Son Who Returns

by Gary Robinson

  I had learned from Adrian that there was more than one style of song in the Traditional Men’s dance category. A slightly different kind of dance went with each one. He said you had to learn the songs so you’d know which dance to do.

  And there were parts of each song that had certain beats called honor beats. One of the drummers hit the drum very hard every other beat to create the honor beats. A dancer had to move differently during those beats to show that he honored the song.

  Also, you needed to learn the songs so you’d know when the very last beat of the drum was coming. The most important thing was to stop exactly on the last beat and freeze in place. Otherwise the judges would give you really low scores or not even give you a score.

  I was pretty sure this first song was a Crow Hop. During parts of this song, dancers were expected to move like a bird looking for food. You had to have a kind of hop in your step.

  I felt awkward. My movements were unsteady. It was really the first time I’d tried to dance with all my regalia on. The extra weight made things even more difficult. I was beginning to feel self-conscious.

  I saw the judges out of the corner of my eye. I could feel them judging me. I saw the other dancers moving so easily in time with the beat. I saw Charley across the arena showing off for the spectators closest to him. I had to admit that he looked very good. He moved like he owned the place.

  Suddenly the song ended. I hadn’t been paying attention and it caught me by surprise. I took an extra step after the final beat. I was immediately doomed to last place.

  “Give our teen Traditional dancers a good round of applause, folks,” the emcee said. “They’ve worked so hard.”

  The audience applauded for us. I looked over and saw Charley bowing to the people in the stands near him. These were clearly members of his fan club, if there’s such a thing in the powwow circle.

  I simply walked out of the arena toward Adrian, who had just finished videotaping the session. Adrian had told me that if you don’t end properly, it’s better not to waste the judges’ time expecting to get a good score. It’s better to just walk away.

  “Let’s give a hand to dancer number one-two-three, who is just leaving the arena,” the announcer continued. “He’s new to the powwow, but he knows enough to walk away out of respect to the other dancers. Better luck next time, young man.”

  The audience applauded respectfully.

  “Go back out there and raise your coup stick with a smile,” Adrian advised. “That shows you’re a good sport.”

  I did as Adrian instructed, stepping back into the arena and raising my coup stick. The applause immediately increased. That made me smile. It made me feel that making a mistake was not such a big deal within the powwow family.

  As Adrian and I walked back to our camp, he said, “I could tell that your mind wasn’t focused on the song.”

  “You’re right,” I replied. “I was thinking about everything but the song.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” he offered. “It’s easy to do—easy to get distracted by all the stuff going on around you.”

  “Did you see that kid Charley?” I asked. “He acts like a celebrity or something.”

  “The more you ignore him, the better off you’ll be,” Adrian advised. “Anyway, you now know what it’s like to compete in the arena. Let’s go celebrate your first competition.”

  “But I lost,” I complained.

  “No you didn’t,” Adrian explained. “You successfully gathered your regalia, learned the dance moves, had your give-away, and completed your first dance. That’s a lot. I’m proud of you.”

  Put that way, it didn’t sound half bad.

  Chapter 8

  The Son Who Returns

  For the next couple of months I danced every weekend. It became easier and easier the more I did it. Nana, Pablo, Adrian, and I each had a job to do to make the traveling work.

  We continued to mostly attend powwows fairly close by so we could make it to registration in time on Friday. Then when the powwows were over, we climbed back into the RV and headed home. I made sure I always did my homework so Dad wouldn’t call the whole thing off.

  As the weeks went by, I got better and better. I moved up from dead last to the middle of the pack. I was an average dancer and consistently came in about fifth or sixth in the competitions.

  Charley was, of course, also at most of these competitions. And, of course, he always came in first, second, or third. Never any worse.

  And he was, as ever, rude to the max, as Dad would say. One time I finished in fourth place, and I was feeling pretty good about it. It was the highest ranking I’d ever achieved. I was celebrating on the inside.

  “Not bad for an apple,” Charley said, coming up behind me after the competition ended.

  “What did you say?” I asked. What he said didn’t make sense.

  “I said you didn’t do bad for an apple,” he said.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “You’ve never been called an apple before?”

  “No. Is it supposed to be an insult or something?” I asked.

  “You’re not as dumb as I thought,” he replied. “Yeah, I’d say it’s an insult. It means that you look like an Indian on the outside—with that red skin. But on the inside you’re really not. You’re white like the inside of an apple. Get it?”

  He laughed and laughed as he walked away, back toward his own camp.

  I just stood there looking at him. His so-called insult was mostly meaningless to me. I knew that Indians have always been thought of as being red. Red race, red man, red skin, and on like that.

  I also knew I was two kinds of Indian and four kinds of brown. Not really anything white at all. So his words just seemed kind of pointless.

  Back at our RV I told Adrian what Charley had said. Adrian just laughed.

  “Charley’s older brother said almost the same thing to me when I started dancing,” he said. “At first, when Grandpa explained what it meant, I was mad. I wanted to hit the guy.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Grandpa also said Indians have been mistreated for so long by outsiders that it becomes a habit. When the outsiders aren’t around to mistreat us, we Indians do it to each other.”

  “That sounds weird,” I said.

  “I know,” Nana agreed as she came into the RV. “But your grandpa said that it was normal for people to do that kind of thing. When the white man moved into our lands and took over, they believed that Indians were less than human. The whites didn’t allow us to have the same rights they had.”

  “I know a little about that,” I said. “I learned some of it in a history class once.”

  “Right,” Nana continued. “So when a person is made to feel inferior—that is, made to feel like they’re not as good as other people—that person looks for someone else to put down. It’s easy to believe that the only way you can feel okay about yourself is to act like you’re better than someone else.”

  “That’s really complicated,” I replied. “You guys learned this from Grandpa?”

  “Yes,” Nana replied. “He said he wanted to understand what had really happened to our people in the past, so he took college classes in history and psychology.”

  “It’s kind of over my head,” I admitted. “but I’m glad you understand it.”

  “So my advice to you still stands,” Adrian said. “Just ignore Charley. He’s the one with the problem. He’s the one who needs to get his mind right.”

  That was a lot to absorb at once. I thought about it all as we packed up the RV. It was the end of another powwow and time to head back home.

  The first weekend in October is when the Chumash powwow is held each year. It takes place at the Live Oak Campground about fifteen miles out of Santa Ynez. We had loaded up the RV the night before, so when school let out on Friday afternoon, all we had to do was jump in the RV and go. Fifteen minutes later we arrived.

  Huge oak trees covered the camping area and th
e powwow arena. It felt like we were miles and miles from anywhere. After we parked and set up camp, other cars, trucks, vans, and campers continued to pour into the grounds.

  I was happy to see there was no sign of Charley anywhere. I felt myself relax knowing that I wouldn’t have to confront him. I guess I hadn’t realized that I was tense when he was around. I wondered if that had been affecting my dancing.

  Anyway, the first Grand Entry wouldn’t be until one o’clock on Saturday, so there was plenty of time for visiting powwow friends and all my Chumash family that came.

  That night around a campfire, we shared memories and stories. My powwow family and my extended Chumash family merged together during that time. It felt very special. The only thing missing was my mom. She would’ve been right at home. I think she’d be proud of what I was doing.

  Somehow Nana sensed what I was feeling. She moved closer to me and gave me a comforting squeeze on the arm.

  “She’s here you know,” Nana said. “Her spirit knows what you’re doing, what things you’re going through. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  I just nodded and hugged her. Sometimes it was hard to admit that I still needed my Nana.

  The next day was even more special, if that was possible. The Chumash Powwow Committee had planned a special recognition ceremony for me. Since it was my first time to dance at the Chumash powwow, they called me up to the emcee’s table right after the Grand Entry.

  As I approached the front of the arena, the emcee announced, “The Chumash Elders Committee will make this presentation.” The Powwow Committee members stepped back as the members of the Elders Committee stepped forward.

  “We honor you because you represent the future of our tribe and because you are a descendant of our treasured ancestor Maria Solares,” the head of the Elders Committee said. “She helped to preserve our language and culture so we could remember who we are.”

  Then a group of Chumash singers came forward to perform a traditional Chumash song in the tribal language. Their regalia was different than the style of regalia worn by other powwow dancers. It was simple and natural looking, made of deerskin decorated with shells, feathers, and parts of animal bones and antlers. The men wore full headdresses made of feathers that stuck out in all directions. The women wore hats made like small baskets turned upside down.

  After that, Nana stepped out into the arena also dressed in Chumash regalia. I had never seen her wearing that outfit. She looked like some sort of Native royalty. She stood by me.

  “My grandson, Mark, has come home to live with us on the Chumash Reservation,” she announced to all the spectators and dancers. “Today I am giving him a Chumash name that he will be known by when he is here.”

  She looked down at me and smiled.

  “From this day forth, you will be known as Nik’oyi Wop, the Son Who Returns.”

  The Chumash Elders Committee presented me with a Pendleton blanket and a Chumash basket filled with sage, pine nuts, acorns, and other Native things. They said these were all from plants used traditionally by the Chumash for food or medicine.

  Everyone around the arena cheered and clapped for me. Shouts of A-ho! could be heard all around. Nana hugged me. The Elders Committee members shook my hand. It was all so unexpected. It was all so humbling. It all filled me with a strong sense of pride.

  Chapter 9

  The Lesson on the Bus

  When the month of November began, the Chumash tribe held several events to mark that month as National American Indian Heritage Month. I hadn’t heard of it before, but Adrian showed me a US government website that officially announced it.

  “I saw where the Department of Defense made a big deal out of it for all the Indians who serve in the military,” Adrian said. “They even let the Native soldiers hold powwows in Iraq and Afghanistan when they’re off duty.”

  “I’ve heard that February is African American History Month,” I told him. “So why doesn’t anyone know that November is Indian month?”

  “I guess because there are a lot more African Americans than Indians,” Adrian said. “And they own more TV stations, radio stations, and newspapers than we do. They can advertise it and announce it all over the country so everyone knows about it.”

  “There should be a Native American TV channel,” I suggested. “You could call it “Nativ” without the e at the end—NA-TV.”

  “You can build that with your first fifty million dollars,” Adrian laughed. “I think that’s about how much it would cost.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Enough about that,” he said abruptly. “Time to focus on your last chance to dance and compete this year.”

  The final competition powwow of the year started on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I learned from Nana that it was also National American Indian Day. Another American Indian celebration no one ever heard of. Were we always this invisible, even when the country was supposed to be thinking about us?

  “It became a national holiday just a few years ago,” Nana had explained. “Congress passed a resolution and everything. No one has ever heard of it because most people in the country are usually spending time with their families on that day. If it was a school day, then you’d probably learn about it at school.”

  Thanksgiving night we packed up the RV. We left early the next morning. We got to the county fairgrounds where the powwow was to be held in the afternoon. That’s when we found out we didn’t have a place to park our RV. Adrian’s friends who usually save us a spot couldn’t come to this powwow.

  So we had to park it a few miles away in a Walmart parking lot. Nana said that many Walmart stores around the country allow people to park their RVs in their parking lots when there is nowhere else to go.

  Since we weren’t camped right at the powwow grounds, it would be harder to get back and forth for Grand Entries and dance sessions. But Pablo had an idea. He had seen a bus stop at the street corner near the parking lot. He went over and looked at the bus route and schedule.

  We were happy to learn that a bus stopped here at the Walmart every hour. That bus also went to the fairgrounds. So we were set.

  Nana, Pablo, Adrian, and I must have been quite a sight to see as we waited at the bus stop. I had on my dance regalia. Adrian carried a small ice chest with our drinks and food. Pablo carried folding chairs, and Nana carried cushions and an umbrella to protect us from the sun.

  People on the bus stared at us as we boarded. Some whispered to one another. But one little blond-haired boy about six years old came right over to me.

  “Are you an Indian?” he asked. His mother ran over and tried to shush him and take him back to her seat.

  “No, that’s all right,” I told her. “I’d like to talk to him.” She backed off, leaving the boy with me.

  “Yes, I’m an Indian,” I said. “And so are my brother and my grandmother.” I pointed to them.

  “They don’t look like Indians,” he said. “But you do. You have on your Indian costume.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Roy,” he said. “Roy Weatherby.”

  I reached out to shake his hand.

  “My name’s Mark Centeno,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  He put his hand in mine, and I gave it one firm shake.

  “Roy, I want to tell you something,” I started. “I am an Indian, and when an Indian wears his tribe’s traditional clothes, it’s not called a costume.”

  “What’s it called then?” he asked.

  “It’s called regalia,” I answered. “Can you say ‘regalia?’ ”

  “Re-gail-ya,” he said very carefully.

  I was kind of getting into this public conversation. It was a chance for me to show non-Indians what modern day Indians were really like, a chance to teach them something about who we are and what we do.

  “Are you an Indian?” I asked Roy even though I already knew the answer.

  “Well, of course not,” he said.

  “So if you put
on Indian clothes, then it would be called a costume, because you aren’t an Indian. Understand?”

  “I think so. But why are you wearing your re-gail-ya? Is that what you wear every day?”

  “I’m going to dance in a powwow. Have you ever been to a powwow?”

  “No,” Roy replied. He turned toward his mother and called, “Hey, Mom, can we go to the powwow to see Mark dance in his re-gail-ya?”

  Everyone on the bus had been listening to the whole conversation, and now they all laughed. Roy blushed in embarrassment. His mother didn’t answer her son’s question.

  “Roy, it’s time to leave the nice young man alone and come back over here,” she said.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Weatherby,” I said. “I’m enjoying this.” I looked around the bus. “How about all of you? Are you enjoying this?” People nodded their heads and began clapping. That was pretty cool, I thought.

  “You should let the boy go,” a man said to Mrs. Weatherby. “He’s obviously interested.”

  “We can’t go now,” Roy’s mom said. “I have to get home and fix dinner for the family.”

  Just then the bus driver announced, “County fairgrounds, next stop.”

  Nana said, “We’d love to have you come and watch tomorrow, if you can. Mark will be in the Grand Entry at one o’clock, and he’ll be competing at around three.”

  “Mom, please can we go?” Roy begged.

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” his mother replied.

  Nana, Pablo, Adrian, and I moved toward the exit.

  “Hope to see you there, Roy,” I called to him as I headed for the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

  Roy just waved and grinned from ear to ear as I stepped down off the bus. Everyone on the bus waved, too.

  When we got to the powwow grounds, I registered for the competition as usual. Charley was there as usual. The tension in my body was also there as usual.

  There weren’t that many dancers competing in this powwow. When it came time for my category to compete, only five dancers stood in the arena. Before our song began, I looked over at Adrian to see if he was videotaping me again.