on Saturday night, during the final and even more massive Grand Entry.   He knew every single tribe by its regalia—no mean feat—and called the names of each with warmth and pride.   And as the arena filled, he grinned into the TV cameras—it was covered live in Duke City—and crowed, “THIS is Saturday Night Live, ladies and gentlemen!”  And then, for fun: “SNL at UNM—OMG!”

Each of his jests ended, as they always do—a little “tsk” of the tongue followed by an indescribable little syllable--sounds like “hey” without the “h.”   Sometimes it’s drawn out real long to emphasize the irony or sarcasm.   And it’s the sign that you’ve been punked all over Indian Country.

When we needed to thaw out, we walked down to the massive Indian Market tent to shop, get some serious “Indi’n” food and to check out the hot Native rock, soul and reggae bands at Stage 49.  Now, you have to know about pow wows to “get” the joke in the name of that venue, but…suffice it to say that was where the less “sacred” dancin’ and romancin’ went on, mostly for the younger folk who had, let’s face it, come from all over the Americas at least in part to “hook up.”

Later, back in the stands, I laughed because we could, between contest dances, hear the Stage 49 crowd stompin’ and clappin’ to “You Dropped a Bomb On Me,” at the same time some of the most traditional pow wow dancing was going on in the arena.   Others sang along.   Nobody minds stuff like that, at pow wows.   The old, the new, the sacred and the “profane” are all part of the Everything that Indians…and all of us…are.   Our emcee reminisced more than a few times about breakin’ to Whodini “back in the day.”   And all super fly in his “top” hat complete with Eagle feather, he had the kinda “cheek” that made that totally imaginable.

See, that’s the “thing” about pow wows.  A lot of non-Indians go show up at them all doe eyed and decked out in “Indian” attire, wanting to be among The People, many of whom who arrive decked out in day glo green, pink and yellow regalia which should kinda tip ‘em off that The People kinda wanna move on from that Noble Savage stuff, thank you very much.  So while the dances and traditions are from Way Back, that ribbon shirted warrior furiously texting his girl back on the rez is pretty much like all 17-year-old boys today.

With one very important exception:  he’s Native, and he’s there to dance for the joy and confusion of it all in an arena filled with relations who share that joy and confusion with their hearts and souls and in a way that I am convinced few non-indigenous cultures in the planet could ever really understand.

You can go to any country which still has remnants of its indigenous cultures there and find much the same thing.  Even if they have lost their languages and the meanings behind many rituals still performed, when they gather together, something very moving occurs.  As the come together in love and laughter, wounds are healed, a kinship beyond tribe confirmed and celebrated, and new stories and legends are born.  

And maybe even more importantly, new songs are recorded and uploaded—yes, often to Facebook--for relations not present to thrill to.  To an outsider all the songs probably sound the same, but a young—or old--Indian on the pow wow path will close his/her eyes and sing you a snippet of a song with the same reverence with which the rest of us recall the first Beatles or Bruce Springsteen or U2 or hip hop song we heard and how it changed everything that day.   They don’t sing ‘em like hymns.   They sing ‘em with a smile, a sigh or even sometimes a little twinkle or tear in the eyes that tells you something very special happened at that particular pow wow.

Only their songs are about ‘way different things than ours—almost like hymns, in a way.    But only a little.  They tell them how Spirit wants things to be and how to live like that, and that they carry a tremendous responsibility and purpose within them which should be nurtured as they nurture their children and the crops they grow back home.

They’re us…and they’re sooooo not us.  And you can buy all the feathers, beads, bracelets and buckskin…you can eat frybread and Indian tacos ‘til you’re ready to burst…you can buy the CD of the drum group you liked and turn it up real loud in the car…and even maybe cop a “snag."    But you can’t just “try on” these cultures like you can the clothes from them.  Just doesn’t work.  I lived among and married into the Hopi Tribe and have a huge circle of family and friends there.  And as fiercely as they love me, I feel just as foreign now, much of the time, as I did the day I arrived.   And I’m fine with that.  That’s as it should be.

You see…I believe they must remain slightly apart from us to do what those songs tell them to do.  And to continue to be here to “represent” for the millions eradicated so systematically over centuries past.  Much of the wisdom of those generations was just as systematically eradicated—they are the living bits and pieces of that, workin’ it out.   Workin’ it through.   Trying sooooo hard to honor what little they still know and to create something viable and vital from it.   They do not have time to fulfill our fantasies.  Their futures are still very much at stake.

Which is why when it’s pow wow time, it’s just damned good to get out there and dance.   Period.

So…here’s some footage of a whole lotta beautiful people gettin’ on the good foot.  You can see from it that my shivering hands didn’t always cooperate.  But there are some transcendent moments captured when the dancing and the singing and the drumming got hold of my soul and I forgot I was in the world, let alone a cold college football stadium.  So…enough about me.

It’s pow wow time--forgive me, but I was shivering from the cold.  But I was warm on the inside...and loving every minute of it!

Obama addresses the Nations

Fancy dancers doin’ it to DEATH

Grass dancers bringin’ the funk

The Jingle Dress ladies, getting’ jiggy wit it

Some ladies “fancy shawl” flingin’