Bells

Race is a weird thing. On the one hand, it is entirely a collective fiction, easily disproven with DNA samples and historical evidence. We are all clearly interrelated many times over, both in terms of common origins and repeated cross contacts, even after seeming “racial groups” formed. We all have similar drives and yearnings.  And when dealing with one another on a daily basis, it is clear that we are not races but simply people. 

Yet, for a little “white” girl on an “Indian” reservation on Cultural Appreciation day, race is very, very real. Watching the other kids wear their Native clothing, tell their Native tales, and sing their Native songs, I was kind of an outsider, an observer. I was allowed to watch silently, but I felt that any attempt to participate would have been met with mockery. When a teacher asked me why I wasn't expressing my culture on one of those days, I pointed to my T shirt and blue jeans, and simply said, “I am. I display my culture every day.”

Yet, there is a richness of experience in other cultures that white folks seem to have lost. Yes, we have opera, classical music, and fine dining with lots of utensils. But that just doesn't compare to the call of a Pow-wow drum, echoing off the hills. It is a sound that I remember fondly from Tribal Fair Days. We could hear the rhythms, the thumping, the singing, and the war whoops for most of the night, even with the fair being a couple of miles away.

And actually being there was just entrancing. The colorful costumes, the big, bright feathers, and those men with their beautiful legs just dancing. Feathers and colors flying and spinning into a blur. And the ladies shawl dances that turn an ordinary shawl into a crazy swirl of color mixing with the ladies' long black hair. And the bells that some of the dancers wore on their legs. A guy just walking over to a booth for some fry bread could make quite a commotion with those bells. I wished that I could dance. I wished that I could show my colors. I wished that I could shake my bells.

But I knew that I didn't belong. Even worse, I felt that I had no culture of my own to share. What is “white culture” anyway? When do we dress up in crazy costumes and dance around, kicking up dust that can be seen from afar through the nighttime lighting? When do we stay up pounding drums and singing until both hands and ears are numb? When do we simply celebrate the fact that we are living, breathing creatures who sing and dance just because we can? When do we ever wear bells?

I'm sure that some neo-Nazi, white supremecist would tell me that “whites” have a culture. But exclusion doesn't equal culture to me. Instead, it represents a lack of identity and a fear of that knowledge.

So why didn't I ever dance? I was afraid of that exclusion. I was afraid that if I got out there, someone would make fun of me, call me “biligaana”* or “Wannabe,”** or tell me to go back to where I came from. Not everyone talked to me that way. Many Navajos were open and kind. But there were enough who weren't to keep me intimidated.

I didn't say any of that when one of my Navajo friends encouraged me to join in one of the all-dance songs. I just said, “No, I don't think so.”

“Why not?” she encouraged. It will be fun.

“I have no costume. I don't know how to do it. ...And in case you haven't noticed, I'm white.”

“It will be OK,” she said. “You can borrow a shawl. I'll go with you.”

I was sure that she must be teasing me or maybe setting me up for some embarrassing scene. I shook my head. “No, I'll just watch. You go ahead.”

So she left me to join in all the fun and the flying dust. And I hoped that not too many people were noticing the anglo girl alone at the Pow wow. I refrained from moving to the rhythm or showing too much pleasure. I thought if I got into it too much, people might think I was a tourist, or a hippie, or a dreaded Wannabe—all words that I had heard used derisively.

Thirty five years later, I realize I'm probably a bit of all three of those things. I like being a tourist, going places, and learning about different local customs. I am kind of a hippie, riding my bicycle all over town, preaching “make love and not war,” and digging on flowers. And I am probably a bit of a wannabe, too. I still hunger for that sense of connection based on shared humanity, for rituals that bring me closer to both humans and nature, for expression and appreciation of rhythm, sound and color, and for a sense of belonging.

I wannabe connected to life.

I wannabe safe to be myself in a community.

And maybe I just wannabe wearing some bells sometimes.

And last night, for the first time ever, I did. In an informal drum circle organized by some anglo hippie friends, I found some rows of bells to tie onto my ankles. Hesitant at first to dance, I just shook my feet while sitting in a chair. Up crept the same old fear that someone would tell me that I didn't belong, that I would look stupid, or that I would mess up and lose my rhythm. But as the mesmerizing beats continued, I felt a little bolder and bolder until I finally got up and began to dance around the circle.

My feet somehow caught the crazy beat they were doing, and it got really fun. Then the drummers started going faster, and then faster, and then faster, as my feet followed. By the end, it was like my feet had been taken over by the beat of super rapid drumming. They were just running and pounding the ground, shaking those bells like mad. And then it all stopped, leaving me panting and amazed that it just happened.

Last night, I put bells on and danced. And for a short time, I didn't care how stupid it would look for a white girl to dance with bells on. Plus, I think those old hippie white guys kind of liked it.

Maybe I'm not a Wannabe anymore.

Maybe I'm a Justbein'me.

For those unfamiliar with the terms:

• “biligaana,” according to the Navajos I've asked, simply means anglo or white person. For years, I thought it held a much more derogatory meaning, probably due to the tone of voice I sometimes I heard when it was being said.
• “wannabe,” refers to a biligaana who wants to be a Native American. It is meant in a derogatory way, usually because the “wannabe” has little knowledge of Native American reality and is primarily fascinated with romantic, stereotyped notions of Native American culture.