#powwow answers

[old-powwow-days]

/747317069525172224/little-huitzil-pueblo-of-zuni-arts-crafts

It's between 11N and 11P? But no signature

Cool, so again the artist ID's are included in that post. 11N is Amy Wesley (formerly Quandelacy) and 11P is Varden Vacit's work.

Here are examples of their hallmarks, if it was well loved before it could have worn down and there may be a ghost of a hallmark at an angle. Assuming of course it was one of their pieces.

The design itself I have seen referred to as both "friendship" and "hummingbird" or sometimes even "twin hummingbird" designs but that's all I really know. It is very popular and again shows up a lot in the work of specific families. It could easily be a Quandelacy, Ellen Quandelacy made a lot of work with this same design, her hallmark is typically an EQ above the word ZUNI. It really depends though, I've seen plenty of rings in this style (with a wider solid band specifically) from the 60's and 70's and the hallmark was either just STERLING 925 or had been completely worn down.

Though to be completely frank with you, I have also seen fakes of this design a LOT and it's easier to spot. If the craftsmanship seems iffy anywhere like weird alignment or glue peaking out between the stones and bezel I would be weary.

You may have some luck asking nicely and emailing some clear photos to The Keshi Foundation and see if they can potentially help. They represent both Amy Wesley and Varden Vacit among many other incredible Zuni artisans and should be able to give a better idea on who made it if it is real, and if they have the time. If it isn't real, well they can also sell you a real one lol!

[denieatsart]

ah yes, oklahoma

where dead queer children get called filth :D

:'] yep

[maplewozapi]

Heyo! I hope it’s okay to ask, but I have a question about character design.

I had the idea for a phoenix themed mage, and was considering having feathers growing alongside their hair. But my second thought was how I don’t know if that would be offensive to indigenous people.

If you don’t know the answer, do you know where I could learn?

The thing about feathers and character designs is that nowhere else uses feathers like we do and the silhouette is very unique to us specifically. Looking up feathers in character design or in specific cultures it always seems to come back to us good or bad. So in order use feathers in character designs you have to try not to use our silhouettes with the feathers. (Eagle feathers, head dress, brooches,bustles,ex.) I feel like people don’t understand the importance of feathers like each one you earn or is past down to you by family. During powwows and ceremonies if one falls off they have to completely stop the competition/ceremony and you are disqualified and you have to give away that feather because you disrespected it. And by law we are the only ones allowed to have eagle feathers 🤷‍♀️ it’s a religious thing not an aesthetic

I say consider what bird you wanna use, what they associated with, and use the feathers in a different manner silhouette wise. Like incorporating the bird’s silhouette and stuff. I like what the warrior cats fandom did and moved the feathers to the shoulders instead of head. Because yes we put feathers on our animals as well for the same reasons.

[soapskneebrace]

CARTEL PROTECTION

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader, John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader, Alejandro Vargas x f!Reader (unrequited but also kind of requited, it's complicated) Rating: All Ages Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: None Author's Notes: The first chapter in a series that I will likely not get to, but it's fun and I thought y'all might enjoy it. Who knows, if there's enough interest I might write a connected fic or two rather than a whole thing. I hope y'all can excuse how very rough this is, because it is literally the very first draft.

The tarmac of Los Vaqueros Cuartel General is hard and hot beneath the soles of your boots, bouncing the heat of the Mexican sun back upwards toward its origin, and as you approach the truckside powwow you can feel a fine sheen of perspiration beginning to form on your bare arms. It’s hot, far too hot for late October, and you don’t imagine yourself not sweating for however long this operation is going to take.

“I need you in Las Almas,” Laswell had said over the phone, intruding on an appointment with your manicurist. “Something is going on, and I don’t have enough information.”

“Sure,” you’d replied, regarding the woman opposite you trying to hide the fact that she was listening in. The nail tech wasn’t a plant, you were reasonably certain, but only an amateur talked freely about your kind of work. “I’d love to see Alejo and his kids again.”

You put two fingers (nails painted with tiny sugar skulls) to your tongue and cab-whistle at the group of three men to catch their attention. None of them flinch, and as they all turn to look at you, you realize immediately that this job is going to be more bothersome than you’d assumed, because the skull-plated mask that turns your way is not, as it were, a new face.

You remember the iron smell of staunched blood and the full brunt of his weight driving the both of you to the ground as you’d tried to hold him up. You remember the drench of warm Kastovian rain and hydroplaning in a stolen truck across the border into Georgia. You remember watching three hours of surgery. You had not stayed to see the fourth.

It shows immediately in his eyes as you meet them. The man you only know as Ghost remembers too.

You are not in the business of dragging baggage around. “Colonel Vargas!” you call, waving.

“Alma!” Alejandro exclaims, a wide smile breaking the severe lines of his angular face. “Laswell said you were coming, but I didn’t expect you so soon!”

As you join the men, you let him hug you, unable to keep from grinning at his easy affection. Alejandro—Alejo to you—is another familiar face.

You remember reheated mole verde on rice in the General kitchen, tiny sips of mezcal as he waxed poetic about what he could do with the full stock he kept in the larders of his fabled ranch. He’d looked at you warmly then, as warmly as he looks at you now when you release your embrace.

You hold his warmth precious, but do not respond to it.

“Someone has to be the brains of this operation,” you say, and wave to Rudy in the truck.

“It’s Alma, then?” asks the soldier standing next to Ghost, in a brogue that stands out as much as Ghost does.

John “Soap” MacTavish is the only personage you do not know. Laswell had given you a very sparse brief before you’d headed toward Mexico, so you already know that he’s both effective in the field and resolutely Scottish, but it only takes you one glance to get a notion of his character. The mohawk says more about him than he probably could ever say about himself, and the stunning blue eyes tell you the rest.

You glance at Ghost. Laswell had told you about Soap, and said you knew everyone else. Damn her. She isn’t getting a Christmas card this year.

“Sometimes,” you answer the Scot, looking back at him. Alma, of course, is not your real name.

Ghost snorts. He doesn’t say anything, but you know what he’s thinking.

So you say it out loud, smiling at the sergeant congenially. “Sometimes it’s Katya. Sometimes it’s something else. Maybe I’d be Mary, if we were in Glasgow.”

He smiles back immediately. Oh yes, Soap MacTavish is a dangerously open book. “Queen of Scots, aye? I see how it is.”

“CIA shit,” grumbles Ghost. Then, to business, “Where’s Hassan?”

-

Las Almas is as beautiful as you remember it, colorful and lively as the Fuerzas Especiales convoy passes from the countryside into the city’s sprawling outskirts.

“So how do you know Alejandro?” Soap asks, looking at you over his shoulder. He’d volunteered to take the furthermost seat in the back, which was really more of a padded bench facing out the window, in order to give you the more comfortable chair.

You meet his gaze. The SAS needed to hang a warning sign on him—DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT—because close up, the jewel-bright azure is even more arresting than it had been at a distance.

“I met him on vacation,” you reply, lifting one brow and hopefully hiding the little jolt in your breath that the proximity inspired.

Rudy and Alejandro both laugh at that. You chance a peek at Ghost, who’s sitting beside you in the back row of the SUV, and find him looking resolutely forward. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

“Anyone who comes to Las Almas for vacation is either too stupid to live past the first day,” says Rudy, eyes crinkling as they meet yours in the rear view mirror, “or just crazy enough to have a good time.”

You smile back—it wasn’t the first time he’d said that about you.

“In truth, we’ve ended up helping each other a few times, haven’t we?” says Alejo. “The US is always worried about narcos crossing the border, and Fuerzas Especiales is always in need of good intelligence.”

It had been your impeccable Spanish that had convinced Kate to stick you across the border. Her superiors had been doing their augury, reading the bird formations in the sky and sifting through the proverbial entrails, and had decided via these machinations that rather than let you monitor Verdansk post-Armistice as you’d originally been tasked (your Russian is also impeccable), you should instead worry about cartels on the Texas border.

You sneak a glance at Ghost again. He’s looking at you this time, eyes narrowed.

The reassignment had come to you at the third hour.

“Hopefully ‘Alma’ can help again, then,” he says, and it is very strange to hear that name on his tongue, to hear the syllables bend around the brassy, rumbling Manc that had comfortably used another name for you entirely.

Verdansk. A hollow shell of a building, its veins somehow still pumping water and electricity. His mask, pulled up over his nose, revealing a hard line of a mouth as he sipped bitter black coffee, the corners twisting as he was unable to hide how much he hated it.

“You should be burned for this by itself, Katya,” he’d grumbled.

“You do groceries next time,” you’d replied pleasantly. “See if the shelves magically fill with boxes of Tetley when you’re there.”

“Fuck Tetley. Even this swill is better than that.”

He still drank the whole cup.

“Think I prefer Mary,” says Soap, settling against your seat back.

The brogue brings you out of the memory and back into the present. Verdansk is half a world away. So is the Ghost you’d playacted domesticity with. You needed to make room in your head for missiles, rogue Quds Force majors, and enterprising narcos. The job had no care for anything else.

“And that’s why I’d choose it,” you say, mimicking his posture and sitting back. The Scot has no place in any of your memories, not in Kastovia and not in Las Almas—and you’re thankful, in that moment, that he’s there. “People are willing to do things for someone that sounds like one of their own.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he responds, “Can’t think of a man who wouldn’t do anything for you, bonnie—”

“Alright, sergeant!” Ghost snaps.

The reprimand surprises you both, and you lapse into awkward, contrite silence. Alejo meets your eyes in the rear view, concerned, and you give them an exaggerated roll.

The need to ground yourself notwithstanding, it was a bad idea—and, you think, massively trashy—to flirt right in front of him.

You slouch in your chair. Laswell is getting coal for Christmas. The grossest, sootiest stuff you can find.

[topazy]

Little dark age

Paring: Rick Grimes × oc

Warning: Swearing, zombie guts & blood, mentions of drug use

Chapter: 1.01

“Is Glenn really going down to get that guy?”

“Sure is.”

“Gods,” you groan. “Make sure nobody steals my shit while I’m gone; that idiot is going to need back up.”

With one hand, you keep a steady grip on the shaky ladders while using your free hand to shoot at any dead person that gets too close to Glenn and the new guy. With tiny chips of yellow paint rubbing on your palm, nipping it, you become impatient. “Hurry the hell up!”

Glenn screams as he runs up the side alleyway before climbing up the ladders.

The new guy seemed slightly disoriented and was taking far too long, looking from side to side as the dead started to close in on him. You shoot at the ground beside him, causing him to jump. “Unless you want to die, move! ”

With the extra weight of two grown adults and walkers grabbing at the metal bars below, you shove your gun into your waste bands and quickly start to climb back up to the roof. When Glenn gets to the top, you snatch the baseball cap from his head, causing him to frown.

“Sammi…”

Once you shake off the large spider, Glenn was yet to notice, you toss the baseball cap back to him, “you almost got yourself killed, dumbass.”

“I was saving... the guy in the tank from the geeks.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be surprised if the others are pissed. You’ve just attracted a shitload of walkers.”

When the new guy gets to the top of the ladders, you take in his clothing, a police uniform with a couple of badges on it. You offer him your hand, “sheriff?”

He nods.

Once the new guy is up on the roof, Glenn leads the way back to the hatch and goes to the next building, where the rest of your scavenging group is waiting. Glenn opens and it’s going to step down, then suddenly stops. “There was something on my hat, wasn’t there?”

“No, of course not.”

He shivers before going down first.

—

While Andrea and Morales explain to the new guy that all the noise he made attracted the dead, you continue to shove things that you deem necessary into one of your backpacks. The class surrounding the bottom ground of the store starts to crack with walkers banging on the glass windows.

“I can’t get a signal on the radio,” T-dog says. “We are going—”

He’s cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Another one goes off, and Andrea pinpoints the sourness of the sound, “It’s Dixon.”

You look down at the rest of your group's belongings and frown. You snatch your other bag and begin to storm towards the staircase leading up to the roof. “That bastard has my gun!”

—

Merle laughs when the others tell him to stop firing at the walkers. Holding up the guy, he says, “Hey! You ought to be more polite to a man with a gun! ”

“My gun,” you snap. “You thieving little crackhead.”

Merle was one of the most vile, insufferable men you’d ever met in your life. He blows you a kiss and jumps down from the ledge he’s on. It only takes a matter of seconds for Merle to racially and physically attack T-dog. You try to pull him off but get backhanded, causing your lip to slip open.

Groaning, you push yourself up onto your elbows.

Merle spits on T-dog before standing over him. “Yeah! All right! We’re going to have ourselves a little powwow, huh? Talk about who’s in charge. I vote for me. Anybody else?”

From the way his eyes are dilated, you can tell Merle was high on something. You watch as the new guy gets to his feet behind him quickly and creeps up on him.

“Show off your hands, huh? All in favor, huh? Oh, come on. Let’s see them! All in favor?” Merle raises his own hand and points the gun at the others until they copy his actions. “Now that means I’m the boss, right?”

The new guy picks up your gun that Merle tossed and hits him in the face with it, knocking him to the ground. He handcuffs him to one of the metal pipes connected to the ground on the roof.

“Who the hell are you, man?”

“Officer friendly,” he answers, grabbing Merle by the collar of his top. “Things are different now. There are no colored people anymore. No dumb-as-shit, inbred white-trash fools either. Only dark meat and white meat. The living and the dead. We survive this by pulling together, not apart.”

“Screw you, man.”

“I can see you have a habit of missing the point.”

“Yeah, well screw you twice.”

The guy presses his gun against Merle’s head. “I ought to be polite to the man with a gun. Only common sense.”

You wipe the metallic-tasting liquid mixed with saliva off your chin with the back of your hand. Glenn hands you a piece of ripped-up fabric. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You get to your feet, go to Merle, and kneel in front of him. “All of Dixon’s common sense was snorted away a long time ago.”

The man tilts Merle’s head back to see traces of white powder stuck to the bottom of his nose while you search his pockets. You pull out a little glass tube of white powder and ask, “What is it, cocaine? Ketamine? Heroin?”

“Put it back, you little bitch!”

“Suppose it doesn’t matter what it is,” you shrug before tossing the tube off the roof.

Merle kicks his legs and roughly pulls at the handcuffs. “When I get out of these cuffs, I’m going to make you pay for that! You fucking cu—”

He abruptly stops talking when the new guy clicks the safety off his gun.

—

You walk around the clothing section of the store to kill some time. With Glenn and Morales gone to scope out a potential way out, there wasn’t a lot left to do.

Hearing footsteps, your hand immediately goes to your handgun, but relaxed it when you realize who it is. “Hey new guy,” you say, putting your hand out. “I didn’t catch your name before.”

He shakes your hand. “It’s Rick, Rick Grimes.”

“Well, Rick, thanks for shutting that asshole up.” You push some clothes around on a clothing rack. “Honestly, if I wasn’t for the fact that I like Merle’s brother, I would have taken a shot at him a long time ago.”

His eyes land on your dog's tags, but he doesn’t ask about them. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Samara Rose Blake, but everyone just calls me Sammie Rose.”

Rick goes to say something but rolls his tongue and shakes his head. You go back to looking through the clothes, fully aware that you’re being observed.

“Do you have kids?” He asks, watching as you pick up two child-sized jackets.

“No, but there’s a couple of kids back at camp, and you can’t go wrong with lightweight jackets. You? I heard you say you’re looking for your family.”

“I have a wife and son, who I haven’t seen since... well, I haven’t seen them in the new world.”

Andrea comes into the room and says, “They're back.”

From the look on her face, you know it’s not good news.

—

“This is a suicide mission,” you grumble.

With the tunnel Morales and Glenn went down being a dead end, the group came up with a new plan. Someone would break into a vehicle, bring it up to the side of the building for the others to get into, and then drive away. The plan was easy enough, except for the part where someone needed to do all this without being spotted by walkers.

“A suicide mission your on, baby,” T says before rubbing zombie guts onto the king white coat that covered most of your body.

Rick had found gloves for everyone to wear while rubbing zombie blood and guts onto Rick, Glenn, and you. The smell was revolting, and the thought of walking outside amongst the dead terrified you, but you were so used to going scavenging with just Glenn that the thought of him going out there without you as backup didn’t feel right. To get the zombie insides on the outside, Rick had to drag a body from outside and cut it up with an ax.

Jacqui places a wooly hat on top of your head and tucks your hair underneath before putting zombie guts on your back.

After a few moments, you slowly twirl. “Do you think we have enough on?”

“Yes,” Andrea says, waving her hand. “You guys smell revolting.”

—

You let out a shaky breath before opening the door to go outside. “I sure hope this plan works; otherwise, I’m throwing you to do the dead first, Rick Grimes.”

“Noted,” he tried to keep a serious tone, but hints of a smile pulled on his face.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door for the three of you to take a gamble on your lives.

Mimicking the dead’s moments, you drag yourself underneath a few vehicles before coping with how they walk. You subtly look at Rick, wondering if he’s the same Rick Grimes you’ve heard Carl and Lori talk about. You thought about asking him before what his kid name was but didn’t want to give him false hope in case it was coincidentally the same.

Oh shit.

The sun disappears behind thick, dark clouds quickly, and rain starts lashing down. Washing the scent of death from your blood-soaked coats.

“The smell is washing off. Isn’t it?” Glenn asks.

"No, it’s not,” Rick says sternly. When a walker's stare lingers on him, he changes his mind and says, “Well, maybe.”

The second you hear a roaring sound, you know your covers are blowing. “Run!”

Rick manages to kill a few zombies with the ax before you reach the fence blocking off the parking lot from the rest of the street. The three of you make it into a large van just as the fence collapses and the walkers break through.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. They’re all over that place,” Glenn says, panicked.

“Our people are safe on the inside for now,” you attempt to reassure him. “They will probably have been distracted by the noise we made, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Rick says. “Glenn, you need to draw them away. Those roll-up doors at the front of the store—that area? That’s what I need cleared up. Raise your friends; tell them to get down there and be ready.”

“And I’m drawing the geeks away, how? I missed that part.”

“Noise.”

—

You smash the window of a bright red sports car, tripping the alarm, and swiftly reach inside and unlock the door before hot wiring it. You get out and squeeze Glenn’s shoulder. “You’ve got this man; I’ll see you real soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, be safe.” Nervously, he gets in and speeds away, distracting all the walkers coming your way while you run and jump back into the van.

Rick gives you a questioning look.

“What?”

“Do I ever want to ask how you know how to hotwire a car?”

“Definitely not, sheriff.”

—

You climb to the back of the van, open the doors, and bang on the shutters, “Come on guys!”

Once your people start to enter the van, you jump back into the passenger seat and pull out your handgun, ready to shoot any walkers that come up the windows. T-dog pulls the van door shut and says, “Go, go, go!”

Rick speeds away from the building and out onto the highway. You look back to check if everyone is okay and notice someone is missing. “Where’s Merle?”

“I dropped the damn key,” T-dog says, his voice full of remorse.

Oh shit, Daryl wasn’t going to be happy your group returned without his brother.

[omgthatdress]

Kaya’aton’my, AKA Kaya, was the 2nd girl to come out after I’d lost interest, so I never had her and I didn’t read her books. She’s a Nimiipuu (Nez Perce) girl in the 1760s, after European contact (Kaya has horses and her grandmother had smallpox scars on her face) but prior to colonization. Kaya was the first major departure from the previous six-book formula, but given that she wouldn’t have things like school, birthdays, and Christmas, of course she’s gonna need a different structure.

I’ve read a few different reactions to her release. For the most part, she was praised for showing pre-colonial Native society, and demonstrating that American history goes way back further than 1776. However, some people criticized it for perpetuating the myth of Native Americans being a relic of the past. The obvious answer would be to make another Native doll who has a more modern setting (1970s American Indian Movement would be FUCKING AMAZING), but I think they addressed the issue pretty well with the inclusion of modern powwow dresses.

Now, I don’t know nearly enough about Native fashion to be able to really critique and add context to Kaya’s dresses and accessories, but I do know that the company went to great lengths to make Kaya as authentic as possible. They even went as far as creating a new face mold, making Kaya the first girl to smile without exposing her teeth because in traditional Nimiipuu culture, it’s considered rude and aggressive.

[jess-l0l]

Get to know me:

Hi

My name is Jess (Ain’t gonna say the rest cuz it could be many)

About me!! :

I’m a she/her (maybe they but i’m still trying to figure myself out), aroaceflux, Native American (represent!! ✊🏽), I love warm colors like orange or red or yellow but cold weather? I REALLY love wojapi and fry bread or just fruits and like hot cheetos and tea :)) I sing with my moms at powwows or events as well as trying to learn how to get into/learning how to voice act :3

I have a panic disorder (also separation anxiety.) And depressive :3

I like to be on tumblr a lot (A LOT)

Things I like :

I am currently really liking Hazbin Hotel, (since 2020!) Murder Drones, Billie Bust Up, and TADC (also Lackadaisy and Darly Boxman!) Basically a lot of Indie stuff!

RAHHH MUSICALLLSSS (Six, Ride The Cyclone, Hamilton, Beetlejuice, Mean Girls, etc.)

I also rlly love voice actors (indie or whatever) and indie animators

Like Ashley Nichols or Elsie Lovelock (Also Michael Kovach)

I like to repost and like (post) a lot of things so get prepared for that!

Just message or comment if you wanna be friends or talk abt anything (I don’t give out any of my socials or numbers (depending if I actually know you are get to know you enough), I’m sorry 😭)

I’ve got 8 siblings (5 sisters and 3 brothers)

uh idk divorced parents but we aren’t gonna go into that 😝

I am part time babysitter cuz money (small town/reservation babysitter)

I am in school from 7:25-2:10 but on Fridays I have some extra work and hours to 3:45-4:00

Ask me anything if you wanna know anything else! I love to answer questions since I am a lot more confident online :)

I’m also a Christian btw and if i’m offline i’m either at an NAC event, church, babysitting, or school.

Much love <3

[queering-ecology]

LGBTQ America: A Theme Study of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer History—chapter 09. Sexual and Gender Diversity in Native America and the Pacific Islands by Will Roscoe. (final)

Two Spirits Today: Renewal and Change

The section starts and continues by discussing two-spirit activism and cultural renewal being fostered by two-spirits and lgbtq native people. One such event is the intertribal powwows such as the Bay Area American Indian Two Spirits Powow which in 2015, drew over 2,000 attendees (09-12). Attendees were asked to define two-spirit, the answers varied; “two spirit means being born with a male and a female spirit”, while another said that the term is “more of a historical reminder that before colonization all of our tribes had multiple genders” (09-12)

Two Spirits in the History of the United States

The author then tells us about four individuals who by our modern standards would be considered two-spirit, all of whom led incredibly fascinating lives. Most of them faced violence and prejudice in their lives. And this remains true for two-spirits today—the author mentions a young two-spirit Navajo named Fred Martinez Jr. who had been bullied and was murdered in a hate crime in 2001.

(Rest in Power, relative...)

Conclusion: History Matters

“Two-spirit/LGBTQ history not only challenges stereotypes and transforms prejudice, it provides the path to self-esteem, empowerment, and community for two-spirit-LGBTQ native people, while the stories of two-spirit males and females in American history teach us all about sexual and gender diversity and the ways in which these differences make distinctive cultural and historical contributions” (09-29)

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

More:

I worked at a place that had ballroom venues for events. Annually, Chipendale dancers had a show at this place. The amount of calls we dealt with for groping, cat-calling, lewd behavior, and general harassment toward the performers and staff was outrageous. This was at a native owned casino in the Midwest where they also had an annual powwow event at which members of rival native gangs would murder each other. Chipendale night was worse than Indian murder weekend. Anyway, they also hosted boxing events and one guy commented once on how sexy he thought the ring girl was. He was evicted for a year. The ladies who molested security staff? No evictions.

-

As a man, even in the most progressive countries, you are seen as the secondary parent to your child.

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We aren't allowed to make fun of fat people, but it's more than acceptable to rip on guys due to their height.

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I had a psycho ex that was trying to kick in my door, I called the cops. She left before they got there. She wrote all over my car in lipstick. The cops laughed at me and were like - you afraid of a girl? And told me they couldn't do anything about the lipstick because they didn't see her do it. I would have been in jail for the same shit.

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I have mentioned this before.. but I have a weird work schedule that gives me several weekdays off. I would take my girls to the parks nearby, and got constant side-eyes and resentment from the haus-fraus and molly-mormon sanity groups there with their kids. I even had the cops called on me twice asking me to prove I had my own kids there.

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wanting men that are tall is a matter of preference and can be voiced out loud and is somehow acceptable even though they have no control over it but men on the other hand can't voice their preference in any regard else they'd be cancelled for body shaming.

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I'm older: I have only cried at a movie one time. It was the end of Braveheart. My date was turned off. Said it was "not cool". Same girl hit me for not crying when Jack went down at the end of Titanic, said it was "not cool". I decided she was not cool.

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I’ve had multiple women make comments on my weight gain

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The Duluth Model. It states that men are abusive in order to control and women are abusive because they are victims of abuse. Most law enforcement agencies use this model in dealing with DV cases. The creators disavowed their own work and admit it is completely biased and flawed but is still in use in the majority of the country

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I was a tray aid (food server) at an elderly home, and I went thru a fitness phase where I lost a ton of weight and gained a lot of muscle. Nearly all of the CNA’s (young and old) would come up and grope me (rub my arms, nipples, back, etc) and talk super flirty about how good i looked. It took a few weeks for the older CNA’s to finally snap out of it and start telling the younger ones that it wasn’t right

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If I open up and share the things weighing on my mind somehow that makes me weak and a crybaby but if I hold it all in and just “suck it up” I’m contributing to toxic masculinity and I’m an asshole.

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When my ex-wife (of a 16 year marriage) had a year long affair before I caught her and we split up. She wanted to not tell anyone that she'd had an affair, and wanted to have an even split on custody and divorce etc. I asked her, "if I'd been cheating on you, would you have agreed to keep it a secret and still let me have 50-50 custody of our kids?" Her answer? "of course not." But like, the way she said it was like, "obviously, cuz you're a man, it's fine to tell everyone about the affair, and for the mom to get the kids." Even, when people did find out there was an affair, 90% of them thought it was me that had cheated. I never cheated on anyone. But cuz I was a guy, then obviously it was me.

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I don't think any of my girlfriends have ever bought me flowers. I like flowers.

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Women don’t ask for consent. I have a female acquaintance who described something they did to a man that would otherwise be considered sexual assault — but she was joking about how awkward the guy was.

-

Worked at a hotel in Edinburgh and had to wear a kilt. Cleaning staff LOVED lifting my kilt. I've rarely been out in a kilt but whenever I have been (not weddings) random women will lift it to see. I wouldn't dare lift a woman's skirt. I'm not even that attractive and assume it's much more likely to handsom guys.

-

My daughter is now 11, but when she was younger, a lot of women were surprised at how involved I was in my daughter's education, medical appts, and her life in general. There is still the double standard where it's assumed the mother is the one who knows all the details of their kids' lives. My wife had a very busy career and so we tried to evenly split all the parenting responsibilities as much as possible. It was amazing at how many places like playgrounds or fun kid stuff where it would be just my daughter and I, and it was assumed I was a single dad or more often that it was my custody time. Fortunately, my daughter looks very like me because I would sometimes get double takes from mom's to make sure I was not stealing some random kid or a pedophile.

-

Women taking advantage of a male teenager rarely get the same disgust compared to a male taking advantage of a female teenager. It's always an abuse of power and wrong no matter who does it. The double standards for this by teachers are the worst.

-

If sex with her is not that great that is my fault. If she does not enjoy sex with me that is also my fault.

-

After I and my wife separated, she took my kid and told the police, CPS, random doctors, etc that I SA'd my kid. When talking to my lawyer, CPS, police, or whoever, the first thing they would ask is if I'm paying child support and am I up to date with it. Only after I assured them that I was would they continue helping me. Now I've gained custody, she has never even bought a pencil for school but still accusing me of BS. Anytime I bring up child support with anyone it's always "we'll get to that later". Why is she allowed to be a deadbeat mom without consequences while I would possibly be in prison if I were a deadbeat dad?

-

A friend of mine is a male military spouse, no kids. You would think that the military spouse community would be so welcoming as everyone has that in common. Absolutely not, in fact he gets denied access to online support groups because he is a guy. He has 0 support. Many military spouse appreciation events don't think or care about male spouses. He just stopped trying to integrate with the other spouses, or go to events. It is really sad.

-

Women almost always refuse to acknowlege that men have any problems at all. And when they do acknowlege them, it's like "they're caused by patriarchy, so help us fight patriarchy", and it's like, "no bitch, how about you stop being an ass and have some sympathy for once in your fucking life". So many of men's problems just, don't exist or aren't worth thinking about for women. But when men behave the same way about women's problems, they're sexist.

-

In rural Africa, FGM is still a modern day practise that sees the labia and sometimes clitoris removed before the child can even stand up or give consent. This painful procedure leads to death in a small amount of cases. This is obviously disgusting. In the Western world, circumcision is still a modern day practise that sees the foreskin cut away or sometimes bitten off by an adult before the child can even stand up or give consent. This painful procedure leads to death in a small amount of cases. This is widely accepted and sometimes seen as a hate crime to oppose. How is this OK?

-

Continued:

https://www.reddit.com/r/AskMen/comments/15cto3y/men_of_reddit_what_absurd_double_standards_have/

==

One double standard that keeps coming up again and again: women's problems are caused by external societal factors ("tHe pAtRiArChY!") that society has to fix, while men's problems are caused by their own flawed internal factors that they have to fix.

She was cutting? It's because society doesn't respect or understand her and doesn't treat her right. Women are already perfect. Society has to recognize that and do better. Teach men that women are hurting.

He killed himself? He must have been fragile and too toxically macho to talk about his feelings. Men should recognize that and do better. Teach boys to cry.

[vampirephlebotomy]

I do not have my name. I was not given it at my birth, I was not given it at eighteen like I always dreamed to do. I do not know my language, more than I love yous and hellos and how to tell you I am a Beaver, and thank yous and that my friend is a Turtle. I can rattle off an introduction that never feels quite right without my name, one that feels empty and leaves me stinging with a hurt I can never describe. And I can tell you the word for strawberries and on a good day I might remember the seasons. I have the moons written down in a notebook, so I can look and remember the right name when I see it in the sky.

But my friend calls me his Waawaate. His northern lights. I told him my story of the only time I ever saw them, faint and shimmering in the sky over my old home. And ever since then it's stuck. I call him Waawaatesi in return (fire fly) and Ode'imin (strawberry). I grew up on stories of ancestors and Thunderbirds, on promises of powwows and handed hot, fresh frybread covered in cinnamon and sugar while my dad did his best to stop me from eating it too quickly. I burned my mouth too many times to count.

My dad never taught me them specifically, but he raised me by the seven grandfather teachings whether he meant to or not. He's not fluent in our language, but he always knew how to pronounce the words I needed help with just right. He always made offerings of tobacco from his fat cigars to the lakes whenever we visited them, he prayed and joked with the water like they were old friends. But when I got older, and I tried to tell the same stories to my little sister, terrified from the thunder and sitting in my lap, he always looked upset. And every year, without fail, we never made it to our annual powwow. I talked to him about our names, of getting them together. Of having dinner together afterwards. But he never answered, just shook his head or hummed. He looked annoyed when I proudly showed him the beadwork I bought, from that auntie at the fair with the kind eyes and her stoic son who thanked me. I wonder what changed. I wonder why he is no longer proud.

I learned what two-spirit was a couple years ago. I brandish the word indigiqueer proudly like it's something I'll die without. I use it loudly and I see the shock it brings to my friends faces. I want them to be shocked. I want to take up so much space that they have to take a step back. They give me bundles of sage they know now they can't use, and ask me for blessings and readings. I burn them tobacco and cedar, I wave away their worries and offer them food.

I do ankle lifts in my kitchen while I make myself breakfast and dinner. I learned from my friend's auntie that that's how dancers keep their ankles strong for dancing. I do it until I'm sore dreaming of the day I'll be able to buy my own moccasins. I've never had the money to do it yet. I think fondly of being able to do my own beadwork, with shining greens and purples and blues reminiscent of my nickname. I want to dance fancy shawl and grass and jingle until I'm so tired I pass out. I want to dance so hard my feet leave marks in the dirt. I want my family to know I'm still here. I'm still here and I'm alive and I'm proud. Despite everything, I'm still okay, and that I'm proud that I'm indigenous.

— "I am unnamed" is a poem (of sorts) I wrote on cultural disconnect and Indigenous feels late one night

[old-powwow-days]

I have some rings that look sort of like pieces you've shared before, but not exactly. Do you have tips on how to tell real native american jewelry from fake?

So generally speaking, the best way to know if a piece is authentically from an Indigenous community is to buy directly from the artist or a reputable collective/establishment that specializes in selling on their behalf.

The next best way is to look for a makers hallmark on silver pieces. I won't go into a full history lesson but depending on the age of the piece a hallmark may not be included, or could even be designed to look authentic itself but be fake. However, since you said it looks similar to work I've shared on here I am assuming it may be a more recent Zuni piece. In which case the artist IDs should be included on the post. If you meant a post not from the Zuni Pueblo catalog then I would suggest checking a hallmark (if it has one) against some of these lists 1 & 2, however please note these aren't comprehensive. There are also books you can buy or borrow from the library on hallmark identification. Because of the well documented history of factories making knockoffs "look alikes" if you can't identify a more plain looking hallmark it is more likely to be real than fake, but not always.

That isn't to say bootlegs aren't made on more recent works, they are- and a hallmark may not be the defining tell. A lot of designs and stamps especially are family specific, so if you find an ID you can look up the family and see who is still making what design. Then look into examples of that members work and compare it to what you have.

The last piece of advice I would give simply is- quality is the biggest tell every time. Clean and even silver work, high grade non-plated silver. Cabochons and stones are of high grade material and fit perfectly into custom made bezels (i.e. NO GLUE) there should be no gaps between the fit of stone to metal or stone on stone. Unless the piece looks to have undergone some kind of trauma the fit of stones should be tight, and the overall quality very high.

On this note, a lot of people can confuse Taxco Silver for other American Indigenous jewelry. More contemporary pieces follow a very uniform hallmark system however. It would likely have a 925 stamp followed by 'TAXCO' or have a T,C,G,M followed by an additional one to two letters. The T=Taxco, C=Cuernavaca, G=Guadalajara, M=Mexico, and the following letters would be the initial or first letter of the individual artists first/last name. However again that system is newer so depending on age may not be applicable. On some occasions Taxco silver may also have a higher purity than 925.

All that said, I am not any kind of authority here my family did not directly make jewelry we just sold it. So while I consider myself sort of competent in this area I would take this advice with a grain of salt.

[jungle-angel]

Out in the Middle: Part 11

Summary: Some family roots run much deeper than others

No one could have asked for a better or brighter day than this, the sun shining and the rodeo grounds’ temporary residents all waking to life to meet the day ahead. 

You and Rhett emerged from the tent, the morning chilly as the both of you stretched and woke up, ridding yourselves of the stiffness of the night. “Alright darlin,” Rhett yawned. “Ya’ll hungry?” 

“Fuckin starving,” you replied. 

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get cookin before the troublemakers get up.” 

“Let’em sleep Rhett, they were all up till one in the morning,” you told him. “They’ll probably crash after the powwow tonight anyways.” 

Oh shit......!!!!! Rhett thought. Forgot that was today.....!!!

He stuck the grate over the fire and a cast iron pan on top of it. He laughed a little to himself as he opened up a ziploc bag full of greyish cubes that had been an absolute lifesaver the last few days. 

“Is that what I think it is?” you asked him. 

“Yep,” Rhett replied. “The bear fat that was in the freezer when we left.” 

As soon as the pan was sizzling, Rhett cracked a few eggs and threw a few strips of bacon in there that had been covered in good sized flakes of black pepper. “Potatoes?” he asked. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” you said as you tossed a few chunks of potatoes in there. 

Others soon began to wake up, a few still groggy from the night’s events but readily awoken by the smell of food reaching their noses. “Somethin smells good,” John remarked as he made his way to the firepit with Jemma cradled against her grandfather’s chest. 

“Plenty for everybody,” Rhett told him. 

“You want me to take her for a little while?” you asked. 

“Nah,” John told you. “Tryin to get as much time in with the grandbabies as I can. Worked my ass off all my life, I’d rather enjoy it while they’re still little.” 

You and Rhett certainly couldn’t argue with that. To both you and the Duttons, family meant everything. Sure there were days where you had argued and wanted to kill each other, but you were as tight knit and close as could be despite everything. 

“Oh fuck me,” Perry groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Never again.” 

“Who’d you do this time?” Rhett joked. 

Perry flipped him off and grabbed a plate, helping himself to the eggs, bacon, potatoes and bannock as soon as it was ready. “That is the last time I ever drink that much before bed,” he remarked. 

“Seriously?” Rhett asked him. 

“Well it was a combination of that and Amy kicking me in her sleep,” Perry answered. “I swear to God that kid was a Thai kickboxer in a past life.” 

Rhett rolled his eyes and you simply shook your head. Perry had only had to deal with one kid, you and Rhett on the other hand had to deal with more than that. 

It wasn’t long before the kids had all awoken, each one of them hungry and wanting food. They all sat in their own little circles, eating up and putting the paper plates and plasticware into the garbage can nearby. Thank God today would be one where most of you could relax and enjoy yourselves for once instead of having to prepare for a competition.

“I am so fucking nervous,” Nora giggled as you, Monica and Beth helped her get ready. 

“You’re gonna do fine,” You assured her, capturing the video of her on your phone. “It’s not like you haven’t done this before.” 

“Every time I did it, it was with my mom, my grandma and my aunts,” she told you. “I haven’t done it since my senior year of high school.” 

“Has it really been that long?” Beth asked her. 

“Yeah, shit happened, I got married, had the kids in between,” Nora chuckled. “You know.....life.” 

The four of you had a good laugh about everything you could think of, taking short little videos of each other to show your husbands later. You couldn’t believe either how long it had taken to brush out Nora’s hair and to put it into a braid, sleek and so black that there were hints of blue in it. As soon as her hair was done, Beth offered to do her makeup. 

“Ok, eyes closed,” Beth told her as she ran the eyeliner along the edge of Nora’s lids. 

Her hand was as steady as ever, almost as though Beth was creating some sort of masterpiece sketch. “Feels like I’m back in college and I’m doing the makeup for Nine-to-Five,” Beth chuckled. 

“Promise you’re not gonna make me look like Dolly Parton?” Nora joked. 

Beth laughed, trying to keep her hand steady and before any of you knew it, she was finished. As she set to work on Monica, you helped Nora into her dress. She looked like a fire queen, the dress a colorful gradient of smokey blacks and purples rippling into fiery reds, oranges and yellows while the tiny silver bells hung from the fringes on her skirts. The last thing she slipped on were the moccasins made of soft red leather that had been passed down through the family. 

“Oh.....my.....God.....” you nearly squealed in disbelief. 

Beth and Monica’s eyes went wide, their jaws dropping halfway to the floor when Nora made her grand entrance. “How’s it look?” she asked them, the smile on her face growing bigger. 

“Oh honey! Oh my God!” Beth exclaimed. “Hang on, let me get my phone. I’ve gotta take a bunch of pictures.” 

Monica was so excited she could hardly contain herself either. “We’ve gotta show the guys,” she said. “Give me a minute to get into mine and we’ll go show them.” 

You helped Monica with hers and once they were both ready you stepped out of the tent to show your husbands. “Alright guys, here they come,” you announced. 

Nora and Monica stepped out of the tent in full dress, the men cheering and whistling for their wives. “Aw yeah!!! Get it fire queen!!!!” Wes cheered. 

*******************

The afternoon rolled on and soon it was time for the even to begin. You and Rhett had never been to something like this before, but you were excited nonetheless to be able to see your friends partake. 

There was something about the music and the dancing that stirred something in the both of you and in the others as you watched the dancers. You could hardly take your eyes off the whole scene, the way they moved their feet, the way the women’s dresses swirled around their ankles like brightly colored flags, the voices of the men and women singing and the thunder in the drums as they pounded out their rhythm. 

You and Rhett stood close together with the Indian blanket Wes’s mother had made you for your wedding around your shoulders as if to hold the two of you together. Rose Black Moon, one of John’s neighbors, stood close to the two of you watching and enjoying the event, hoping to be able to dance with her grandson. 

“Your grandson dancin tonight, Rose?” Rhett asked her. 

“He’ll be out soon enough,” Rose said, her deeply lined face breaking out in a smile. “I’m sure when it’s time for the veterans’ dance, we’ll see him.” 

You and Rhett spotted Monica with Baby Jemma on her back and Tate and Jake right beside her, taking more than enough pictures of them, Wes and Nora as well as Mo and his granddaughter. Not too long later, the veterans’ dance began with Rose joining her grandson, Stephen, a tall and broad-shouldered young man who had graduated Army Ranger school two years previously. 

You noticed a bit of a tear coming to Rhett’s eye as he closed them, his head and shoulders moving with the music. “You ok?” you asked him. 

“Reminds me of Wes’s grandpa,” he said, his voice a little croaky. “He was a Marine during World War Two and Korea.” 

You knew that Rhett had been particularly close with Wes’s grandparents. When Royal and Cecelia couldn’t watch Rhett all the time, Wes’s grandparents had readily been there to take him in, teaching Rhett what it meant to love the land, what it meant to take care of it and the long history of the Nez Perce roots that ran deep in Wes’s family. Rhett never forgot what they had taught him and you, him, Wes and Nora would make damn sure that the kids never forgot those things either. 

“They’re here,” you said, leaning in so that your foreheads were touching. “Even if we can’t see them.....they’re here.” 

Your eyes closed and so didn’t the space between you before Rhett placed a gentle kiss on your lips. The two of you enjoyed the rest of the night, the memories forever engrained and sure to become ones that you would never forget. 

[chronicparagon]

What's regalia?

[Hey, Anon! I’m more than happy to answer that.

Regalia refers to the outfits and accessories worn for ceremonies, cultural events or other special occasions. In Harmony’s case, it refers to what Indigenous people would wear and a big example is regalia you see in powwows like the grass dancers, and jungle dress from the Great Plains’ nations and tribes.

For the southeastern nations and tribes, it would be the ribbon dress or ribbon shirt. However, there are many different kinds of regalia from all nations and tribes. There a r also other people outside the Americas who have regalia that is just as important.

Some people mistaken these as costumes when that isn’t the case.

Regalia is not the same as costumes. Regalia have strong ties to our beliefs, cultures, and some elements in these outfits have significant symbols tied to what is sacred to the people. Going back to powwows and other ceremonies like stomp dances, they are forms of worship through dance, song, and prayers. Many of them are open to the public to share knowledge to other people and that includes the regalia.

Of course, there are also other forms of regalia such as the caps and gowns at graduations. However, I am referring to having something to show Harmony representing her identity and her pride in it. It’s something I wanted for a long time and I’ll do what I can to try to have it happen.

I hope this answers your question. Thank you very much for asking!]

[kemetic-dreams]

Sam Morningstar ·

Native American, Ground Combat Veteran (Iraq)

Why are Native Americans so interested in wolves?

Oh, I love this question!

I’ve actually mentioned this as a sidebar or digression in various answers on this forum over the years. But, it’s probably interesting enough that it should be a stand alone question and answer.

Okay, now here’s the deal —

Native Americans are not really “into” wolves.

It’s actually an odd sub-group of White Americans that are “into” wolves, or more specifically… they are into Natives being into wolves.

See, there’s a phenomenon of White Americans that have lore of Cherokee or “Native American” blood. A subset will then build up a pseudo-identity as Native, and many will create or join fake tribes, or participate in fake Native-esque “cultural” events (like fake powwows or whatnot). They, for some odd reason, begin to get very much “into” wolves. Apparently, wolves have an association with Native Americans, for them. I’m not sure why this it’s like it, but it’s just something I’ve noticed over the years.

So, at some point, they’ll pick some name like “Spirit Wolf” and they’ll gravitate to art like this:

*These are all painted by White people, by the way. Natives don’t paint this shit.

And they’ll wear tee shirts like this:

Some will even get tattoos, like this:

And they all post this bullshit:

The reality is this is not a Native proverb, but rather is a fabrication by White people…used to tell a story in allegoric fashion - and the Native-theme is just the rhetorical device. It was first popularized by preacher Billy Graham, and it was ascribed to various/different tribes over the years. But, again, it’s NOT a native story anyway.

You know what is very funny too?

There are 500+ tribal nations, so there’s a variety of beliefs and stories, but I’ve never really come across any Native cultures where the wolf is seen as some special or highly revered animal. In my tribe, there aren’t really many stories of wolves at all, and they certainly aren’t regarded over and above any other species. They are just one animal among many, in a larger web of life. There is none of this wolf fetishizing anyway. And from what I gather about other tribes, it’s a similar situation.

Again, it’s a subset of White people that have created this Native and Wolf trope.

But, to really understand what I’m talking about, I think we need to look at a specific case.

Okay, here ya go…

This is Sandra Piovesan.

Sandra was a White woman from Pennsylvania that had lore of “Native American blood.” And in an effort to get more in touch with her Native “heritage.” She started getting into wolves. You can see in this photo of her that she was dressed as the “Native maiden with wolves” character in the art above.

Basically, she went out at found Wolf-Dogs that were only a tiny fraction dog, and high 90th percentile wolf. She built up her own pack, and claimed to have a spiritual connection with them. I guess they didn’t get that memo, that they were all spiritually bonded, and they actually killed her.

You can watch the episode of Fatal Attractions (“Don’t Feed the Bears”) on Amazon, or here’s a ripped version currently on Youtube.

Now, as you go through it, pay attention to all this sub-cultural stuff that is White cultural phenomenon, and even the fake “Sioux” medicine man, “Running Bear.”

This is what Natives refer to as crazy yoneg, bilagaana, wasicu, nahullo, zhaaganaash, etc. stuff.

Finally, let me leave you with some real Native humor here:

[wait-what-was-i-going-to-say]

If you get this, answer w three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs! Anon or not, doesn’t matter, let’s get to know the person behind the blog :)

1. I can crochet! Here's some of my recent projects

2. I love drawing. Never leave home without a sketch book(it's also useful for days when talking feels too difficult, I can use it to tell people things when I can't properly communicate as result lol)

3. I'm Cree on my mom's side, and I am a two spirited jingle dress dancer, and have been properly jingle dress dancing since I was 10, but had my first jingle dress as a toddler, and I hope to one day dance professionally in competitions and perhaps even compete in powwows like Manito Ahbee ^-^

[whitepassingpocs]

I'm a reconnecting native and I look pretty much entirely white (at least to me, some say otherwise) and I'm scared sometimes not knowing what I can and cannot do when it comes to my own identity. Do I identify as a poc or is that inappropriate? Was some my past experiences racism or people just being rude because they too think I'm white? Am I allowed to participate in and identify with some things even if I'm so disconnected? Am I even allowed to call myself native?

I've wanted to identify as two spirit, get into doing beaded designs just for myself, learn my tribes language, attend powwows and just engage with the community and say I belong in it but it's hard when I feel like I can't find definitive answers on things.

I feel lost as someone who is white passing and disconnected from my culture, and I'm not quite sure what to do about it and it's heartbreaking.

So long as you're doing so while you're committed to reconnecting and are going through that process, you have every right to say you're Native because it is who you are. It is part of your heritage.

As for participating in cultural practice, I cannot answer that. Not being Native myself, I have no say in who should/shouldn't participate in these things. You should refer to your Nation/Tribe's lore and customs for answers to that.

Whether or not you want to call yourself a POC is up to you. I often say on this blog that what you call yourself is not as important as strengthening your connection to your cultures because once you fortify that connection, what to call yourself becomes clear.

All I will say is that white people who are truly white do not ask themselves these questions. White people aren't reconnecting to their cultures of colour because they don't have them. They do not feel racialised intergenerational trauma and heartache of the kind you're describing. Think about that.

In the meantime, keep reconnecting! find someone of your tribe/Nation who can answer these questions. Get in touch with your tribe's council and ask for resources. Keep putting in the work of reconnecting and I promise you will eventually look back on writing this with amazement that you were ever so unsure of who you are.