On a cold morning, when I was quite young, I would take the scratchy woolen blanket from my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and then wander into the kitchen where my father would be fixing himself a cup of instant coffee.  He would look at me when I entered the room, frown a little and say, "That's Indian.  Go put on your robe."

And so, I would go put on my robe. 

It was quilted satin, white, with a trail of pink rosebuds around the hem and up the front.  It was quite pretty, a little princess robe, cozy and wonderfully smooth to the touch.  Even the buttons were covered with satin.  There was nothing about that robe that any little girl would not love.  And yet, I loved the scratchy woolen blanket around my shoulders more.  I felt protected, surrounded by love, cradled, you might say, by that old, faded blue blanket.

I did not know all those years ago that the blanket was my first shawl.  My Native American heritage was hidden from me in my younger years and so the lessons whispered to me by the ancestors were not understood by me.  It wasn't until I was much older that I became aware of the significance a shawl had to a Native American female.  All I knew back then, was that I was more satisfied swathed in that rough piece of wool than I was buttoned up in the smooth quilted satin.



The Pink Shawl Project began in 2003 as a way to bring awareness to Native American women of the need to be tested for breast cancer.  The death rate from breast cancer in NA women is higher than the national average.

This is not a physical inferiority.  Native American women are not less hardy than any other race.  It is rather, a fault of culture.  Traditionally raised Native American women are modest and do not, as a general rule, make an outward display of emotion.  Simply put, you will never see them cry in public.  You will not overhear them discussing their personal health in the check out line at the grocery store.  It's just not done.  They keep their miseries to themselves.  Even if it kills them. 

Add to the cultural restraint the handed down distrust of non-tribal authority figures, like physicians, well, it's easy to see why not being pro-active in health matters can be a death sentence for them.  Self-inflicted, be that as it may.



 
So, something had to be done about this situation.  Breast cancer is survivable.  A way had to be found to get through to the women that it is good to be pro-active when it comes to health issues.  A way had to be found to weave this knowledge into the traditions in a way that would make an impact on the women who upheld the traditions of the tribes. 

And so the Pink Shawl Project was born.

It wasn't until the Summer of 2008 that I even became aware of the Pink Shawls.  I was attending a traditional pow wow with a young friend, it was the first time either one of us had attended this particular one, and also the first time I saw the Pink Shawls. 

It was not a big pow wow so it was quite easy to pick bright colored fringed shawls out from the regular displays of regalia and I wondered what they were about, especially since a couple of them had the pink ribbon loop sewn onto them.  I knew what that meant of course, but it wasn't until the director of ceremonies announced that there was to be a blessing of the shawls of breast cancer patients that I made a connection.

After the blessing there would be an honor drum and any who had been affected by breast cancer, whether it was as a current patient, by surviving, by being a friend or relative of a survivor, by being a friend or relative of someone who did not survive.  If you were in anyway affected by breast cancer you were invited to dance, in prayer if you so wished, around the drum.

My young friend and I were sitting at a picnic table enjoying our frybread when the director made the annoucement that the blessing was about to begin.  I looked at my friend and said, "We should dance for the breast cancer patients."

She nodded in agreement, "We should.  I know a few women who have beat it."

"Me, too," I said,  "Two of my mother's sisters.  Both have survived the five year test.  One of them has survived two different battles with breast cancer."

My friend stared at me hard because this was news to her.  She was acquainted with my aunts, but had not known of their struggles with the disease.  "Well," she said at last, "Definitely. We will dance."  So, we got up from the picnic table and started towards the arena.

Now, as I mentioned, this was a small traditional pow wow out in the middle of the woods.  For a pow wow, an arena is made by cordoning off a circular area that has an entrance facing east. Always east.  That is the direction of new beginnings.   In the middle of the arena another circle is made of cedar posts spaced a certain distance apart with a roof made from cedar boughs.  Cedar is one of the four sacred medicines.  It cleanses. Once the arena is made and is cleansed, it is then sacred and must not be dishonored.

Within the bough covered center circle the drum keeps up a steady beat, most of the time accompanied by chanters or singers.  If you do not like the constant sound of a drumbeat in the background, a pow wow is probably not the place for you.  But, if you do attend one, eventually, as you listen, you hear less and less the beat of the drum and more and more the beat of your heart.  And with the rhythm of the heart and the beat of the drum, the dancers dance around the center circle.

There were not a great many dancers that day and most of the attendees were not in regalia.  Observers outnumbered participants about 4-to-1.  Up to that point the dancers circling the drum in the center of the arena were sparse, to put it kindly.  But, after the announcement, there was a suble shift in crowd movement towards the opening in the arena and once where there was a shyness of joining in, there was now a coming together.

Women of all ages, all shapes and sizes, blondes, brunettes, long braided hair, short curly hair.  No hair.  We all came together to honor and pray for those affected by breast cancer.

To one side of the arena, five women, seated on folding chairs, sat in front of their pink shawls that were spread on the ground before them.  With the smudge burning the sacred medicines, the Elder blessed the shawls, embuing them with prayers of hope, comfort and healing.  Infusing them with the strength the women would need to spiritually fight the cancer while the modern medicine battled the cancer cells themselves.  These two warriors, spiritual strength and modern medicine, both are needed to win the cancer battle.  The Elder said this.

And, it is not just the women who battle this disease, but there are men too, who are stricken with breast cancer.  A second Elder, a woman, said this.   She went on to explain and reassure everyone attending that it is not a weakness to seek treatment.  That we are meant to care for our bodies while we have them and that testing and mammograms is a good way to do this....and that the Pink Shawls were a reminder that we must care for ourselves.

So, we were gathered at the entrance of the arena, listening while the Elders spoke, watching as the Pink Shawls were blessed. And as this was happening, the daughter of one of the breast cancer patients began to walk among us gathered women.

She touched every one of us,
most of us strangers to her. 
Ever so lightly,
she touched our shoulders,
each and every one of us,
and looked us in the eye when we turned to see
who had touched us where our shawls would be. 
Thank you, she was saying. 
Without saying a word. 
Just by a touch and a look. 
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for bringing your strength to my mother. 
Thank you for bringing your strength to all the patients.
Thank you for bringing your prayers.
Thank you for bringing your hope.
Thank you.
I, her daughter,
thank you.
 
Among us women she walked,
dozens and dozens of women,
she walked among us,
touching us,
thanking us.
In return,
we tipped our heads forward slightly,
acknowledging, nodding lightly,
without saying a word.
We said. 
We understand, sister. 
We know. 
Your mother is our mother.

The blessings ended, the Elders stopped speaking, and the drum began.
Boom.......boom.......boom...boom..boom..boomboomboomboom and so began the chanters.  Hey-ya...hey....hey-ya...hey...and the drum matched the beat of our collective heart as we walked through the smudge, some of us twirling, cleansing ourselves before entering the arena.  We held an offering of sema, tobacco, in our hands, to be sprinkled upon the ground as we danced, and soon we were massed as one, in a hoop around the drum center, and the arena was closed off. 

And, surrounding our dancing circle of women was another circle.  A hoop of our warriors, our men, ringed around us, arms outstretched holding ceremonial weapons of protection, t'hawks and batons.  No one would interfere while we honored the cancer patients.  No one.

We were safe....to honor.

We were free....to honor.

And, inside this safety, upon this sacred ground, in toe-heel, toe-heel steps matching the rythym of the drum heart beat...

...we danced.
 





"Friends" by Daniel Ramirez