I Always Get Pranked At Powwows

Gee, cuzzin … the last time I went to a powwow was kinda crazy.

It was one of those outdoor powwows, those kind out west that stretch deep into the night, where the drumbeats blend into heartbeats, and the traditional glow of countless concession stands lights up the midnight campgrounds … the air thick with the smell of frybread, sweetgrass, and campfire smoke—just the right mix to make a Blackfoot feel right at home.

It’s 2AM, and holay cuzzin, the energy was thicker than bear grease: world champ drum groups locked in fierce competition, voices rising in harmony with the pounding of the tight hides … dancers float across the arena, jingles and beadwork flashing under the dim arena lights, like spirits in the night … way off to the side, by the stick games, a few Richie Rich redskins betting big bucks, laughing, and hollering, war crying and secret handshaking.

And me, cuzzin? I wasn’t in the arena. I wasn’t at the drum. I wasn’t stick gaming. I wasn’t even near the concession stands trying to sweet talk my third free Indian Taco from the aunties.

Drumming, naw? Singing, naw? Dancing, naw? Gambling, naw? Not my style, cuzzin. Me, I was busy Snagging … me and Mean Alvine in a tiny tent tucked away behind the stick games - “over der by da big tipi” (*points with lips).

Now, Mean Alvine, ndns didn’t call her “Mean” for nothing ... she had a sharp tongue, sharper cheekbones, and a sharp attitude that could knock a Blackfoot off his size 14 moccasins ... she had that kind of toughness that made a warrior work for her attention—exactly why I was in that duct taped Wal-Mart tent, paying extra attention.

She leaned in, her long beaded earrings swaying, her lips curling into a grin.

"I loooove how you talk," she purred, like a rez cat. "Say something smooth."

Oh, you know me cuzzin, I got rhymes for days and words for weeks. I smirked, tilted my head, and let the words roll off my tongue like licorice:

"Enunciate well, so that you can tell, I am not illiterate, no not even a little bit?"

Mean Alvine gasped, moving closer like I had just dropped the smoothest verse she ever heard. "OHHH, rap for me!"

Now, I may not be a rapper, but I wasn’t about to back down. I nodded, stepped up my game, and went even smoother:

"I’m a bipolar polar bear, zipping up a polar fleece, drinking Polar Ice and Pepsi Cola on a coral reef …"

She winced a little. "Naaaaw, rap that gangsta sh*t, that thug sh*t."

The 90s thug in me knows exactly what to say … I took a deep pull on our joint, leaned in close, summoned the struggles of my ancestors, and let the bars flow (all in one breath):

"Yo, yo, yo … is it … money or women, or funny beginnings, tragic endings, I can make a million and still not get enough of spending, and since my life is based on sinning, I’m hell-bound, I’d rather be buried than be worried, living held down …"

Mean Alvine bit her lip, eyes locked on me. “MMMMMHMMMM.”

Reading the room/tent, I flow harder:

“Pleeaase Creator, can you understand me? … bless my family … guide us all, before we fall into insanity-”

I’m “rudely” interrupted mid-verse by the boom of the powwow loudspeaker, the powwow announcer’s stern voice cutting through the campground like a battle cry:

"JASON EAGLESPEAKER, YOUR KIDS ARE CRYING IN THE CAR, THEY NEED MORE CHEEZIES AND ORANGE POP. GET BACK OVER THERE OR CHILD WELFARE WILL BE CALLED!!!"

Mean Alvine froze. I froze. The tent froze. The powwow grounds froze.

And then—chaos.

Champion drum groups stop mid song and “lose it”, banging their drums off beat, taunting me telepathically. Powwow Dancers turn their heads mid-step, tripping over their regalia. Stick game gamblers stop gambling for a second and roll their eyes. All the aunties at the concession stand wiped tears from their frybread grease soaked cheeks. Elders laughed their dentures out. Even Babies in their strollers did a spittake with their pacifiers and giggled at my expense. Geez, now I guess I’ll be invited as Guest of Honor at countless “Baby’s First Laugh” ceremonies. Perfect!

And the funny part?

I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE KIDS AT THE POWWOW (lol)

I tried to explain to Mean Alvine, but she was already cackling, I didn’t even know Natives could cackle.

I swore I heard my ancestors’ maniacal laughter, too. F*ckers (lol).

Check this out:

This wasn’t even the first time this happened.

It started way back in my teens—some random powwow, some random announcer, some random rez, some random snag, same exact prank. Then, in my twenties, it happened again. Different powwow, different rez, dfferent snag, different anouncer, but the same exact words:

"Jason Eaglespeaker, your kids are crying in the car …"

By the time I hit my thirties, it had become legendary (apparently). East coast powwows, west coast powwows, even those corny pretendian powwows that have no actual ndns there. Didn’t matter.

Everywhere I went, some powwow announcer somehow got a hold of the mic and BOOMED my name out across the campgrounds. Every. Single. Time.

And the funniest part?

I still don’t know who’s behind it. F*ckers (lol).

To this day, I don’t know which cuzzin, which uncle, which ex is out there pulling this off. I even interrogated every single one of my ancestors. No one confesses. But I know they’re out there. Watching. Waiting. And the next time I show up at a powwow, I already know what’s coming.

If you find out who’s behind it … let me know. Cash reward.

Anyways, Mean Alvine, call me (lol).