Before the monthly Native Alliance potluck dinner in the church basement got underway, Dede (Hoopa) carried a smoldering chunk of sage in an abalone shell around the room. Dede was thorough, offering the smoke to anyone who wanted to smudge. At the front table, which held the donation basket, flyers advertising upcoming powwows, and information packets about diseases and various kinds of help, she paused to let a group of women standing there each take their time. She then strolled into the kitchen where people warmed up their food contributions on the church’s stove or arranged cookies from a bag onto a plate or poured themselves a glass of juice.

Next, she walked over to the drum circle in the back of the room, where Norris (Choctaw), offered traditional rhythms and songs. He wore what he always did, work coveralls stitched with Norris on the left breast. This evening, the circle seemed less energetic than usual, the singing less robust. Norris kept pausing, patiently helping a teenaged girl, a beginner having trouble keeping the beat. The fact that a female was allowed into a drum circle would not have sat well with some tribes, especially if the female were menstruating. But this was an open-minded group.  Another drummer, Charles (Lakota) expressed particular gratitude to Dede. He was having arthritis problems, he said, and after gesturing the smoke over his head and shoulders, lifted each leg to let the medicine go under his feet. 

When Dede finished her rounds, including various clusters of people already claiming their dinner places at one of the dozen or so round tables, she joined a table herself, of three other women. After smudging themselves, they resumed their conversation, typically about life. Sandra (Coastal Miwok) asked Dede about her ex, still in prison. A newcomer didn’t know about him and expressed concern. Dede shrugged. “Three strikes, just drinking, we’re Indians of course, then boom, 25 to life.” Nods and head shakes accompanied her recital. 

“Anything violent?” asked Sandra.

“Nothing,” Dede answered. “Never! And now he’s grey, turning into an old man. Not that cute grass dancer I fell for.”

The subject turned to the powwow last Saturday. “Chuck went, I couldn’t get off work,” said Roseanne (Yurok). “Work meaning babysitting my granddaughter.” Work and no work led to talk of health insurance, as it often did, and this evening to the urban Indian clinic, its pluses and minuses. 

At a shout (“Okay!”) from Anita (Kiowa), who founded the Alliance decades earlier, people stopped whatever else they were doing, got up, and formed a hand-holding circle, unclasping to make room for stragglers. The circle this evening included some 30 people, two with walkers, one with crutches, and five children. 

Anita asked Norris to say a prayer. He raised his head, his long black hair brushing his shoulders, closed his eyes, and spoke at length in Choctaw, which he then translated. Part of it went, “Thank you Creator, for making me an Indian.” 

Many prayers followed his. For individuals with cancer. For families of the  individuals. For the drought-stricken land. Happy announcements came, too. Celine (Yakama) said her daughter just got accepted to Dartmouth.

As usual, the circle included a few non-Natives, brought along by Native acquaintances. Sometimes strangers showed up, uninvited. One difficult evening, a banged up blond drunk staggered in from the church parking lot. The elders conferred, then sat him down on one of the pews lining the basement hall and brought him a plate of food to help him sober up, even though – a significant consideration – a prayer had not yet been offered. He was absent tonight. So was the sad-faced wannabe, a thin woman who felt she was “Indian in another life.” A few regulars were wary of her. “Needy,” said Daniella (Pomo). 

This evening the group comprised more or less the regulars. An accountant, an engineer, a seamstress, an occasional media celebrity, a nurse, a counselor, a museum employee, retirees, a number of people between jobs. 

Following the prayers, the circle broke up into a line for the food (“Elders first!” shouted Anita). As usual, the two food tables, one for desserts, one for everything else, were covered. This evening’s bounty included several casseroles of such dishes as spaghetti cut small, with hamburger. It was not the only contribution that had the look of leftovers used inventively. Something else with chicken, it looked like, and celery. There was also tonight the taco melt Diane (Sac and Fox) usually contributed, and the tossed salad a white guy always brought. 

At the table where Dede sat, conversation continued about the Indian health center. You have to be eligible for medical first. Disgusting, said Sandra, after chewing on a piece of chicken Thomas (Ohlone) brought. Thomas always brought chicken. She said she herself is lucky, having health insurance through her pension with the state. Even for teeth and eyes. “These glasses, seven bucks!” Murmurs reached over the hominy stew and Lina’s (Onondaga) chocolate cake. Each woman had placed a square of it on her paper plate next to her main meal choices, in case it disappeared before she went back to the dessert table. Lina’s baking was always a hit, even when she tried a vegan pie. 

Sandra, the enviably insured, used to drive truck for the state, she said. An 18 wheeler. This impressed no one at the table. Roseanne had been married to a truck driver before Chuck. “15 gears, right?” she asked. “High range and low range.”

“My rig had 10 forward, two reverse.” Sandra shrugged. “Some had more.”

The women hooted about drivers of little Hondas who think you can stop on a dime if they dart in front of you. “You’re lucky you don’t run over them. Literally. Turn them into a pancake,” said Sandra. She now makes jewelry she sells at powwows, and wore several bracelets of her own design. Truck talk led to recollections of shifts and rest stops, of truckers getting robbed in some overnight truck stops, not to mention the presence of “lizards” – prostitutes. Lina liked the fenced in places where you could pull in for the night, be safe. A fastidious woman, she had placed a piece of her own cake on a separate plate to take home to her husband. Lina oversaw cleanup after the potluck, too. 

“Showers,” she added. 

Showers, the other women agreed.  Sometimes that is all you want.   

In Canada, the rest stops, camping places, too, are unbelievably clean, added Dede. Harrison (Cherokee) from the next table heard her and agreed. “Spotless!” he exclaimed. Dede said that’s where her ex wants to go if he ever gets paroled. Canada. Some of his people are up there.

The drum circle started again. Harrison, finishing a cookie, rose to join it. Tonight there were six drummers: five men and the teenager.  

At the table of the four women with and without insurance, husbands, and jobs, conversation stopped entirely. Nodding in time to the drum, they moved on to their chocolate cake squares.  Some evenings they and other women pulled fringed shawls from their big purses, wrapped them around their shoulders, and danced slow swaying movements, circling the drummers. This evening nobody danced. 

“It’s been a long day,” commented Roseanne. “I’m pooped.”   

More about Alison Owings here. She's an editor and oral historian who has just completed a book about a formerly homeless man.