← Gone Away
Apache, Comanche and Kiowa
(This article forms part of the Journal that I am writing to describe my impressions of America since arrival in September, 2004. To begin reading this Journal from the beginning, click here.)
I am a great fan of the red man. Oh, not the old Russki (what color are they now that they've stopped being communists?), but the Native American. This enthusiasm for those noble peoples of American history began, no doubt, in the old western movies in which the "cowboys" waged their eternal battles against the "injuns". I was unusual, perhaps, in always wanting the injuns to win, even though I knew that it was just not going to happen.
This is a romantic notion, of course, caused entirely by the powerful charisma of the red man as depicted in the movies of those far off days. Later efforts, such as Dances With Wolves, could only enhance and intensify such feelings. And it is understandable. How is it possible to resist the allure of such impressive finery, the feathers, the buckskin and warpaint, and their doomed but stoic acceptance that they must lose this battle with the palefaces, yet still riding bareback their gallant ponies to the fray? Certainly I could not and I became then, and remain, a believer in the nobility of the original North American peoples, fully aware that my view is colored by romantic myth, yet wanting it to be true.
In later life, I read extensively of the nations that comprised the Native American, from The Last of the Mohicans to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, and I learned the history of the Iroquois, the Sioux, the Cheyenne and Apache. I marveled at the exploits of such great leaders as Crazy Horse, Red Sleeve, Geronimo and Chief Joseph. My interest moved in turn from the Cheyenne to the Apache, the Nez Perce and all the branches of the Sioux nation. Finally, just a year or two before I came to the States, I discovered the Comanche. And in this nation I found my favorites, from one fact alone. I learned that the Comanche held the record for number of palefaces killed.
Was it fate, then, that directed that Kathy and I should settle in Lawton, at the heart of Comanche County, Oklahoma? Perhaps so. And, whether it be fate or merely coincidence, I take pleasure from the fact. When we were told that there would be a Native American rattlesnake festival in a town nearby, it was inevitable that we should plan to attend.
The festival is a major annual event in the small town of Apache, some twenty miles from Lawton. When we arrived, the main street was one long traffic jam, with two policemen at the center keeping everything moving. It seemed that half the population of Oklahoma thronged the dusty streets and everywhere were stalls offering an assortment of goods ranging from the tacky to the fantastic. On one empty lot a funfair had sprouted, with terrifying rides that I would not have taken even in my younger days. We wandered through the crowd, Kathy in search of rattlesnakes, myself wondering where the injuns were.
Advice there was in plenty; always the rattlesnakes were that little bit farther on, this way or that, and we were told that you could hold one in your hand. But my search ended sooner, for we came upon a cleared area where a circle of Native Americans in bright-colored, feathered and decorated dress danced to the beat of a drum. We were late, of course, and the dance ended almost as soon as we arrived, the crowd breaking up and the dancers disappearing amongst them. But we pressed to the front and spoke to the director of ceremonies, an elderly gentleman that we thought of as Man With Microphone. He pointed in the direction from which we'd arrived. "Over there, right at the end. Come see me at two o'clock."
At last we were getting somewhere. There was half an hour to spend and we wandered the stalls, found one selling rattlesnake heads and charms, watched some Mexican dancers performing to their rhythmic guitars and warbling singers, then made our way to the suggested rendezvous.
It was in a large warehouse, far from the milling crowds of the main street, that we found our friend with the microphone. As we entered, I saw immediately that we had arrived at a Native American powwow. Around a great open area were strung rows of seats, benches and chairs, and in the center was a large, round drum. At one end we saw our friend, once again with microphone in hand, announcing the afternoon's youth powwow and calling the drummers and dancers to order. We found seats against the wall, where we could be inconspicuous yet attentive spectators.
How like similar ceremonies in Africa is the powwow. At first it seems that nothing is happening; people wander from place to place, everyone seems to ignore the pleas to begin that issue from the microphone, and yet there is no sense that things are amiss. It is only in our western society that there is this drive to order and discipline, that things begin at the stated time.
A man strolls out to the drum and sits down. Two more join him and then another two. They begin to beat the drum with an insistent rhythm, sticks held casually in one hand and rebounding off the taut surface, the other hand on hip. It is that regular beat that we know so well from the movies; in this, at least, they do not lie. One of the drummers begins the chant and the others join in. This, too, is an echo of the movies, yet sends a shiver down the spine, for it is real. The sound rises and fills the empty vault of the warehouse.
And then come the dancers, shuffling in time to the beat, one after the other, in a long line that leads around the drummers in a circle. They shuffle on, intent upon the dance, ever moving forward. A maiden, in purple dress covered with metal flutes that add their sibilant song to the rhythm, suddenly breaks from the shuffle into a bounding, leaping dance, body rigidly upright yet her feet performing a complex pattern of movement. Behind her a younger girl, barely a teenager, changes to the same bouncing style and they rotate with the others, round and round the drummers.
Now the drumbeat increases in volume to become like those crashing Japanese drums heard sometimes on television, reverberation reaching to one's innards. I cannot help but move quietly in rhythmic response. Then the drums grow quiet, tapping out the rhythm, and then they stop, the dancers pausing at the same time. A moment of silence and it begins again, altogether, as one, the dancers resuming their solemn circling.
I realize that there are different styles of dress and, in my ignorance, assume that this relates to tribes. That simple style, the browns and tans of pants, moccasins and over-shirts, with studded belt and simple cloth headband, that must surely be Apache. And there, that fellow in more complex dress, with colorful waistcoat and feathered headdress, he bears the emblem of the Comanche and so must be. Which leaves the brightest and most complex, glaring yellows and reds, great sunbursts of gaudy feathers sprouting from the back, sprays of feathers like crowns upon the head, these then must be Kiowa.
Later I learn that I am completely wrong; it is all a matter of taste. These various styles reach deep into the traditions of the tribes of this area and one can choose to dress plain or fancy. The same is true of the dance styles; all a matter of choice. But the styles go back generations into the history of the tribes.
We watched all afternoon. There are different contests; sometimes the turn of the young girls to dance with their serenity and elegance, then the youths with more energy, bodies swinging from side to side, eyes on the floor as though seeking the tracks of their prey, even the very young having the chance to show their prowess. Right at the end a young man, arrived too late for his contest, is allowed to dance. He is one of the feathered ones, resplendent in costume that must have taken months to make, and he dances with flair, with complex steps that sometimes have him twirling backwards and around, a picture of skill and color.
We never saw the rattlesnakes. Yet I think we were privileged to be witness to a tradition more meaningful if not so dramatic. This wonderful evocation of the spirit of the Native American is as much a part of the heritage of the nation as is Thanksgiving, the star-spangled banner and Gettysburg. America is a land of many nations, all contributing their different gifts and virtues; and the first to arrive are not the least.
(to go directly to the next entry in the Journal, click here)
I am a great fan of the red man. Oh, not the old Russki (what color are they now that they've stopped being communists?), but the Native American. This enthusiasm for those noble peoples of American history began, no doubt, in the old western movies in which the "cowboys" waged their eternal battles against the "injuns". I was unusual, perhaps, in always wanting the injuns to win, even though I knew that it was just not going to happen.
This is a romantic notion, of course, caused entirely by the powerful charisma of the red man as depicted in the movies of those far off days. Later efforts, such as Dances With Wolves, could only enhance and intensify such feelings. And it is understandable. How is it possible to resist the allure of such impressive finery, the feathers, the buckskin and warpaint, and their doomed but stoic acceptance that they must lose this battle with the palefaces, yet still riding bareback their gallant ponies to the fray? Certainly I could not and I became then, and remain, a believer in the nobility of the original North American peoples, fully aware that my view is colored by romantic myth, yet wanting it to be true.
In later life, I read extensively of the nations that comprised the Native American, from The Last of the Mohicans to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, and I learned the history of the Iroquois, the Sioux, the Cheyenne and Apache. I marveled at the exploits of such great leaders as Crazy Horse, Red Sleeve, Geronimo and Chief Joseph. My interest moved in turn from the Cheyenne to the Apache, the Nez Perce and all the branches of the Sioux nation. Finally, just a year or two before I came to the States, I discovered the Comanche. And in this nation I found my favorites, from one fact alone. I learned that the Comanche held the record for number of palefaces killed.
Was it fate, then, that directed that Kathy and I should settle in Lawton, at the heart of Comanche County, Oklahoma? Perhaps so. And, whether it be fate or merely coincidence, I take pleasure from the fact. When we were told that there would be a Native American rattlesnake festival in a town nearby, it was inevitable that we should plan to attend.
The festival is a major annual event in the small town of Apache, some twenty miles from Lawton. When we arrived, the main street was one long traffic jam, with two policemen at the center keeping everything moving. It seemed that half the population of Oklahoma thronged the dusty streets and everywhere were stalls offering an assortment of goods ranging from the tacky to the fantastic. On one empty lot a funfair had sprouted, with terrifying rides that I would not have taken even in my younger days. We wandered through the crowd, Kathy in search of rattlesnakes, myself wondering where the injuns were.
Advice there was in plenty; always the rattlesnakes were that little bit farther on, this way or that, and we were told that you could hold one in your hand. But my search ended sooner, for we came upon a cleared area where a circle of Native Americans in bright-colored, feathered and decorated dress danced to the beat of a drum. We were late, of course, and the dance ended almost as soon as we arrived, the crowd breaking up and the dancers disappearing amongst them. But we pressed to the front and spoke to the director of ceremonies, an elderly gentleman that we thought of as Man With Microphone. He pointed in the direction from which we'd arrived. "Over there, right at the end. Come see me at two o'clock."
At last we were getting somewhere. There was half an hour to spend and we wandered the stalls, found one selling rattlesnake heads and charms, watched some Mexican dancers performing to their rhythmic guitars and warbling singers, then made our way to the suggested rendezvous.
It was in a large warehouse, far from the milling crowds of the main street, that we found our friend with the microphone. As we entered, I saw immediately that we had arrived at a Native American powwow. Around a great open area were strung rows of seats, benches and chairs, and in the center was a large, round drum. At one end we saw our friend, once again with microphone in hand, announcing the afternoon's youth powwow and calling the drummers and dancers to order. We found seats against the wall, where we could be inconspicuous yet attentive spectators.
How like similar ceremonies in Africa is the powwow. At first it seems that nothing is happening; people wander from place to place, everyone seems to ignore the pleas to begin that issue from the microphone, and yet there is no sense that things are amiss. It is only in our western society that there is this drive to order and discipline, that things begin at the stated time.
A man strolls out to the drum and sits down. Two more join him and then another two. They begin to beat the drum with an insistent rhythm, sticks held casually in one hand and rebounding off the taut surface, the other hand on hip. It is that regular beat that we know so well from the movies; in this, at least, they do not lie. One of the drummers begins the chant and the others join in. This, too, is an echo of the movies, yet sends a shiver down the spine, for it is real. The sound rises and fills the empty vault of the warehouse.
And then come the dancers, shuffling in time to the beat, one after the other, in a long line that leads around the drummers in a circle. They shuffle on, intent upon the dance, ever moving forward. A maiden, in purple dress covered with metal flutes that add their sibilant song to the rhythm, suddenly breaks from the shuffle into a bounding, leaping dance, body rigidly upright yet her feet performing a complex pattern of movement. Behind her a younger girl, barely a teenager, changes to the same bouncing style and they rotate with the others, round and round the drummers.
Now the drumbeat increases in volume to become like those crashing Japanese drums heard sometimes on television, reverberation reaching to one's innards. I cannot help but move quietly in rhythmic response. Then the drums grow quiet, tapping out the rhythm, and then they stop, the dancers pausing at the same time. A moment of silence and it begins again, altogether, as one, the dancers resuming their solemn circling.
I realize that there are different styles of dress and, in my ignorance, assume that this relates to tribes. That simple style, the browns and tans of pants, moccasins and over-shirts, with studded belt and simple cloth headband, that must surely be Apache. And there, that fellow in more complex dress, with colorful waistcoat and feathered headdress, he bears the emblem of the Comanche and so must be. Which leaves the brightest and most complex, glaring yellows and reds, great sunbursts of gaudy feathers sprouting from the back, sprays of feathers like crowns upon the head, these then must be Kiowa.
Later I learn that I am completely wrong; it is all a matter of taste. These various styles reach deep into the traditions of the tribes of this area and one can choose to dress plain or fancy. The same is true of the dance styles; all a matter of choice. But the styles go back generations into the history of the tribes.
We watched all afternoon. There are different contests; sometimes the turn of the young girls to dance with their serenity and elegance, then the youths with more energy, bodies swinging from side to side, eyes on the floor as though seeking the tracks of their prey, even the very young having the chance to show their prowess. Right at the end a young man, arrived too late for his contest, is allowed to dance. He is one of the feathered ones, resplendent in costume that must have taken months to make, and he dances with flair, with complex steps that sometimes have him twirling backwards and around, a picture of skill and color.
We never saw the rattlesnakes. Yet I think we were privileged to be witness to a tradition more meaningful if not so dramatic. This wonderful evocation of the spirit of the Native American is as much a part of the heritage of the nation as is Thanksgiving, the star-spangled banner and Gettysburg. America is a land of many nations, all contributing their different gifts and virtues; and the first to arrive are not the least.
(to go directly to the next entry in the Journal, click here)