Potlatch

I sat down and joined in at the table where everyone was beading chokers out of leather and some sort of catgut-like substance. Children and their parents puzzled over poorly photocopied instructions, but all eventually turned to the elderly woman sitting to my left for help. "I don't know how to do it!" she finally said, flustered, "Just because I'm old and I'm Indian, doesn't mean I know how to do all this Indian stuff." She then gestured toward me, because I seemed to know what I was doing. And so I found myself, as genetically caucasian as humanly possible, teaching native crafts to natives.

So how, you ask, do I find myself in this situation? My dad was invited to an aboriginal potlatch event because of his support for the aboriginal education program in the local school district. They had even given him his very own custom made vest with a Haida motif on the back, though to be honest, I have no idea what it was supposed to represent. Usually you see eagles and whales, but this one looked kind of like a man with an afro. Maybe it was supposed to look like him.

I didn't have to go with him, but I went for lunch. The salmon is to die for. They've been cooking salmon here for thousands of years, regardless of whose theory of origins you subscribe to, and they have it down to an art. I have yet to discover their secret, and until I do, I will continue to show up at these things.

Some kids from local schools provided entertainment and some of it was really good. The entertainment however wasn't enough to distract us all from the woman who discretely shoveled the contents of her childrens' plates into ziploc bags, then sent them back for lunch. It's sad that in a country as well off as ours that people have to do stuff like that.

Then again, if I had had the foresight to have brought bags with me, maybe I would have done the same thing. It's good salmon.