I sat on one of the chairs facing the large drum, as Brenda pulled Megan aside, asking her if she understood the significance of the gesture she had made toward me. “Respect?” Meghan ventured. “No. It’s honor,” she said. “You have honored her by asking her to drum with us.” With patience, Brenda explained that normally non-Abenakis do not participate in drum circles. My presence in the circle was only permitted because Megan, a young member of the Abenaki community, had invited me to participate. Brenda mimicked a drumming motion with her wrists and told me to follow the lead of a teenage girl on the opposite side of the circle. “We will play the song of honor. Just follow Justine,” she said. I watched the methodical pounding of the mallets, as the sound from the drum guided the rhythmical dancing of the kids around us. The others in the circle beside me sung long notes and pounded in time. I didn’t sing, but focused on the movement of my wrists. Like a teenager holding hands for the first time, I smiled nervously, taken aback by the intimacy of the moment. Sensing the end of the song, I locked eyes with Justine as she gave the final power beat.
drums began again and Megan ran towards me with her little hand extended. “Come dance!” she said. “I don’t know how,” I replied, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the circle. “It’s easy. Just tap your feet, like this.” she said. As her elders had showed her years before, she mimed the dance, gently tapping the floor in front of her before each step forward. I mimicked, grinning as we moved together around the circle. • A few hours before, I had been to an Abenaki Burial site in Swanton, a ten-minute drive from the community center on a road that shadows the path of the Missiquoi River — a tributary nearly eighty miles in length that winds through the northern section of Vermont and the southern portion of Quebec. A wooden totem pole stood at the end of the road that showed the order of life: sturgeon, turtle, otter, wolf, beaver, bear and eagle. I got out of my car and walked towards a small protrusion on the otherwise flat, grassy field. A small wrought-iron fence protected a makeshift monument, at the center of which sat two sticks crossed together in an X, held together by twine. Colorful ribbons and beaded bracelets dangled from the branches, offerings to the spirits. At the base of the mon-
“You have honored her by asking her to drum with us.”
I walked to the side of the room, trying to slow the nervous pounding of my heartbeat. The
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