The initial pull was toward the easy choice, dress up as a generic cowboy, show up, enjoy the day as one of Mordakin's quest givers, and move on. That option felt hollow the more I considered it. There was something dishonest about it, a kind of self-censorship I've grown tired of. At the same time, I knew that representing my Native identity publicly carried its own weight and risk.
My son and I are both mixed blood, which adds another layer to how we navigate these spaces. In today's cultural landscape, there is deep scrutiny around Native representation, and rightfully so. We've been misrepresented, commodified, and stereotyped for centuries. The question of whether someone's representation of Native culture is genuine or self serving has become a legitimate concern, even when the person doing the representing is Native themselves.
I wrestled with this. I knew that choosing to have my son wear our regalia at a public event would not go unnoticed. There would be people who questioned my motives. Some might see it as showboating or performing our own culture for attention. That's a real risk, and I didn't take it lightly.
Here's what I kept coming back to. I have a right to express my own culture, even if that expression is sometimes scrutinized by my own people. More than that, I have a responsibility to express my own culture.
That responsibility shaped my decision. I decided that my son would wear my old powwow regalia to the festival. This wasn't a costume choice. This was something deeply personal. The regalia I made by hand when I was young, the pieces I'd worn and danced in, would now be worn by my son. Seeing him in it moved me deeply. It was a moment of cultural continuity, of something being carried forward that deserved to be carried forward.
The regalia wasn't just about us. It was the beginning of a larger intention.
New Mexico is a place of deep historical tension. Spanish and Native American communities share this land, though we do not always share understanding. Misunderstanding runs deep. Fear runs deep. Without conversation, without genuine effort to see each other as human beings first, that tension only grows.
I made a deliberate choice to use the festival as an opportunity to bridge that gap. Not by dwelling on historical grievances or making people feel guilty for what their ancestors did. Not by presenting Native people as victims needing sympathy. None of that creates friendship. None of that heals.
What heals is humanization. It is when someone sees you clearly, understands where you come from, and recognizes you as a neighbor rather than a stereotype. It is when you can share your perspective in a way that doesn't put the other person on the defensive, but instead opens a door. That was my goal at the festival. To be visible. To answer questions. To share our history from our perspective, and to show that Native people are not relics of the past or one dimensional characters in a story written by others. We are here. We are alive. We are your neighbors.
Something happened at that festival that I didn't expect. I met a man portraying a Catholic bishop. He wasn't just playing a character for the day. He is a dedicated Catholic in real life, genuinely committed to his faith. There he was, choosing to represent something that carried real historical weight and real pain.
We started talking, and what emerged was a conversation I will not forget. He told me that he understands the Catholic Church was responsible for tremendous evil and inhumanity toward Native American communities here in New Mexico. He knows that history. He carries that knowledge, and it sits uncomfortably with him. He wears the bishop's robes knowing what they represent, knowing the trauma they evoke. He chooses to be there anyway, not to defend his church or minimize what happened, but because he feels a responsibility to engage, to listen, and to help heal the damage that has been done between our two cultures.
We talked about our pain, not only about past events, but our struggles with being verbally attacked by people who get upset at our representation. We were vulnerable with each other, and we were respectful. At no point did he try to convert me or condemn my soul. At no point did I try to guilt trip him or place blame on him for the actions of his Catholic forefathers. Instead, we simply saw each other. Two people from communities that carry genuine wounds, choosing to acknowledge that, and choosing to move forward anyway.
By the end of our conversation, I found myself seeing him as a true and genuine friend. Not someone I agreed with on everything. Not someone whose religion I suddenly understood or accepted, a friend. Someone willing to do the hard work of healing, someone willing to sit with discomfort, someone willing to be honest about the evil done in the past by people representing his faith, while still holding onto what he believes is good and true.
Healing doesn't come from placing blame or expecting others to fix the mistakes of their ancestors. Healing comes when two people from different communities show up with honesty and vulnerability and a genuine desire to understand. It comes when we can sit with the difficult parts of our shared history without letting those difficulties prevent us from seeing each other as human beings.
My son wore the regalia. We went to the festival. I came home with a new friend and a deeper belief that peaceful coexistence is not just possible, it is already happening. It happens in conversations like the one I had that day. It happens when people choose understanding over defensiveness, and curiosity over fear. It happens when we represent our cultures not as a grievance, but as an invitation to know us better. Through that knowing, maybe we can begin to close the distance that five hundred years of conflict has created between us.
 |
| Hepan at the Wild West Festival. 6/7/2026 |
Comments
Post a Comment