The Basic Pattern

Every day starts with Wayne calling me on the hotel phone, never trusting that I've actually woken up. This is probably prudent. Then I stumble downstairs (I'm never on the first floor), and cram powder biscuits into my mouth until I can't swallow. This equals roughly a biscuit and a half. As best as I can tell, hotels no longer serve donuts. Then, I get a Styrofoam cup filled with orange juice from a machine that dispenses liquids with a sound like it's spitting mosquitoes in short, high-velocity bursts. Then, the five of us gather in the parking lot and spend a few minutes staring at each other; I've never been sure what this step is for, but we always hang out in front of the vans.


Then, irregardless of the current time, or the distance we need to travel, we go to find coffee to supplement the hotel breakfast coffee. Starbucks is the ideal choice. I will say I don't want anything, even a strawberry shake; then I will sit in the car and try to get a few more precious moments of sleep -- while Marlin will buy me a strawberry shake. Wayne will deliver the shake by rapping on my window four times with his knuckle.


We will struggle to get out of the Starbucks' parking lot, because I will hope that the van's turning radius has improved overnight. It will not have improved, and I will get wedged in a way that blocks the other vans. Wayne will get out of his car to direct me.


When we arrive at the site for the day, we will park. I will park poorly, because I will have hoped that the van's handling will have improved since Starbucks'. It will not have improved, and I will take up either 2 or 3 parking spots.


Then, we investigate our location. It will be either beautiful or condemned. My job is to check out four aspects: where the cameras should go, if we need speakers, where electricity is needed, and how the sound should be wired. These are exactly as interesting as they sound, so I'll skip over this part to preserve their innate mystique. The secret fifth responsibility is: "anything and everything else."



Wayne and Maria will set up our table of things-we-sell-for-gas-money and our table of stuff-we-give-away. Don and Marlin will supervise and talk with the coordinator, hammering out the fine details of the schedule; the schedule will be discarded entirely within the first hour.



One enduring struggle is about where the second camera should go. It must be within a few feet of the mixer if it's going to plug into it. The mixer must be close to Don's computer, which must be close to the projector, which must be in front of the screen. This would be easy enough, except that we have a procession and a recession, plus a large number of elderly people walking up to the mic -- there cannot be any loose cords on the floor to create a hazard. It's an added bonus if it's possible to set up the second camera in such a way that the view isn't terrible.
I hope that camera works out, overall. Even when it's wired into the mixer, the sound isn't perfect. In fact, it's got an enduring weird hum that I'm hoping will scrub out in post.


We will start late, and I will finish setting up seconds before we start.



Marlin will have been canvasing the crowd, looking for veterans. The opening procession includes veterans with a wide variety of flags (national, state, and tribe, at minimum), two men and two women carrying the Hoop, and a child carrying Brandi Jo. They will circle the crowd, if possible; they will only approach the center from the East. The word is that everything good starts from the East. Personally, I can think of only two things: the sunrise and Japanese electronics, but those are both good things so the East is fine for me. If at all possible, a drum group will play a flag song or an honor song. The drum song is symbolically very important -- I'd like to add that, empirically, we have yet to do a ceremony without a drum that wasn't also disappointing.


Someone's cell will ring during the opening.



The MC (often the local coordinator) takes the stage, and will likely somehow hold the microphone incorrectly. I will adjust the volume accordingly. This opening takes between 30 and 90 minutes, and is largely dedicated to thanking sponsors and attendees. There is about a 50% chance the MC will say some variant of, "I know there could have been more people here today, but that's not important. WE ARE HERE, and I thank you for being here." Often, local dignitaries are asked to say a few words. Almost always, an elder is asked to offer a morning prayer -- the form that this takes varies wildly by tribe and location.


Someone else's cell will ring during the prayer.


Don will be introduced. One can make at least a casual connection between how his name is pronounced and the overall quality of the event. "Coyhis" normally has two syllables, but it's been shrunk to one ("Koys") and bizarrely expanded up to four (Coe-Hoe-Hoy-His). Sometimes "Don" is mistaken to be "Dr."


Don will give his presentation. It varies a little each time, but follows a general pattern. When the Journey is done, I will probably make a video of his presentation to add to the White Bison website. It will also be posted here. His speech includes a short clip from a PBS documentary, which I'm almost sure falls under non-commercial Fair Use, but I'm still hoping no one calls us on. He's personal friends with most of the speakers in the documentary, and somehow that makes me feel better.

Don will, at one point, refer to elders as having "wrinkles under wrinkles" and suggest that they make an elder pin-up calendar. It will get a laugh from no more than two people, irregardless of the size of the room. Everyone else will find the image uncomfortable.

At this point, lunch will likely be served. I'm usually surprised by how elaborate this is. There is always a great surplus of food. Food, and lots of it, are given to everyone present -- with Haskell being the sole exception. I'm still a little bitter about that, which brings up a hidden lesson from the Journey: Forgiveness may set you free, but don't try it on an empty stomach.

Post-lunch, we move into the Panel. The quality of this section makes a huge difference on my perception of the event; this is almost always the weakest part. This is also a section where I differ greatly from White Bison in my perception; I repeat that I do not speak for them.



Why this section is called the Panel is a mystery, the only relation it bears to a panel or a panel discussion is that some people sit in a line. Seats in this line are given to the elders of the community, at least partially as an honorary position. They are each given time to share their thoughts individually; then the Panel ends without a question-and-answer or anything else you'd expect from its title. All too often, their thoughts are unrelated to what's actually going on; there's relatively little footage that's usable from almost six weeks of Panels, but lots of thoughts about Vietnam, how much money seventy cents used to be, and going swimming during the summer.

Often, the people who are on-topic are incredible.



I suppose this illustrates an aspect of Native culture that doesn't work for me: the assumption that age automatically brings wisdom. Just for writing that, I probably used up all of my karma; but I think Aunt Ollie is the only one reading this regularly, so maybe it'll be our little secret. I can see it working more easily in a traditional society during the period -- as Don calls it -- "a long time ago." There was a greater need for people to have expertise in various aspects of daily life. You couldn't just bead; you'd better know how to catch a fish and take care of a sick child, too. You wore many hats; and, as you aged, you got good at a lot of things. With age came experience and a lifetime of accumulated tips and tricks for doing things well.

Today? Today I'm not so sure. With specialization, globalization, and an interdependent society, it's pretty easy to do just one thing: say, for example, short order cooking. So, you spend your life as a short order cook, mastering it in the first year and just continuing on after that, confident that someone else will make electricity, heal the wounded, dig the ditches, paint the lines on streets, and program the new software. When you get done at the end of the day, there's no real incentive to get out and learn something new, to master more skills. More likely, you'll watch "Wheel of Fortune." When you get old, you're pretty much still you, just older.

This is not for a moment to say that we shouldn't respect old people. Everyone deserves respect; that's a basic part of the dignity of human life. What I find difficult is the assumption that being around for a long time naturally means that you have more to say than someone else. This is especially true in the modern world, where it's more possible than ever to work up a comfortable rut and grow old without diversifying or learning much new. For that matter, a lot of people's lives today don't even reward basic observation. How many people of any age can tell you nothing about the weather?

Clear the slate; I'm starting this part over with a new approach. Elders deserve every bit of respect in the world; their insight is invaluable. However, not all Old People are Elders. Some Old People are just people who got old. It takes Wisdom to be an Elder. I'm pretty sure there were a few spots on the Panel, over the weeks, that were given to Old People.

Wow. I am way off my original topic. Anyways, we spend maybe two hours on the Panel, where people speak irregardless of whether they have anything to say about boarding schools, families, or forgiveness. With what time is left, the microphone is opened up to anyone who feels they have something to say. I like this approach better -- targeting those with something to say -- but I speak only for myself.


The open-mic section is a complete wildcard, and has the largest range of possible outcomes. A scarce few people take this opportunity to hear their own voices. There's not many of them, but they each hold a special place in my heart as arch-enemies. Many people, in an amazing show of courage in front of strangers, are able to share stories from their past; most are heart-shattering. This, I think, is the part I was really hired to film. These stories are mostly hidden away, and they're simply devastating. There are often lots of tears during this section, from all ages and both genders.

It makes me wonder how much of the world is hidden away. This is the only opportunity most people have ever had to speak publicly about this. What if there were forums for other topics? How many stories are never told, and lost forever?


If there is a graveyard nearby, especially if it's clearly long-neglected, we will walk over there and apologize to the children buried (or dumped) there -- we're sorry that you faced such abuse during your lives; we're sorry that you were left here, away from your homes and families; we're sorry that the graveyards are often so overgrown and forgotten today. Someone from the community who speaks the local language is called forward to ask the spirits to be free -- if the spirits are really there, this invitation will be in a language they know.

I don't think it matters much if you believe this literally accomplishes anything or not; if you take part in this ceremony, you will be touched in some way. There were a lot of forgotten children, and it's a strange relief to know that someone acknowledges them: it's the release of a tension you never even knew was there before.


Finally, the ceremony ends with a chance for everyone present to make a short prayer in front of the Hoop. The way that this is carried out is decided by the local coordinator, according to local customs. Most often, this means forming a line that circles around the Hoop either clockwise or counter-clockwise; this usually includes making an offering of some kind of plant (tobacco is a frequent choice). But every place does things in their own way. Luckily, only one chose to send people up out of the audience individually to touch the Hoop, breathe in the smoke of burning sage, and sit back down before allowing the next person to stand. This particular approach took about two hours.


The ceremonies dissipate quietly, with people wandering away one at a time after praying by the Hoop. We will be far behind schedule, and the cleaning staff will want us gone. Usually, by this point I have packed my cameras and maybe my tripods. Maria starts packing our items-for-sale; Marlin and Wayne will carefully pack the Hoop, Brandi Jo, and the like; I pack all my equipment, anything electronic that we have, and everything left over. Don will be besieged by well-wishers and people wanting autographs and handshakes and the like. Don has gone this entire Journey with virtually no time to himself, as best as I can tell.


Each ceremony is supposed to get done somewhere between 2 and 4 PM. It will be 5 PM. It is always 5 PM when we end, no matter what we add or take away or change. We will have everything packed and stored by 5:10, at which point we will begin driving to the next town. The next town is likely somewhere between 4 and 6 hours away, and we will arrive in the dark, exhausted and aching, ready for a few hours of sleep before the alarms go off between 6 and 7 AM for the next day's ceremony.


They say nothing good is ever accomplished without sacrifice. We are our own sacrifice. And I think we're accomplishing something good.