sâpohtawân ~ Ghost Dance

Mid-June 2004 and it feels

like January. Wind stirs up

white caps on the small lake,

on the small reserve, where

on a big hill stands an amphitheatre

with a roof but no walls.

We will not dance

the Ghost Dance on that hill.

Over there, where the young men

construct a lodge from the trunks

of young black poplar trees,

there we will dance

with kimosômipaninawak, kôhkomipaninawak

êkwa kahkiyaw kicâpâninawak

êkota kika-wîci-nîmihitômânawak.

Two tripods hold up the lodge;

a small fire burns near each tripod.

Flames leap like the Northern Lights.

Blankets cover the cold ground.

Containers filled with food cover

the blankets at one end of the lodge,

the end where the women sit.

Seven men sit along one angle

of the elliptical structure, share

four drums, sing,

sing, sing the Ghost Dance song.

ê-nikamocik sâpohtawân nikamowin.

One man has a voice

sweet as saskatoon syrup.

Another man doesn’t sing

but pretends he’s a chicken.

Everyone laughs when this trickster —

awa môhcohkân —

crows at unpredictable times.

A helper — oskâpêwis — serves pimîhkân

near the tripod at the men’s end of the lodge.

We dance several circles,

the chicken-man sings several chicken songs,

and everyone laughs at this funny man.

êkwa kahkiyaw ê-pâhpihâyâhk

awa ê-wawiyatêyihtâkosit nâpêw.

Then we sit on the blankets on the ground,

ready to feast. A young man

quietly tells me not to sit cross-

legged. “êkâ êkosi itapi, kitôhkapin anima,” ê-isit.

I have since learned

to sit properly.

êkospîhk ê-kî-kiskinohamâkosiyân

ka-isi-kwayaskapiyân.

The food, prepared by the women,

is now served by the men.

The men serve the guests first.

All manner of food, Cree and not,

including a bucket

of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

We dance some more.

ayiwâk ninîmihitonân

Chicken-man, from Onion Lake,

cackles some more.

kâh-kitow ayiwâk awa môhcohkân.

We eat more food.

ayiwâk nimîcisonân.

The man with the voice sweet

as saskatoon syrup sings some more.

ê-nikamot ayiwâk awa nâpêw

kâ-miyotâmot tâpiskôc

misâskwatôminâpoy ê-sîwâk.

Two years after the Ghost Dance,

a year and a half after Dad

walks through the opening,

someone tells me that the Cree call the

Ghost Dance sâpohtawân

because the ghosts walk through.

They pass right through.

sâpohtêwak just like Dad:

ê-kî-sâpohtawêhtêt.

And those ghosts who are dancing,

the ones we dance with,

they are very beautiful.

êkwa aniki kâ-nîmihitocik,

kâ-wîci-nîmihitômâyâhkik,

mistahi katawasisiwak.