In the darkness of a low-ceilinged hut, I sat with others, men and women, waiting for the inipi ceremony to begin. The man at the door whispered to himself in a language unfamiliar to my ears. The pit in the center of the circle of people was empty. Shivers ascended my back. With only a thin, cotton dress covering my nakedness, chills scattered across my white body. I was the only non-native in the lodge, and I felt that everyone knew it by the ambient light that reflected off my alabaster skin. I didn’t feel like I was glowing, but that I was marked as different than the norm.
It was 1980. My husband and children and I were visiting a multi-tribal encampment in Southern California headed by Grandfather Semu Huaute, a Chumash medicine man. My path into this lodge had been beside my husband who held the belief that we are all a part of nature, not above it. Our responsibility, he believed, was to live with the other beings on this earth, whether it be a plant, an animal, a tree, etc. We were not to rearrange the Earth to meet our needs but to come into balance with what was and is. I had come to believe as he did.
He wasn’t with me this night. I was alone in the sweat lodge, a slang term, to pray for the healing of my heart from the pain of rejection by my birth family. I wanted to learn how I could be more open to the needs of the Earth.
“I am Quilt Man,” the leader said. “I didn’t want to be here tonight. When you all first asked me to pour water for your prayers, I said no and went on down the road until the truck started sputtering.” He chuckled.
“Can’t do anything anymore without the Spirits interfering. So, I came back because they brought me back. Truck’s working fine now.” He grunted.
After a sigh, he continued, “Just got out of a white man’s jail. They said I was stealing. Chopping wood for a fire for my family didn’t seem like I was doing anything wrong. But the white policeman must’ve seen my red skin and decided I was somewhere I shouldn’t be.”
“Now, I’m here. I feel good ‘cause I’m free. Might not mean much to you but free means I can get a drink of water when I want. I can open the door to the frig and take a bite of everything in there. That’s being free.”
With the small arched door uncovered, firelight fluttered into the lodge. I saw his hand lift the dipper out of a bucket of water then splatter the clear liquid back into the plastic container. Water cascaded over itself, tumbling, sputtering, splashing. He did it over and over again.
“One of these days,” he said, “Not too far into the future . . . that sound’s gonna be the only kind of music you’re gonna want to hear.” He sighed deeply. “Times are gonna get rough. Water, food, shelter . . . are gonna be in short supply.” He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “Don’t want to, but I’m gonna have to learn how to pray for the white people.”
His head seemed to turn in my direction. “Have to learn to pray with those whites who truly want to learn how to pray.” He sighed again. “Can’t say I’m gonna like it.”
My heart shrank inside my chest. No matter that I was holding my best intent to do this ceremony correctly or that my love for our Earth was pushing me to put myself in this demeaning position. I was being judged because I had white skin. Just as Quilt Man had been accused of stealing because his skin was red.
“Let’s do this, then,” he interrupted my thoughts before I could cop an attitude and crawl haughtily out of the lodge.
The stones were brought in one by one from the outside fire and deposited in a clockwise pattern in the pit. Sage and cedar smoke lifted off the red-hot lava rocks. My skin gasped at the searing heat. I wondered if I would survive and begged in my mind that I not embarrass myself or my race.
The door closed quickly. Glowing stones threw shadows around us until Quilt Man drenched them with Mini Wakan, the sacred water. Steam filled the empty spaces around me and the others.
In the darkness, I heard the water and the stones talking, sizzling, sputtering, until they too became dark. While he prayed and while we sang, I became more than my body-self. I entered the moist air, let it soak between my cells, until I wasn’t white anymore. I had no color, neither did the others. We were, in fact, for that little time of sharing, all one.
Earlene, what a gift you have for sharing your story. It is sometimes painful to look at our diversity, yet we all know as in this experience that our first connection is to spirit which knows no boundaries. good for you for staying and certainly good for me. Sandra
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