Ancestor Approved

by Cynthia L. Smith

  “You go and find that Carly,” Grampa Halfmoon said. “Offer to help out at their booth.”

  Marita paused what she was doing, waved hello at Ray, and raised her camera again. She hailed from the Tigua people of Ysleta del Sur Pueblo, near El Paso.

  While working on the film, she was traveling from coast to coast with family, including her cousin-in-law Carly, who sold books and maps at powwows and other Native events.

  That morning at the hotel, over bacon and waffles, Grampa Halfmoon and Carly—who was Muscogee Creek and Cherokee—had really hit it off. Carly had shown a real interest when Ray opened his sketchbook and flipped through a few drawings he’d created on the train ride into Ann Arbor. Ray had appreciated the attention. His buddies back home were a lot of fun, but they mostly talked about sports, not art.

  In the vendor area, Ray spotted a T-shirt that said Ancestor Approved. He studied beadwork and bought a beaded key chain to give his grandfather. Finally, Carly waved Ray over and made space on the display table. “Good to see you again, kiddo. Want to draw right here?”

  “Sure thing, wado!” Settling in, Ray reached for a big coffee-table book on beadwork. He turned to a glossy, close-up color photo of an artist’s hands at work. Ray began sketching.

  In the concession stands area, Mel had slipped her paperback novel into her puffy purple coat pocket. She was maybe halfway through the story. She’d spent babysitting money on it. Mel felt obligated to push on through, but it was tough going.

  The Elder ladies were telling her all about their soon-to-be-architect niece’s plans to study abroad in Shanghai, about their visit to a fancy local delicatessen in Ann Arbor, about the station wagon they’d named “Maud,” about their car troubles, and about how Sheldon Sundown, the “dashing emcee,” had rescued them with jumper cables last night in the hotel parking lot.

  Mel listened and listened and listened and listened, and finally, she happened to mention that the documentary being filmed outside was about Native military vets.

  “You don’t say!” Priscilla exclaimed. “Isn’t that interesting, Laurel?”

  “She served in the navy,” Laurel said, handing Mel an orange pop.

  “I served in the navy,” Priscilla echoed. “Do I ever have stories to tell!”

  Sipping her icy drink, Mel could only imagine. A few minutes later, the sisters excused themselves to go talk to Marita the filmmaker and . . . Mel felt better.

  A hearty dose of caring Elders had done her good.

  Mel wandered into the gym, figuring that by now her mom had to be done with the filming and probably got caught up chatting. With Laurel and Priscilla in the mix, she might be outside socializing until dinner. Mel grinned at the thought. Her first real smile of the day.

  Scanning the bleachers, Mel made her way to a spot in the top corner to sit. She’d tied the padded coat around her waist and had to twist a bit to fish the novel out of the pocket.

  Mel opened the paperback, closed it again. She tapped the novel against her knee. It was a fantasy story, and Mel loved fantasy. It had the word “Indian” in the title, and she’d wanted to read a story with a Native character. But it was chock-full of old-timey Hollywood Indian speak. Mel regretted the five bucks she’d spent on it at her local used bookstore.

  About halfway down the bleachers, a girl about her age with cropped dark hair was using a real camera (not a phone app) to photograph an adorable, chubby baby wearing a beaded headband. What with the music of the drum and a gym full of people, Mel couldn’t hear their laughter—the baby’s or the girl’s—but she could feel it.

  She considered making her way over to them and introducing herself, but what would she say? Mel had felt lost—more anxious than usual—since her best friend Emma had moved to Lansing over winter break. Mel’s counselor had encouraged her to come to the powwow today instead of staying home with her auntie and little cousins. “Maybe you’ll make a new friend.” But it was always hard for Mel, talking to new people. She got nervous, froze up. What if she made a fool of herself?

  The photographer girl looked so happy, confident.

  Mel opened her book once more and tried again.

  For the first time, Ray’s sketch of beading hands, the sketch that poured from his colored pencils, resembled actual human hands. Sort of. Close enough. What a day!

  It had helped to begin by breaking the palms and finger joints into basic shapes and paying more attention to the spaces between the fingers. He’d made real progress, and along the way, he’d also helped sell four copies of the pricey coffee-table book on beading.

  Passersby were drawn in, curious to watch his artistic process.

  “Kiddo, you’ve got a real future in bookselling,” Carly said with a chuckle.

  Ray ducked his head, embarrassed, and excused himself to get some fry bread.

  “Hang on.” Carly handed over some cash and waved him on. “Get me a Navajo taco and a drink, too.” As Ray went searching for lunch, Carly considered the available options.

  Where to show off Ray’s terrific new sketch? Table space was at a premium.

  Being a Black Indian cowboy and a two-spirit activist, Carly proudly stocked nonfiction and poetry on both subjects, along with Native-created novels and a handful of picture books. Carly liked poetry the best, the way the words could light up a heartbeat, a misread signal, a careful stitch, or a sudden shift from strangers to friends.

  After reconfiguring the book arrangement twice, Carly finally decided to display Ray’s artwork in front alongside the bookmarks and business cards. They propped it up at an angle.

  In the concessions area, Ray had more than one option for the World’s Best Fry Bread, but he chose the stand where a boy who was about his age was chopping lettuce. Those would be interesting hands to draw. But then Ray remembered the girl with the book who’d hollered at him outside. Should he risk distracting the boy with the knife in his hand or interrupting while the stand was so busy? Probably not. Okay, Ray thought, back to the camera app. Only this time he’d be stealthier.

  Joey, a Turtle Mountain Band Ojibwe, set the kitchen knife down. “Hey, there. Uh, what’s so exciting about lettuce?”

  Ray had been caught in the act again. He shrugged. “I . . . I wasn’t taking a picture of the lettuce. I was taking a picture of your hands chopping it.” He held out his phone to show Joey all his photos of hands. “I use the pics as models to draw different positions.”

  “Huh. Good for you, man,” Joey said, reaching for a ripe tomato.

  Ray glanced down at his phone screen. It might be interesting to do a collage with all the photos of the hands in addition to drawing them. “You really sell the world’s best fry bread?”

  Joey tossed up the tomato, caught it one-handed. “We’ve all got our talents.”

  Appreciating the pose, Ray grinned and took a picture.

  Carly took off a straw cowboy hat. “I’ve got just the book for you.”

  Mel brightened at the cover of Skeleton Man. She liked spooky stories.

  “There’s a sequel, too,” Carly added, reaching. “I’ve got it right here.”

  Mel set her orange pop on the display table so she could flip through Skeleton Man, not realizing her drink was resting unevenly on Carly’s business cards. Then she set her purse on the foldout table next to it and peeked inside her wallet.

  “I’ll take the first one.” Mel frowned. “Don’t have enough money for both.”

  “You don’t say.” Carly arched a brow. “What’s that sticking out of your pocket?”

  Mel pulled out the book she’d given up on. “I couldn’t get into it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Carly glanced at the cover, read the description on the back, and nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. How’s about I trade you this for The Return of Skeleton Man?”

  What a deal! In the exchange, Mel bumped into her purse, which bumped into her cup, which was already a tiny bit tilted, and ka-splash! The orange pop went everywhere. Inside Mel’s purse, onto her pu
ffy coat, onto her new books, and all over Ray’s drawing.

  Ray was walking up when he saw the accident. He hurried over, handing the food and drinks to Carly, who quickly turned to set it all on a cardboard box on the floor. Then Ray lifted Mel’s purse out of the way.

  “Give that back!” she exclaimed, yanking her purse back. A second later, Mel recognized him. “It’s you, from outside. Why are you following me?”

  “I am not following you!” Ray exclaimed. His voice bottomed out. “My sketch . . .”

  “What?” She glanced down. “Oh.” She realized that had been his drawing. Biting her lip, she appreciated the time it must’ve taken. The skill it must’ve taken. Orange soda pop was already staining the paper. The bookmarks and business cards were ruined, too.

  “I’ll run and get napkins,” Ray said as fizzy liquid dripped off the table to the floor.

  “Take it easy, kids,” Carly began, clearing a stack of books out of the way. “It’s a shame, but these things hap—” Ray had already disappeared in the crowd.

  Mel began to back away, hugging her new books. “Sorry, sorry,” she said to Carly. “I’m so sorry. I, um, my mom just texted me. I’ve got to go.”

  Before long, Ray returned with a whole roll of paper towels—donated by Joey—to sop up the spill. By then, Mel was gone. Ray thought about trying to find her, to tell her that there were no hard feelings. But, he figured, if she’d wanted to be friends, she wouldn’t have rushed off like that. Besides, his fry bread was calling to him.

  That evening, settling in on the Amtrak Wolverine train, Grampa Halfmoon was admiring his new beaded key chain and telling Ray all about the film shoot. “. . . Grand Traverse Band, they said. This lady, Priscilla was her name—she was there with her sister, Laurel. Real friendly, both of them. I sure do like folks who like to talk.”

  “Me too,” Ray said, distracted. Right then a familiar-looking girl carrying a new, slightly orange paperback novel was walking toward them with a grown-up woman.

  Grampa smiled at the woman. “Good to see you again! This is my grandson, Ray.”

  “You too! This is my daughter, Melanie.”

  As the two kids traded awkward hellos, their respective grown-ups picked up their conversation from earlier that day, discussing the Cubs baseball team. Which was all well and good, except that other passengers, standing behind mother and daughter, needed to get seated.

  “Ray, how ’bout you sit over there with Melanie while we visit,” Grampa suggested.

  Lacking any excuse not to, Ray grabbed his clear backpack and relocated across the aisle.

  For nearly an hour, he and Mel sat side by side on the train in absolute silence. She began reading Skeleton Man. He opened his sketch pad and—studying a photo on his phone—began drawing Joey’s hand, modeling the tomato from the World’s Best Fry Bread stand.

  Mel liked her new book much better than the one she’d traded away, but she couldn’t help sneaking the occasional peek at what Ray was doing. He caught her looking and offered a wan smile. Was he still mad at her? she wondered. He didn’t seem mad.

  “I’m sorry I spilled pop all over your drawing this afternoon,” she said in a quiet rush. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t even notice the picture until . . .” That hadn’t sounded right. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a good picture,” she went on. “It was really pretty.” Was he one of those boys who hated anything to do with himself being called “pretty”? She hoped not.

  Mel pursed her lips. She still wasn’t happy about him randomly taking pictures of her, but she didn’t want him to think that she’d ruined his work on purpose either.

  Ray took a breath. She was talking to him. Least he could do was reciprocate. “It’s okay, Melanie.” He said her name slowly, like he was trying out the word. “Really, my ferret has eaten some of my best artwork. He’s spilled watery paint on it, shredded it, stolen it.”

  Was that insulting, comparing her to his pet? Ray didn’t mean it that way. “Not that you’re like a ferret. You’re definitely a person.”

  At Mel’s quizzical, vaguely amused expression, he reached for his phone and tapped his camera app a couple of times to show her a photo of Bandit.

  Mel grinned at the image. “He’s cute. Lots of personality?”

  “So much personality,” Ray agreed. “My grampa calls him ‘ornery.’”

  Ray tapped his screen a couple more times to get back to the grid of photos. He tapped the image of Mel’s hands, holding the paperback novel she’d traded away at Carly’s booth. He’d done his best to zoom in, but the photo wasn’t as good as those he’d taken from a closer distance.

  “Sorry, I should’ve asked first.” There, he’d said it. Ray had been tempted to explain away the mistake by saying he didn’t want to interrupt her reading—like he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Joey chopping lettuce at the fry bread stand. But truth was, it was never easy for Ray to talk to new people. So he handed her the phone instead.

  Mel scrolled and studied his images. A lot of pics of Grampa Halfmoon and Bandit, a handful of Wrigley Field and sparkling lake views. So many hands—young and old, shaded in a range of beiges and browns. She glanced at his open notebook again.

  Returning the phone, she said, “You’re an artist.”

  The whole train seemed to shimmer. The stars shone brighter out the window.

  Ray knew Grampa and his art teacher believed in him, but nobody had ever said, “You’re an artist.” Just like that. Let alone someone his own age. Maybe Mel wasn’t easy to get to know, but she sure did have a kind heart. “I’m trying to learn how to draw people,” he said. “Hands—they’re hard. So are feet. I haven’t even tried feet yet.”

  Then they were chatting away. Mel said she was Muscogee Creek and Odawa, that her friends called her “Mel,” and that she lived with her mom and a tabby cat named Dragon in Kalamazoo. Ray said he was Cherokee and Seminole, that his friends called him Ray, and that he lived with Bandit and Grampa Halfmoon in the Albany Park neighborhood of Chicago.

  “Maybe you and your mom could meet up with me and Grampa for a Cubs game,” Ray suggested, ducking his head a little. “Would you like that, Mel?”

  He wanted to see her again? “Yeah,” Mel said. “I mean, I’d have to check with my mom, but I think she’d really go for it.”

  Earlier that day, Mel had been in a bad mood. She hadn’t liked that one book. She’d hardly paid attention to the Fancy Shawl dancers, and they were her favorite. Sure, she’d had some nice moments, hanging out with her mom, talking to Priscilla, Laurel, and Carly.

  But mostly, even though she’d been surrounded by so many people, Mel had felt alone and tight in her skin. She and Ray had gotten off to a rough start. Make that “starts”—plural. Who would’ve guessed that she’d end up with a new friend?

  “Can you draw my hands reading this book instead?” Mel opened Skeleton Man. “I’m sitting right here beside you. You won’t even have to take a picture.”

  “Glad to,” Ray replied, breaking out his colored pencils.

  Circles

  Carole Lindstrom

  First powwow.

  First plane ride—Detroit!

  Arriving at high school,

  Nations are gathering.

  Mom met Dad

  and moved far away.

  Raised apart

  and distant from

  our ways.

  Want to remember

  everything.

  Trusty camera—check!

  Show and share with friends

  back in DC.

  Not during honor songs

  or sacred moments.

  Ask first outside arena.

  And don’t touch regalia.

  Ready!

  Drum pounds

  BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM.

  Ground under my feet

  sounds

  boom boom boom boom.

  It feels like home.

  Like a circle

  joining together,


  a line heading

  in opposite

  directions.

  We come together

  Like a circle.

  Like we

  never left.

  Because we are

  all related.

  Women in their jingle dresses,

  straight and tall,

  glide across the floor in their

  soft moccasins—barely touching,

  leather, wood,

  leather, air,

  making circles as they float.

  Circles

  In the jingles

  In the skirts

  In the drum

  In the turns

  In the lives

  Fancy dancers in bright regalia

  spin and dip.

  Colorful ribbons adorn,

  feathers flying

  in the sky,

  making whirling circles.

  Circles

  In the feathers

  In the footwork

  In the beadwork

  In the drum

  In the lives.

  Auntie Rose

  bouncing grandbabies

  on her round knees.

  Baby Savannah wearing her

  beaded headband.

  Beads, circles,

  touched by

  aunties, kokums,

  and me.

  Bleachers filled with relatives,

  some seeing each other

  for the first time.

  Is that Cousin Charlie

  at the big drum?

  I’ve only seen him in photos.

  And Cousin Wanda

  lining up for the Shawl Dance?

  We are all related,

  no matter how far apart.

  Raised with powwows, or not.

  We are all connected.

  Coming together,

  like circles.

  Glossary

  “FANCY DANCER” BY MONIQUE GRAY SMITH

  Cree glossary

  kisâkihitin: I love you.

  kinânskomitin: Thank you. I’m grateful to you.