Powwow at the Unofficial End of the Pandemic

essay

Note: This posted version is a slight rewrite that differs from the original version you’ll hear on the audio recording.

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Last night, Diane and I went to the Seafair Indian Days Powwow, which is organized by the United Tribes of All Indians Foundation. Yes, an “Indian” powwow held by an “Indian” foundation, which provides further proof that everyday Indians routinely refer to ourselves as Indians. It’s only a certain type of elite Indian who objects to being called an Indian. And those aggrieved Indians are usually urban and have spent too much time hanging with white leftist college graduates.

I’m a progressive Democrat with socialist and Classical Liberal beliefs. Yes, I believe in group rights and individualism. I’m cool with certain tenets of Marxism and capitalism. Give me a far-reaching social safety net and robust economic competition. Are you wondering how an Indian could possibly support any part of capitalism? Well, think casino. But, hey, I’m also fully aware that casinos represent Indian freedom and Indian assimilation at the same time. My support of Indian casinos leaves me feeling incredibly conflicted. Yeah, as Whitman wrote, I contain multitudes. But I’m primarily an Indian boy who is suspicious of and resists liberal and conservative attempts to codify me. I believe in tribal sovereignty and self-autonomy.

Above all else, it’s quite apparent that I’ve read way too many books—and it should also be quite apparent that I’m usually able to satirize myself.

But, of course, I prefer to satirize everybody else.

Before Diane and I—an Indian wife and husband—went to the powwow, I posted this on my Instagram:

I don’t think most white folks are aware of how many goofy white people show up at big city powwows. It’s a fascinating phenomenon that turns me into an ironic anthropologist. My theory: Because of their residual and retroactive guilt over Native American genocide, some white people become court jesters and turn Indians into a royal audience. However, these oddball white people very rarely attend reservation powwows because, well, there are places where the Indians are too Indian. A pretendian or Wiccan might not be silently tolerated at a rez powwow. A few rounds of loud and/or quiet insults might be delivered. Rez Indians will certainly be giggling behind their hands.

In Seattle, after Diane and I had parked and were walking toward the Seafair Powwow grounds, we saw two white guys going warrior-shirtless.

Were they Wiccans or pretendians? It’s sometimes hard to tell. Wiccans can be pretendians and pretendians can be Wiccans. The biggest difference? Pretendians are far more obsessed with wearing Indian jewelry.

In any case, those two shirtless and ornament-free white guys were certainly vain and quite aware of their beauty. They were hippie Val Kilmers, circa 1985.

The Seafair powwow was much smaller than in previous years. That made perfect sense because of, you know, the pandemic. Of course, the pandemic isn’t over. Covid and its variants are still with us. People are still dying. Our children have been irreparably harmed. But we’re all physically and spiritually exhausted. So, as scared as all of us might be, we’re resuming our lives.

Of course, by attending the powwow, I’m aware that I increased my chances of catching Covid.

But I needed to go. I miss people. I miss other Indians.

And I saw many friends—one that I hadn’t seen in thirty years. My uncle and aunt were sitting in the front row. A childhood pal is the leader of the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation.

And I was greeted by white and Indian fans of my books. I posed for a few photos and was chagrined to notice my weight gain—the Covid hibernation pounds stacked on top of the extra pounds that I always carry.

Then I ate an Indian taco, fried bread with mounds of cheese and beef.

God, it was good to be there—to quietly revel in tribal culture. To quietly revel among Indians and non-Indian strangers—to nod my head in rhythm with the drums as we walked the vendor stands that were circled around the circle of dancers. Vendors of food, clothing, books, art, beadwork, and music. Yes, there were a few dozen vendors. There are aspects of powwows that are sacred but there are just as many aspects that are about capitalism. After all, the dancers are competing for prize money. I bought my wife a $25 pair of beaded earrings.

And a big city powwow is going to attract plenty of tourists who’ll happily pay the suggested $10 donation to enter.

That Indian taco cost me $15. It was a good one. There are fry bread artists.

So many Indians are artists. Walk into any sixth grade class on any reservation and you’ll discover that at least 90% of the kids are daily involved in artistic expression, be they singers, drummers, dancers, writers, poets, painters, bead workers, cartoonists, sculptors, or basket makers. That’s what sets us apart from other Americans. Indians are vocationally and avocationally artistic in breathtaking numbers.

I was exhilarated to be at the powwow—to be among all the Indian artists. I was alive with a simple happiness. For a few hours, the world felt free and unregulated. I felt like I’d emerged from the cocoon built for me by other forces.

I was briefly in love with everyone, even the goofy white people.

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