Cultural Appropriation and the Blessingway

Years ago I got interested in ritual studies. After wading through piles of texts on the subject, I decided I couldn't really understand any of it with any depth if I remained on the outside looking in. I found a 1st Nations group that would allow me to participate in a healing sweatlodge they were holding. I've been thinking about this ritual I attended a lot lately because a few women I know are planning a Blessingway ceremony for a pregnant friend. If you'll notice at the bottom of the link, a footnote reads that a Navajo group has asked that the name of the ceremony be changed to Mother Blessing to separate our pretty bead offerings from their very sacred traditional rite. The women are complying with this request and changing it to become more of their own, personal rite, but it's made me think about cultural appropriation some more.

On the phone making arrangements to go to the sweatlodge, I wanted to know how long the ritual would last. It was to start at 7:00 pm, but nobody could give me any idea of when it would end. "It lasts as long as it lasts," was the only answer I could get. It wouldn't have been a concern except the location was a three hour drive, and I had to be at work in the morning. I also couldn't get a clear answer about the general set-up or events during the rite. All I was told with any definitiveness was that I should be respectful of their culture by wearing a skirt, and to bring a nightgown to change into.

We best conquer fear through knowledge. But these voices on the phone would not appease my need to have some solid ideas of the ritual before coming. "Just come on over and see for yourself." I had no idea how long I would be there. I had no idea who else would be involved. I had no idea what the hell we'd all be doing. Bring a nightgown?! I became more and more anxious as the date loomed closer. When the day finally arrived, I actually left a will behind. I had worked myself into such a tizzy over it, I wasn't sure I'd actually survive! I said my good-byes and left work an hour early to get there on time. I tape recorded my thoughts on the long drive up; my traveling rant was a means to develop my capacity for courage.

At the lodge I realized I was the only woman with about ten men. The men were all very friendly and exuded warmth, but I was still nervous. As a woman, I was responsible for preparing the lodge with cedar clippings. I changed into my nightie, and the men all showed up with towels around their waists. The men performing the ceremony asked that I never share specific details because they're tired of their rituals being taken and carelessly made profane by non-Natives in a misguided search for something spiritual. I'll share a few memories and feelings from the ritual, but not enough for it to be replicated or desecrated.

The men all sat cross-legged on the ground, but I was required to sit with my knees together to the side, off-balance. This is a painful position, but I tried to be very "zen" about it. We were all so close, knees were touching me on both sides. After the door flap was closed, we were in total darkness. It wasn't a darkness that your eyes can adjust to; we were blind, lost in the space around us. This was an exercise in sensory deprivation. Water was added to hot rocks in the center of the circle, and the men removed their towels. I was the only one clothed.

Would I be raped? There's something about the openness of the men that told me that I was very safe, but there was something about being surrounded by naked bodies in pitch darkness that filled me with terror. Each time I heard the ladle dip into the water, and I knew steam would fill the lodge, I had to breathe into my hands, or hold cedar to my nose to stay on top of it. I couldn't orient myself in space and used labour breathing to keep my panic at bay. Digging my fingers in the dirt at my sides kept me placed on the ground.

After several hours I began to accept the dark, oppressive atmosphere. I shifted positions and sat with my forehead resting on my bent knees, my face seeking out a pocket of air by my belly. The lodge became a confessional. Disembodied voices poured out their worst deeds, their most heinous thoughts and desires, and their worst pain. There were no conversations; it was all individual purging from all sides including my place in the circle. I was sitting with sexual abuse survivors, children of alcoholics, and people who struggle to contain their anger. People just like me. Relatives who had passed were called forth for advice and support. My mother had just recently died, but I could feel her comforting presence.

At two in the morning, we emerged. That first breath of cold night air shocked the system back to normal. We all dressed and shared food. A few of the men hugged me, and they sent me on my way emotionally and physically drained. I got in my car feeling discombobulated, and started the long drive home. Cars parked on the side of the highway invited me to do the same, but I kept on. I was spent, and the lights over the road were blurring together, but I was desperate to be home where everything was familiar. A night of invoking ghosts will do that to you.

Once safely at home, I locked up and went up to bed. No sooner did I hit the top of the stairs when there was a loud knock at the front door. Had someone followed me because a tail-light was broken? I looked out the living room window onto the porch but couldn't see anyone. They must have left. Then just as I passed the door on the way to the stairs, someone banged on it hard. But there was nobody outside!

I braced myself, telephone in hand with two digits dialed already, and opened the front door. It was Oscar. Apparently, when I had come inside, I had inadvertently trapped my cat between the screen and inside doors. He was glad to be free again, and we snuggled up in bed together.

People sometimes ask if I had a vision that night, but I was too scared to really experience the ritual fully. I'm asked if it bothered me that men and women there have different rules and roles to follow. I was only allowed into their culture for a few hours, so can't really comment on the division of genders for that particular ceremony. But I can say that I've never been in the presence of a group of men so honest, vulnerable, and kind, and I would have done whatever tasks they wanted done to be part of this rite.

As for appropriating other cultures' rituals, we have to start somewhere to develop rites of passage and rites of healing. But instead of looking for rites that exist and hoping they'll have a profound effect on us, we should look for what already has an effect on us, and cultivate it into a rite. I appreciate being allowed to join a sweat as an outsider, but it's not my ritual, one that speaks to me. The Blessingway rite involves giving beads to a pregnant woman, but, personally, beads hold little symbolic power for me. They're not part of my life in any way. I think we all have objects in our lives that do hold some power for us. For instance, I can tell you the story behind every pair of earrings I own. Cultivating rites is a matter of delving into our own lives enough to find what will personally affect us. It can be a difficult task, but I think it's the whole point.