Passage I

PROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from the short story "Aggi's Last Dance" by Josephine Huntington(©1997 by Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird).

A few days after the ice breakup, the seagulls returned. They arrived in flocks, soaring and diving as they searched the shallow shores for food.I paid them no mind. A few days later, while cleaning the area of beach in front of my house, I saw one large seagull lagging behind as the others swiftly soared, twisted, and glided over the open water. It took him a little longer to gain height, but his drop was done with such ease and grace that he appeared to be dancing. How lovely! I thought. Sitting on an old weathered log I watched until my back started to ache. Finally, I stood up and slowly stretched out my stiff limbs. Returning to the house, I put a kettle of water on to boil and went to lie down on my narrow cot. Behind my closed eyes a large white seagull danced before me.

The whistling of the tea kettle jarred me awake. While preparing the tea I hummed an old song. It was a tune that often came to me, but not the words. Songs and dances are passed from generation to generation. I barely remember when we last had to learn a new song or dance. Setting my cup on the yellow tabletop, my mind returned to the seagull.

The sun streaming through ruffled curtains turned to deep gold when I got up to reheat a pot of caribou stew. The bubbling stew filled the room with a delicious smell, but I hardly noticed. It's as if I were in a trance. Moving to the middle of the kitchen I took the position of a female dancer—standing with both feet together, knees slightly bent. With arms extended behind my back, I let them rise and fall...rise and fall...as if taking flight. Lowering my left arm, the right arm is stretched high above my head, first in one direction then another. I tried many different positions and changed the song a little each time. After almost stumbling into the table when leaning into a dive, I decided to stop. My legs were shaking and I was breathing hard. Resting my head against the wall, I closed my eyes, feeling tired, but excited by my new creation.

On the third Thursday of the month, I am plaiting my long silver hair into a single braid and listening to the radio when the announcer reports a chill factor of minus 60 degrees. Maybe only a few people will show up for the annual village corporation meeting this evening.

When I arrive the gymnasium is packed and noisy. Old Abe, an Elder Representative who speaks both Inupiaq and English fluently, is asked to "open with prayer" First, he prays in Inupiaq and then in English. Reports and awards for community service follow. The Midnight Sun Dancers, billed as “entertainment,” appear last on the agenda.

It is after nine o'clock and people are getting restless when the dancers come forward. The audience claps as each dancer files by wearing his or her finest native garments—women in parkas of bright fabric precede male dancers in white hunting jackets. Each wears knee-length mukluks and gloves trimmed in fancy beadwork with thick bands of wolf, fox, and wolverine. I am a singer, have chosen to wear a muskrat-skin parka trimmed with black-and-white reindeer strips and wolverine tassels. The parka is old, but still beautiful. My old friend Lillie made it for me when I was sent to Washington,D.C, to dance for the president of the United States many years ago.

Drumbeats fill the air as I struggle to my feet, pull on my gloves, and walk to the center of the stage. My own high voice starts the story. With subtle movements, I thrust my neck in and out and the wolverine tassels sway rhythmically. Arms gently flutter, then I thrust my chest forward and soar heavenward. I float on a breeze, then swoop, glide, and scan the shallow shores for signs of food. With arms extended rearward; I proceed to descend. This is the most dangerous part for me—the seagull's dive—because of age my balance isn't what it once was. The flat-bottomed oogruk mukluks help, but if I should lean too far forward I fear falling in front of the whole village. When entering the dive, I concentrate on the drums, drawing my arms back as far as they will go, leaning forward, dropping lower and lower. As I near the floor I begin to beat my wings to propel myself upright, thrusting my chest forward. Slowly turning in a circle I repeat each motion. It is a few seconds before I become aware of the thunderous applause that fills the room. My face goes hot and I smile in happiness. The sound of my own people's applause fills my heart.