there’s something about a pow wow and maybe it’s the drive there, rural roads and dusty dash. maybe it’s the sweet grass on my rear view mirror and rap music on the radio. maybe it’s the way i feel myself relax when i step through the doors and hear the announcers voice, or the smell of lemonade and ndn tacos. maybe it’s the way my throat gets tight when i hear that drum and the jingles and the laughter of the aunties and the little ones.
maybe it’s in the turquoise and belt buckles and tobacco ties and moose meat for dinner and the opening prayer and the swell of the intertribals and reconnecting with old friends and the specials and the way it all just feels like home with the suitcases and otter fur and eagle plumes and vendors with their beadwork and someone making moccasins and all i want is to stay stay stay.
it’s the “hokah!” and the flags and the veterans and the way they recognize those too young to serve who served anyways and i think of nimishoomis. it’s kokum scarves and ribbon skirts and my mother missing my father and the way he would say “we gotta sing loud drum loud because we have lots of things to make up for” but also how he didn’t want to be seen as “just some indian”.
it’s the way i didn’t realize how lost i had become until i started finding myself again amongst the drums and my aunties and my cousins and the sage and the stories of my kokum and nanaboozhoo and the way beadwork quiets what all those pills never could.
it’s the thrill of a loonie auction and midnight lunches and hands held in the bleachers and the way i never want to go back to office life grocery store meal prep mom car water cooler gossip.
its the way i linger at the door of the threshold
it’s the way i hit the pow wow trail hoping to understand my late father and instead im understanding me.
come find me there in a ribbon skirt
with a lemonade before grand entry
looking like my kokum
looking like coyote
most people don’t recognize me there
hospital vespers 