One of the earliest memories I have is that of an older, earth-colored man in a plaid polyester suit who came up to me and my mother, wanting a cigarette. I was about five years old and it was cold and grey from ground to sky. My mother, bright against the dim morning in her red, green and yellow wool poncho, was taking out her keys to open the car door when the man approached and asked for a smoke. He gestured with his hand to make sure she understood, lifting two fingers to his mouth and touching his lips. No, my mom said. No smokes. I was amazed that she could talk to him at all, she wasn't afraid, her voice sounded rough--no, no smokes--and I knew I was safe with her. The man didn't hang around or ask for money. He left us at the curb and walked across the street, the dull blue of his suit blending him with the day's palette, camouflage in a city whose winters were usually the color of dirt. I asked my mom about him. She said he was probably homeless and didn't have any way to buy the things he needed. I wondered why we couldn't have helped him. My mom said that we couldn't even afford to buy the things we needed and we had nothing to give. Then we got in the car and headed home. I watched the street go by through the rusty holes under my feet.  |  I remember the colors: sky blue, electric green, hot pink. I remember the soft deerskin dresses decorated with beads and bells. I remember that even little children danced, two and three years old, and very old people, too. A teenage boy wore a tee-shirt: my heroes have always killed cowboys. Women had their own dances and men, as well. It was always the fancy dancing I waited for, air taught as strings as the dancers spun, as they kicked. I am romanced by pow wows and I imagine the dance, how my feet would feel in leather moccasins, pounding gym floors all across the state. A white man danced with them; a white woman, whom they laughed at, danced as well. She wore jeans, a suede vest, a hat and she danced the edge of the circle with her arms wide and eyes closed. I was embarrassed for her. It was obvious she didn't belong but it was obvious she didn't feel that way. She danced. After the pow wow, my friend and I drove up a dirt road to the locked gates of the hydroelectric plant. It was in the woods, set in a field, with a group of three of four small trees planted in a small circle in front of the forbidden gate. We parked the car and without verbal agreement, my friend and I, we danced. We sang. It was a clear spring night and stars were like gravel against a tar-black road. The creek rushed over the dam. The wind through the pine needles spoke of ghosts. And we sang. We danced, two white girls alone in the woods, wishing we belonged to something great, but fearing the notion, vowed to tell no one of what we'd done.  |