Power of the powwow

Virtually every main street in Middle Tennessee boasts ties to Andrew Jackson. Given his actions against Native peoples, the region seemed an unlikely locale for an Indian powwow.

Yet in a corner of Middle Tennessee close to Jackson's old haunts, the powwow thrived in mid-October. In the orbit of its dance contests and chanting drummers, the tribal representatives were more at place anything linked to Old Hickory. From a forest-ringed meadow at Long Hunter State Park, we listened while circles of Indians pounded drums while wail in seldom-heard Native American languages. To their beats came a parade of tribal dancers from all corners of the country.

The Native American Indian Association of Tennessee hosted its 34th annual powwow, a rich gathering of traditions and preservation of tribal customs. This was not a nostalgia act; by dancing by singing, these cultures pulsed with energy.

As we walked up, drumming and chanting echoed into the parking lot. Inside, the voices swelled. Indian vendors everywhere – from jewelry to clothing to art to food, every facet was covered. Before we joined the drum circle spectators, we ate some honey-covered fry bread, a Native American necessity.


We stayed past dusk, when the temperatures plummeted to levels rarely felt in Tennessee’ October. The tribes even moved up their schedule so the dancers would not have to compete in near-freezing temperatures. Even with hot chocolate, my lack of coat forced us to cut short the powwow viewing.

Cold as I was, we had to stick for the grand entrance. As darkness crept up, the dancers queued far into the meadow. All the dancers paraded through the circle, then took part in a communal dance as the drummers wailed and pounded. It was a grant event. Men and women of all ages, from babes in arms to tribal elders, entered the circle behind the flag-bearers, interpreting the drumbeats as it fit them. One little fellow, maybe 10 years old and with Down’s Syndrome, wandered outside the spiral. No one admonished him; he wore his tribal outfit, danced however he could and was as much a part of the festivities as the man in wolfskin spinning and jumping wildly.

The man in wolfskin was entrancing, completely steeped in tradition. His movements seemed unhinged, only limited by the drummers’ pounding. I tried to photograph him, but only captured his spinning motion as a swirling blur.

Maybe it’s best the photographs came out poorly. What we watched goes back beyond the camera, and it’s best to let the dances whirl in the brain. In quiet moments, I can hear the drums creep back into my mind. Yes, it is not my culture but I can still celebrate it – we can leave the powwow, but it doesn’t leave us.