Shadow Dancers of the Keetoowah

     It was dark, hot, and muggy, and I had driven by myself deep into the woods on a dirt road in Oklahoma to find the secret dance. My heart thudded in my chest and my hands gripped the steering wheel. I was trying to find the courage to face the snakes that my delirious mind believed were lurking in the bushes, just waiting for me to step out of the car.

     I was in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, and had driven there to attend the Cherokee Festival and to meet in person my Cherokee language teacher, Mr. Ed Fields, and his family.

     It was a day filled with arts and crafts, food, and lots of activities to entertain the children. The elders sat underneath a big white arbor trying to stay cool with makeshift fans. I was greeted with warm smiles and withered hands outstretched from many people eager to say hello. One of the grandmothers that hugged me grabbed my cheeks, recognizing me as a Cherokee. It was something about the bone structure of my face, she said. It felt deliciously exciting being there. I acknowledged these beautiful people as family.

     During my time with my new grandmothers, I learned how to make a river-cane basket and a corn-husk doll. I was so proud of myself, and meeting Ed and his wife was a real honor. It was rare that I got to meet someone who was fluent in Tsalagi Gawonihisdi.

     Ed asked if I was interested in attending a Keetoowah ceremonial stomp dance that night, and being that I am always up for an adventure, I said yes. I was granted permission and given the directions. Ed and his wife weren’t able to attend, so I went by myself.

     That night, I drove to my destination on a crooked, barely-even-a-path dirt road, while the woods grew thicker. Several times I thought maybe I should turn back, but instinct pushed me forward. I just had to see where this road was going to take me. Truth be told, I was way too excited to turn back. I could hear the drums beating in the distance, and I knew that I had to be close.  

     It was a miracle: no fangs sank into my ankles when I got out. I scurried up the dirt road toward the sound of the drum. I could see the shadows of the people, but couldn’t really make out any faces. Light streamed from inside of a cook’s cabin, and the only other light was coming from a bonfire in the middle of a circle of dancers. Men wore cowboy hats and ribbon shirts, and women wore dresses and turtle shells on their ankles that rattled when they danced. When the song ended, all the dancers scattered, disappearing through the trees and bushes.

     When the dancers were called back, everyone moved swiftly, including me. My feet imitated the women, and feeling the drum, I caught on fast. We danced counterclockwise in a continuous spiral of man, woman, man, woman around and around the sacred fire. Shell shakers set the rhythm. We danced four rounds before scattering in all directions, taking a break before the next singer called us back.

     The fire was hot and cast a reddish glow over all of the dancers. The singer’s face changed, taking on another appearance – part wolf, part man. Somehow I had entered an altered state, as various faces continued to morph all around me. There was no visible moon or stars to see clearly. I had forgotten my moccasins and instead danced in brown sandals. I couldn’t stop and even if I wanted to stop, I couldn’t. My feet wouldn’t let me. There was something meaningful in that dance. A deep awakening came through that night. I, Ulogila Agasga, was soaring into new territory, and I was not going to stop until the singers did. We danced and danced until the wee hours of the morning.

     After saying goodbye to my new friends, I walked to my car as the sun began to rise. For me, the journey had ended and it was time to head home. I stretched and yawned near my car, no longer worried about fangs.