Stories are important for everyone, and particularly for indigenous people whose traditions have survived through narratives.
When I first heard of narrative medicine, I figured that western medicine had taken a page from my Native ancestors. Get the patients to tell their stories.
In fact, Columbia University boasts a program in narrative medicine directed at healthcare workers—doctors, nurses, therapists, etc.—to prepare them to listen to their patients’ stories. Continue reading
When I walk into my office I smell sage.
It smells like home.
My cousin gave me a sage garland to place in the house, a memory of my time at the Sundance. I take the garland into my office where I can smell the memories.
The sage smells like the plains, where many Lakota gather at summer’s start to fast and pray. My uncle tells me missionaries tried to stop Sundance gatherings but traditions have prevailed, and daughter Wee-Hey and I were invited to observe. Continue reading
1975 Lakota Delegation
John says they didn’t have much money and were happy. He and his brother spent mornings and afternoons engaged in chores, including trapping small game.
John kept a trapline that he would set in the evening and then check in the morning for muskrats or opossum—whatever critter could be enticed into the lair. Continue reading
Sitting Bull’s image graces a Rapid City sculpture
The flights from Portland were uneventful, and my daughter Wee-Hey and I are excited to spend time with our Lakota relatives, travel to the Pine Ridge reservation, and witness Sundance.
John reminds us that he’s also French, Osage, Kaw and Winnebago (Ho Chunk). Continue reading
>My editors want me to add a chapter to my book on the topic of American Indian identity.
Identity holds loads of currency. Seems folks find identity resonant.
But imagine writing a chapter on, say African American identity, or how about Swedish American? Chinese American? White American? What would you say? Continue reading
We wanted to know how people feel about Indian issues in the Pacific Northwest and recently discovered that opinions are mixed.
In fact, opinions are pretty lumpy.
Take, for example, the issue of sea lions at the Columbia River. Continue reading
Portland is a bicyclist’s town.
Take my daughter, Wee-hey.
She bikes to work with the countless denizens who choose this method of transport. Wee-hey pedals my mother’s ancient bike from Sears. Continue reading
Osage ribbon work
The Osage gather each June for the dances in the Grayhorse, Hominy and Pawhuska districts. My aunt and her daughter open their homes to relatives and friends, serving a bounty of food and offering beds and showers.
We spend the days and early evenings under the arbor, listening to the drum, dancing, and honoring neighbors, relatives and ancestors. Continue reading
Geronimo
I finished presenting a paper at an academic conference in Phoenix on authenticity, specifically the media portrayal of the ancient skeleton Kennewick man. And then authenticity hit the fan.
I was surrounded by stories of Indian verisimilitude. Continue reading
The smartest thing I ever did was hire an editor to help me with my book.
I’m not embarrassed to admit that I write and rewrite and then write again. It used to drive my editor crazy at the newspaper. Coleman, he’d say, you gotta write it just once. Then let it go.
I’d sneak back into the newsroom and rewrite my drafts.
Problem is I can’t let it go. Continue reading
Cynthia (Ištá Tȟó Tȟó) Coleman Emery's Blog 