It was the fall of 1997. I was singing professionally as a lead vocalist in a Christian music missions group, and we had stopped in Seattle for a performance. Along the water was a very nice restaurant called Ivar’s on the Water. Lining the walls of the candlelit interior were a series of black-and-white photographic portraits of Native Americans from what looked like the 1800’s. Very stylish, yes? They were beautiful portraits, but there was one glaring problem: you could see that the subjects in them were in abject pain and misery. I remember looking at those photographs and at first not thinking much about them. They seemed to belong there. But when my bandmates and I sat down in the corner booth with our boss, those portraits hung over our shoulders, staring at us. I’d started to feel uncomfortable. It didn’t occur to me at first that lining the walls of your restaurant with pictures of people’s pain is an egregious act of violence and racism. Why should this disturb me, though? I had nothing to do with displacing and murdering those poor people. My people were Dutch Calvinists- we’d always been too poor to have anything to do with Indians or slaves. Then it slowly dawned on me- I was there, in that fancy restaurant, bearing witness to that pain and misery, the dislocation, the murder. Those portraits were there to entertain me. It also occurred to me that I now live on their land in Northwest Iowa. Did my white ancestors displace any Lakota from their homes? It seemed safe to assume so. Northwest Iowa wasn’t exactly a lively hub for Native American activity, as far as I knew, but there were signs of occupation- a hand-axe found along a river here, arrowheads found in a field there. But how was I to know if my mere presence there in Sioux County had caused some of that same pain and misery? This was my first experience with white guilt.
I work at a rehab center for Native American teens, and not long ago, I went to a powwow as part of that work. When we arrived at the local high school’s gym, I ran into Brianna, a friend of mine from work. She was one of three friends with whom I regularly went to movies, had coffee dates, and sometimes we ate together. They were important to me. In fact, I was hoping to have a deeper relationship with all of them. I said a quick “hello” to her, but had to leave to keep up with my group of kids. We all climbed the bleachers and sat down near the top of them, and Brianna took a seat to my right and slightly down. While we waited, I took a look around- it was my very first powwow, after all. The drummers were gathered around their instruments on the left side of the gym, and the dancers, scattered throughout the gym, were dressing in brightly colored outfits and placing their numbers on their bodies for later judging. The fits were fire, to quote my charges.
It was at this point that I started to notice some things. Out of the hundreds of people in that crowded, hot gym, I was the only redhead. I began to feel out of place.
As I looked around at the powwow proceedings, I noticed that someone had joined Brianna on the bleachers- it was Miriam, another of my three friends- she was with her family and her new boyfriend. I didn’t think much of it at the time. As the powwow preparations progressed, we all sat, looking at the brightly colored outfits of the dancers and listening to the drummers warming up.
Then another person I recognized appeared in the doorway to my right, on the other side of Brianna and Miriam- it was Rose, the final friend of the trio. Huh, I thought to myself. Something nagged at my anxiety, and I found myself on high alert. I wasn’t sure what it was yet; I just knew something was going on that I didn’t like very much.
The powwow began in earnest, the dancers dancing to the drums, the drums echoing against the gym walls, bouncing around and dominating the space. It was a completely alien experience to me, and I began to feel like I very much did not belong there. I was an outsider, and I had never felt my whiteness quite so acutely in my life. I began to feel panic setting in, and the tears were just barely held at bay.
Then, another blow. I looked toward the far corner of the gym, where people held flags on standards, ready to march out onto the gym floor with the dancers and drummers. And out in front of all the flag-holders was something I was not prepared to see at all: an American flag. I was flabbergasted. What was an American flag- what I thought would be a symbol of murder and displacement to Native Americans- doing at a sacred event like a powwow? It made no sense to me, and threw me even further toward completely falling apart. The guilt was overwhelming.
Even as I was struggling to hold things together, my brain must have known that the only experience I had of what was happening… was a Kevin Costner movie. There was the scene from Dances with Wolves where John Dunbar has just lain down to rest for the night after having witnessed a celebration- the Lakota had taken revenge on the white hunters who had killed many buffalo and took only their hides, leaving the tatanka to rot on the prairie. “As I looked at familiar faces, I realized that the gap between us was greater than I could have imagined.” I felt the distance between myself and the Native people celebrating before me.
I looked back over to my friends, and it dawned on me: they had a group text- one that didn’t include me.
The intrusive thoughts swirled. Was it because I’m white and we’re at a powwow? Did they just have an older text thread that started before I was on the scene? Did they just…not think of me? Did they not think of me because I’m white? Did I even have a right to feel this way? What about my white privilege? Maybe I deserved this. Maybe I had a lesson to learn. I’m white- I have no right to feel this way.
I was an outsider at the powwow, and I was also an outsider with my own friends. It hurt. A lot. The tears came then, and a full-blown panic attack was underway. My attachment alarm was going bonkers.
I looked over at my friend and coworker, Sam, who immediately noticed that something was wrong. He gave me a look that said, “Everything alright? What’s going on?” I played it as cool as I could, but I knew I needed to get out of there. The problem: I was still working. I had to be “on” for the kids.
I did the next best thing and climbed down the bleachers to the gym floor, where my supervisor Faith was standing, enjoying the dancing. She asked me how I was doing, and I told a partial truth. “Not so great,” I said, and she looked at me, immediately knowing something was wrong with me. She took me outside to breathe, and I had a good cry. I didn’t know what was wrong with me at the time; I just knew I needed to feel whatever it was I was feeling.
I was able to calm down a bit, enough to go back inside and sit with the group of kids and staff again, but I was still greatly rattled and reeling from the rapid-fire experiences I’d just had. I was only able to name it as a panic attack several days later.
My work at the rehab center is difficult. 12-hour days, keeping the kids safe, shepherding them to appointments, dealing with the difficult emotions of teenagers. Add to that that they’re in addiction, and the complexity increases.
Part of their healing journey involves their religious expression: drumming, singing, sweat ceremonies, and praying to their creator, among other things. As a white person, I don’t feel like it’s my place to sing and drum along with them- it feels too much like cultural appropriation. Add to that that I’m an agnostic- virtually an atheist- and you start to understand why I can’t partake.
As a former religious person, I understand the power of spirituality. As a former addicted person, I understand the power of community and family.
So I defend them. I stand guard while they drum and sing their sacred songs. I make sure they get to call their families in the evenings. I try to get them to bed on time, to get them to take their meds, and make it to their medical appointments.
I stand just inside the door while they make their drums.
Gingerpithicus Frisii 
Leave a comment