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excerpt from Powwow
by George P Horse Capture
 The
Setting
It is springtime at last, and the highway stretches out before us
without a curve as we speed along in our loaded van. The prairie
on Chapman Bench, north of Cody, Wyoming, is gently greening, though
the dividing line between winter and springtime is not as dramatic
and colorful as usual because of the warm, dry winter. A few rainstorms
accompanied the arrival of spring, and the prairie is lovely as
it comes alive once again. With the beauty of spring comes the beauty
of tradition. After many months of anticipation we are all packed,
loaded with our dance outfits and folding chairs, and are heading
north on Highway 120 to the Red Bottom Celebration to powwow.
The tensions of the week are easing as we hum
along, and the kids are quieting down in the back seats, reading
and finding other things to occupy the many hours ahead. The hustle
and the hassle of packing are all but forgotten as we each, in our
own way, look forward to seeing friends and relatives and to experiencing
all the other things that happen in the springtime in our country.
Newscasters warn that there is a drought coming.
For now, birds are singing and all the valley and coulee bottoms
are lush with greenery and the trees are brilliantly shaggy with
their new plumage. Only a few ice fields remain on the upper reaches
of the mountains, and maybe the forecasters are right. But for now,
the beauty of the countryside is overwhelming.
The Country
This region is very special because of its components. About ten
miles to the west, the Absaroka mountain range, named for the Crow
Indian people, rises up in spectacular grandeur. The Absarokas are
part of a larger mountain chain called the Cordillera which extends
from northern Alaska all the way down the hemisphere, south to the
tip of Tierra del Fuego, forming the spine of our continent.
Some theorists say that after entering North America
tens of thousands of years ago, the first immigrants made their
way to the eastern side of these mountains. Keeping them in sight
to the west and moving south whenever the glaciers cleared, they
eventually entered what is now called the United States; and many
of these First Americans continued south, enjoying the harvest from
the mountains and the plains.
To the east of Chapman Bench lie the plains. Far
from being "the Great American Desert," as proclaimed
by the early settlers, this area abounded in massive herds of buffalo,
and the Indian people followed them for centuries. The buttes or
points, the most prominent geological features of the plains, have
circles or piles of stones on them, attesting to their early occupancy
by Indian holy men. We will never know the full story of these early
people, but they were thriving here scores of centuries ago.
Scholars say that after the ancient Indian people
crossed the Bering Strait that connected Siberia to Alaska, the
weather changed, causing the continental glaciers to melt and the
seas to rise, eventually covering with water the entryway between
the old and new worlds and isolating these first arrivals. With
the other early people in the old world continuing to mix with one
another, it would be many centuries before they would occupy general
areas and bear specific racial terms or names. Isolated on a previously
uninhabited hemisphere, the Indian people remained comparatively
pure; there were no other groups with whom to mix. So, it can be
said that the Indian people are the oldest identifiable race in
the world. How about that?
This Northern Plains area is immense, and while
driving along the valley bottoms, one can look around and experience
the cleanliness of the air and the beauty of the landscape. Animals
are everywhere.
Farmers now grow a wide variety of crops here.
Sugar beets, hay, corn and many other cultivated crops color the
plowed earth on either side of the road as we travel past. The commercials
say that the Indian people call corn "maize." Did anyone
ever correlate this term with a known native language? Everyone
I know calls it "corn."
 As
children on the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation in northern Montana,
we frequently went into the local white farmers' cornfields to play.
When the leaves on the main stalk enlarge, the fields really are
a maze. It was a great place to play hide and seek. When we got
hungry, if the time of year was right, we could just reach up and
pop off an ear, strip off the husk and silk and eat the kernels
raw. Nothing is quite as sweet—with the exception of June
berries, of course.
On Being Indian
Being an Indian in this world is not easy. If you are a laborer
or an unskilled worker, you are usually ridiculed at work by the
surrounding rednecks. People inquire if you can do a rain dance
because it is dry, or ask where is your squaw (meaning your wife),
or do you have papooses (meaning babies). This happens all the time.
Meeting racism on every front changes you, perhaps distorts you.
Reality takes on a different hue and one cannot relax. When your
children come home from the city school and tell you some white
kid called them prairie niggers, you realize that the cycle of racism
is still alive and thriving in Indian country. Whether the racist
comments are said as a joke or hatefully, the effect is the same.
It is destructive to all parties, and never ceases. The only place
to really relax is back home on the reservation surrounded by your
people.
As he does everywhere, the Great Spirit in his
infinite wisdom bestows a balance here, too. So, if there is a bad
part, there is also a good part. It's good being Indian. As we drive
across the country and see the trees and coulees and the sage brush
and grass covering the prairie, we know this is Indian country,
and long ago buffalo covered it from horizon to horizon. We know
this has always been our land. We will never emigrate to the British
Isles or to Australia or to anywhere. This is our home, good or
bad. It is our home and we stick with it, because this is the earth.
This is our earth and these hills are our hills. It doesn't matter
who owns the deed to the land, because these paper holders change
and they will always change. But these hills and mountains and valleys
and coulees and bluffs are ours, the Indian people's. They have
always been ours and they always will be. We know this. It makes
us feel good. No one can change this, and it does not matter if
we are poor or not.
They say that no matter where an Indian dies,
he always comes home. In my family this is true. My uncle died in
California and the family brought him home. This has happened with
many other families. Somehow it does not seem right to be buried
far away. You have got to be surrounded by your people even then.
This is another benefit of being Indian. We know where we came from
and we know where we are going to be buried. We have a center to
our lives. Out of all this chaos, there is a certain order. We're
the only ones in this country who have that advantage. That is good
for us.
George Horse-Capture (A'aninin Indian, Gros
Ventre) was born in Fort Belknap, Montana in 1937. He received a
Bachelor's degree in Anthropology in 1974 from the University of
California and a Master's degree from Montana State University in
1979. Horse-Capture went to school to study anthropology and history
in order to contribute and commit his life to working toward bettering
the condition of the Indian people. He believes that the future
of the Native American people lies in a renewed understanding of
the old ways. He has worked as an assistant professor in the American
Indian Studies at Montana State University and served as curator
of the Plains Indian Museum in Cody, Wyoming from 1980-1990. He
has also been senior to the National Museum of the American Indian
in Washington, D.C.
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