Ancestor Approved

by Cynthia L. Smith

  When he fell asleep again, I took a quick pic to send to Rachel on Snapchat. I captioned it “Snoozin’ Grandpa.”

  Right before we landed in Detroit, I shook Grandpa Lou awake again.

  On the ground, I hit send to Rachel. She responded with five smiley emojis with some hearts and zzzz’s.

  Grandpa Lou drove our rental car to the hotel. Later that night, he picked up on his snoring where he’d left off on the plane. I woke him and made sure he put on his Darth Vader mask.

  It wasn’t until after midnight when I finally caught my own z’s.

  From the free breakfast, Grandpa Lou had saved me cereal and a cinnamon roll so I could sleep in, and he went downstairs to read the paper.

  After I ate a late breakfast and Grandpa Lou sipped his coffee, a brilliant blue sky greeted us on the way to the powwow.

  Squinting at the puffy clouds, I thought of Mom somewhere above, flying sorties that kept the US and our Native Nations within its borders safe.

  When we arrived at the gym, a few dancers were slipping on regalia over their shorts and tees behind open car trunks and SUV hatches. The cold air gave me goose bumps, so I decided to head to the girls’ locker room. On my way there, a little dog wearing a T-shirt that said Ancestor Approved greeted me. He rolled over, and I gave him a good ol’ belly rub. I wondered how tinkling Fritz was doing at the kennel.

  When I came out looking for Grandpa, the gym echoed with all the familiar sounds of a powwow—tink, tink of jingles, clink, clink of bell bands, and buzz, buzz of excited voices.

  Grandpa spotted me. “Let’s go!” he said. “It’s about to start.”

  We bolted to the registration table. Dancers were lining up, ready to enter the arena. Before I could blink, the announcement came for Grand Entry.

  The drum thumped, thumped, thumped.

  The drummers sang, “Hey yah. Hey yah. Yah hey. Yah hey.”

  I took my place behind the other dancers. When the song started, I danced into the arena, scanning the crowd and wishing that somehow Mom would be there.

  Afterward, I took a seat next to Grandpa Lou in the bottom bleachers. He leaned over. “Nature calls. I’ll be right back. Too much coffee.”

  The Veterans’ Song started to play, and an invitation was announced for all those who’d served our country to come to the arena. I sank in my seat. Grandpa Lou would miss it.

  Men danced in street clothes and regalia. Women danced in regalia, and street clothes with fringed shawls.

  But the song played long, and Grandpa Lou was back.

  “Now it’s your turn,” I said. “Let them honor you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m too old.”

  “No way,” I said. “Look at all the Elders out there. You can do it, too. What do they have that you don’t?”

  “Energy.”

  My eyes watered because I thought he’d never dance again.

  But Grandpa Lou saw how sad I was.

  A huge grin spread across his face. “For you,” he said. Then he got up and entered the arena, where he danced with all the other superheroes just like him.

  For the rest of the day, he didn’t stop smiling.

  “Did you see me?” he said.

  I nodded, trying not to laugh.

  I knew the real reason why Grandpa Lou didn’t want to dance. All this time he was still grieving. One year of sitting out had turned into almost three.

  “Grandma Grace would be so proud,” I said, then gave him a side hug.

  Grandpa Lou’s voice cracked. “I know she would.”

  When the announcement came for Girls Fancy Shawl, my heart raced and sweat trickled from my temples to my beaded earrings. “I don’t think I can do this. What if I get the steps wrong? I don’t think I’ll win. I’ve only done this a few times. I . . . I . . . I can’t do it without Mom.”

  “Breathe,” said Grandpa Lou. “You got this. If a winter chicken can dance with these old chicken legs, surely you can dance with your spring ones. It’s not about winning. It’s about flying.”

  Grandpa Lou always knew the right thing to say.

  Calm washed over me, and I knew I could do this. I even felt Grandma Grace with me. I’m sure Grandpa Lou felt her, too. I stepped into arena with the other dancers to await the drum song.

  With all my heart and soul, I danced. Even though Mom wasn’t there, I danced. Even if I wasn’t going to win, I danced. Even though I was scared, I danced.

  I twirled and swirled my shimmering shawl round and round like a beautiful butterfly to the beat of the drum. In Grandpa Lou’s beaded moccasins, I stomped my feet like Cousin Nora taught me.

  Flying solo didn’t feel so lonely after all. We were really flying together in spirit. One spirit.

  When the dance ended, I headed back to Grandpa Lou, trying to catch my breath.

  “I knew you could do it!” he said.

  “And I knew you could do it, too. If only Mom could have seen us flying.” I sighed.

  We watched the next few categories, the gym hum-hum-humming with dance and song, and both of us still grinning.

  Then I heard a familiar voice.

  “You’ll make me some fry bread when we get home, right, Jess?”

  “Mom!”

  Grandpa Lou and I leaped from our seats and ran to her. She was dressed in her flight suit, arms open wide. We all embraced in one family-size hug. Mom and I cried while Grandpa Lou just laughed.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, wiping tears.

  “Our deployment was cut short. We came back on commercial flights. Couldn’t miss being here. I’m just sad I missed your category, Jess.”

  “You missed the best part.” That’s when I told her all about Grandpa Lou.

  “Your grandma Grace would be proud,” she said as she winked at Grandpa Lou.

  Then she gave him another hug.

  Now the three of us were grinning.

  Dancers stomped and swirled in rainbows of colors as we watched the rest of the powwow together—one happy family.

  Well, except for Fritz. But we’d all be home together soon. In the kitchen, powdered sugar would be sprinkled all over our shirts from the fry bread I’d make Mom and Grandpa Lou. We’d give Fritz a few bites of our Wichita doughnut, and he’d lick the snowy sugar off the floor. And someday he’d finally earn his A.

  Warriors of Forgiveness

  Tim Tingle

  I’ve had a lot of really weird conversations in my life, and I’m sure you have, too. Yes, I’m talking to you. But this morning’s talk with Mom was just about the weirdest ever. Here’s how it went:

  “Luksi, you know how you always want to parade in and dance at the Choctaw Powwow every Labor Day? Well, you can this year!”

  “Really, Mom? Oh, yakoke, thank you!” I shouted, and gave her a big hug.

  But I’m old enough to know better. Totally unexpected good news always carries something behind its back. My first warning came when Mom was a little too quick to change the subject.

  “Now, what would you like for lunch?” she asked.

  “Whatever’s on the table, Mom,” I said. “Why are you asking me? And when did you decide to let me dance in the powwow this year? You know Labor Day is six months away.”

  “Hoke! Well, we can have chili-cheese hot dogs or pizza—your favorite pepperoni, of course. Which will it be, Luksi?”

  “How about cherry pie with peanut butter ice cream, Mom-who-refuses-to-stay-on-the-subject?”

  “Great! Pizza it is!” she shouted.

  When I rolled my eyes exaggeratedly, she finally said something that made sense.

  “Oh, Luksi, if you’re going to dance in front of the Choctaw chief and the council members, you need to practice. There’s a powwow this coming weekend in Michigan, and I thought you could practice there.”

  “Are you kidding me? Michigan? Last time I looked, we lived in Oklahoma. Do you know how far Michigan is from Oklahoma?”

  When she rolled her eyes, I finally said something
that made sense.

  “Hoke, Mom. I’ll sit down and shut up and you can tell me the whole story.”

  Hoke, I’m talking to you again. Are you listening? I am interrupting the narrative for a brief explanation of Luksi, my name. Sounds weird, huh?

  That’s because it’s the Choctaw word for “turtle,” and my full name is Luksi Bob Bryant. Not Luksi Robert Bryant, but Luksi Bob. And all through school I’ve been answering to the name Luke, so my friends wouldn’t make fun of me. Most of them aren’t Choctaw, and when we were in kindergarten, they’d play dumb peek-a-boo games every time they said my name.

  Look Seee! Look Seeee!

  Can you see me, Look Seeee?

  So I told them my name was Luke Carl, and some people just called me Luke C.

  Hoke, so when anybody calls me Luke, you know they are not Choctaw. Got it?

  Now, back to the story.

  While I munched on delicious cheesy pepperoni pizza, Mom sipped her iced tea and talked.

  “The truth is never simple, Luksi. And this morning, we have two truths. Truth Number One: You can practice powwow dancing in Michigan.”

  “Not in jeans and a T-shirt,” I said, dripping cheese on my chin.

  “I’ve already taken care of that,” Mom answered. “Your dad’s old powwow outfit, from when he was a young boy, is already packed in your suitcase.”

  “My suitcase! When are we leaving?” I asked.

  Mom glanced at the wall clock. Not good, I thought.

  “When your uncle returns from the Choctaw Senior Center. He is driving the bus to Michigan.”

  “The bus! Hoke, let’s hear Truth Number Two.”

  “You are such a smart little boy, Luksi,” Mom said, blinking her eyelashes like a Hollywood starlet. “Your uncle has agreed to carry a busload of Choctaw Elders to the Michigan powwow.”

  “Mom, Uncle Lanny is the one Choctaw I know who does not like taking care of old people. Why would he agree to do that?”

  “He already drives the school bus, and somebody thought he’d be perfect for the job,” she said. “And Truth Number Two? You are going to the powwow to make sure your uncle Lanny behaves. Choctaw Elders deserve respect, and you will make certain they get it.”

  I chewed and swallowed a mouthful of pizza and took a sip of lemonade, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. “So, I am going to Michigan to dance in a powwow, but really to keep an eye on Uncle Lanny? Mom, let me introduce myself. I am twelve years old.”

  “And very mature for your age,” Mom said.

  I plopped my chin on my chest and shook my head.

  Just then a loud honking sound shook the walls.

  “That must be your uncle Lanny,” Mom said. “Are you ready to go?”

  Ten minutes later, with my suitcase loaded on the bus, we pulled away for a three-day trip to Michigan. I sat behind Uncle Lanny while twenty-four Choctaw Elders stared out the windows and chatted away.

  Uncle Lanny spoke over his shoulder to me, not even caring if anybody heard.

  “No, I still don’t understand why I took the job,” he said, “driving twenty-four Choctaw Elders all the way to Michigan. I hate this! When it’s time to stop and eat, I might just bury my face in the plate in front of me.”

  I said nothing, and Mom’s words started rolling around in my head. Choctaw Elders deserve respect, and you will make certain they get it.

  “You know, your mom got me into this,” Uncle Lanny said, reading my mind. “Since I drive the local school bus, she volunteered me.”

  Surprise, surprise! So Mom was the somebody who volunteered him. Truth Number Three, I’m thinking.

  “Here I am,” Uncle Lanny continued, “driving a busload of Choctaw Elders from Durant, Oklahoma—the capital of our Choctaw Nation—all the way to Michigan!”

  “At least you are not alone,” a familiar voice answered. It was Susan Fellabush, and she stood up and tapped him on the shoulder. Susan worked at the nearby Choctaw Cultural Center and had agreed to ride along and help.

  She was maybe twenty-four years old, and very detail-oriented. Every Choctaw knew she was the one person who never freaked out, no matter what happened.

  When the crazy lightning-filled thunderstorm hit our Labor Day celebration in 2016, with twenty thousand Choctaws sleeping in tents, she talked the tribal council into keeping every building on the grounds open twenty-four hours a day. So the thousands of Choctaws camping out in tents dragged their sleeping bags to the huge cafeteria or museum and were served free meals till the storm passed.

  And for this trip, Susan had already booked rooms for everybody at two hotels along the way. Many rooms.

  “Luksi,” Susan said, “I’ll walk to the back of the bus every thirty minutes or so, checking on everybody. Don’t be alarmed when I get up. And don’t worry, on these bumpy roads I know to hold on tight.”

  “Hoke, no problem,” I said, just as the bus hit a big bump, causing the older lady right behind me to squeal! and spill her hot cup of coffee down my back.

  “Yikes! That’s not how I like my coffee,” I said, rocking back and forth as the burning liquid flowed down my spine and across the seat.

  “Let me get a towel,” said Susan. “Do you need Lanny to pull over?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “I am so sorry,” the elderly lady said.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Chukla,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I needed the wake-up call.”

  “Oh, Luksi, you are so funny,” she said. “I just wish I hadn’t wasted my coffee.” The whole bus exploded in laughter at that.

  “I can take care of you,” Susan said. “I have a gallon jug of coffee under the seat.”

  “What’s a little burn on the back when you’ve got coffee for everybody!” shouted Jay MacVain from the rear of the bus.

  “An eighty-year-old Choctaw comedian, that’s all we need,” said Uncle Lanny.

  “Uh, Susan,” I whispered, “maybe we wait till we come to a stop to pour more coffee.”

  “Of course, Luksi,” she said as she wrapped a towel over my shoulders.

  Forty-five minutes later, another Elder, Mrs. Simmons, called softly from the rear of the bus. “Miss Fellabush, can you help me?”

  Susan leaped from her seat and scrambled to the back of the bus. She must have guessed what the problem was, because she leaned over and they whispered.

  “Lanny,” she shouted, pointing to a convenience store coming up on the right. “Time to stop.”

  “The beginning of one long restroom stop,” Uncle Lanny muttered to himself, slowly pulling over.

  Susan hurried to the front of the bus. She turned to face our Elders as Lanny parked beside the store. “If anyone needs to go to the restroom, now’s the time,” she announced. “Please let Mrs. Simmons go first.”

  I watched as Mrs. Simmons gripped the back of the seat in front of her and struggled to stand.

  Uncle Lanny slapped his forehead, impatient as usual.

  Jay stepped back and allowed her to pass, but he wasn’t finished. He followed her down the aisle to make sure she didn’t fall. And as she hesitated at the door, he sucked in his belly and stepped around her. Once on the ground he reached up for her.

  “I’ll be your escort,” he said as she stared at her feet and lifted her legs one at a time, carefully moving down the steps. Jay took her hand and guided her to the pavement.

  “Yakoke,” she said with a smile.

  By now the aisle was full of Choctaw Elders, all taking their much-needed restroom stop. I stood up and looked for anyone else needing help. “Is everybody hoke?” I shouted.

  “We will be in a few minutes,” Mrs. Minger said, “if everybody will get outta my way!”

  No one moved, but everybody laughed, for that’s the Choctaw way. If it’s not funny, it’s not living. With so many elderly Choctaw men and women on the bus, the line was long. Like in most corner store restrooms, there was only room for one at a time. One went while everyone else waited.
r />   Mrs. Simmons had been widowed for almost ten years. Her husband of fifty years had died of a sudden heart attack. Before his death she was outgoing and friendly, always inviting folks over to enjoy her pork steaks and pashofa corn chowder.

  But once her husband passed on, she seemed to change overnight. She only left the house on Sunday mornings for church.

  When the final Elder had passed me, I jumped into line and followed them from the bus into the store. I watched as Mrs. Simmons wandered about and picked out a few snacks; a cherry fried pie, chocolate chip cookies, and a 7UP soda pop. She plopped her purse on the counter and raked everything out, looking for money.

  “See if this works,” she said, handing a card in payment to the cashier, a teenager who kept his head down, never looking at her.

  “Sure thing,” he said, bagging the snacks and running her card through the machine.

  “Is that enough money?” she asked. “My grandson gave it to me.”

  “That’s plenty, ma’am,” said the cashier.

  I turned away. Soon Jay followed her to the bus and helped her up the steps.

  “Why don’t you sit here, behind Lanny,” he said. “I’m sure Luksi won’t mind you sitting next to him.”

  “Oh, that is so sweet of you,” she said, and Jay took her by the elbows and eased her onto the seat. He then turned and helped a dozen other women onto the bus.

  I enjoyed watching Susan try to stop herself from hurrying everyone. Once, after helping an older man with a cane, I saw her step back and wrap her hands around her chin. She took a deep breath and smiled.

  When everyone was settled and in their seats, we took off in the direction of Tulsa. Michigan was still a thousand miles away. “Nice of your grandson to give you the credit card,” I said to Mrs. Simmons.

  “Yes, he is a very sweet boy. He gave it to me for the trip, and it was just the right amount of money.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The nice boy at the cash register didn’t ask me for any change. He said the card was exactly enough.”