The honor beats struck, loud drum beats accentuating the rhythm of the song, and Bugz raised her eagle fan high in the air. She swung it from side to side with the downbeats as though brushing the pain and sickness from her community in one direction, boom, boom, boom, and then lifting their spirits back up in the other direction, boom, boom. As the honor beats ended, she kept her fan in the air for a moment. Her jingles splayed in all directions, the eagle plume in her hair danced in the breeze, and her expression froze with the realization of her inheritance. In this moment, Bugz found peace. She no longer projected the image of a strong Anishinaabe woman—she simply shone the light of her spirit on all those around her.

As the singers at the big drum started the next push-up, or cycle, of their song, two dozen other young jingle dress dancers stepped from the periphery and into the center of the arbor to dance their styles. Each used the same basic steps, but just as their regalia featured colors and designs that brought their personalities into stark relief, so too did their moves embody the uniqueness of their characters. Together, these women inspired an invisible wave of pride to sweep across the crowd. A round of applause broke out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let them know if you like what you see…”

Of course the pow-wow emcee can’t let a beautiful moment pass without trying to put his stamp on it. Bugz’s internal monologue rebooted, but her pow-wow spirit overrode it. She was on autopilot and would dance to the end of the song in fine form. For five minutes, she defeated her anxiety.

Bugz glanced at the emcee stand on the east side of the arbor and glimpsed her parents. They stood in the same spot as twelve years earlier, when Bugz had walked out into the circle in ceremony, when her community welcomed her into the pow-wow circle for her first dance and followed her around the arbor for the first time. Her father, Frank Holiday, in jeans and a baseball cap, stood with his chest wide and smile wider. Her mother, Summer, stood to the right, wearing one of those cheesy smiles Bugz saw on parents recording videos of their child’s first steps. Bugz studied her mother, the very picture of Anishinaabe royalty. Summer wore a Pendleton jacket, a white cowboy hat, and an eagle-whistle necklace adorned with beautiful beadwork.

Bugz eyed the whistle, made from the wing bone of a bald eagle, a ceremonial item sacred to those on the pow-wow trail and to the Anishinaabe way of life. Bugz longed for her mother to pass it on to her. Bugz wanted it so bad she licked her lips, triggering a hunger as old as she could remember. Perhaps in a few more years.