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The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions

by Paula Gunn Allen

by Paula Gunn Allen

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<strong>the</strong> Pomo of California cannot practice until <strong>the</strong>y are sufficiently<br />

mature; when <strong>the</strong>y are immature, <strong>the</strong>ir power is diffuse and is<br />

likely to <strong>in</strong>terfere with <strong>the</strong>ir practice until time and experience<br />

have it under control. So women of <strong>the</strong> tribes are not especially<br />

<strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to see <strong>the</strong>mselves as poor helpless victims of male<br />

dom<strong>in</strong>ation. Even <strong>in</strong> those tribes where someth<strong>in</strong>g ak<strong>in</strong> to male<br />

dom<strong>in</strong>ation was present, women are perceived as powerful,<br />

socially, physically, and metaphysically. In times past, as <strong>in</strong><br />

times present, women carried enormous burdens with aplomb.<br />

We were far <strong>in</strong>deed from <strong>the</strong> “weaker sex,” <strong>the</strong> designation that<br />

white aristocratic sisters unhappily earned for us all.<br />

I remember my mo<strong>the</strong>r mov<strong>in</strong>g furniture all over <strong>the</strong> house<br />

when she wanted it changed. She didn’t wait for my fa<strong>the</strong>r to<br />

come home and help—she just went ahead and moved <strong>the</strong> piano,<br />

a huge upright from <strong>the</strong> old days, <strong>the</strong> couch, <strong>the</strong> refrigerator.<br />

Nobody had told her she was too weak to do such th<strong>in</strong>gs. In<br />

imitation of her, I would delight <strong>in</strong> load<strong>in</strong>g trucks at my fa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />

store with cases of pop or fifty-pound sacks of flour. Even when<br />

I was quite small I could do it, and it gave me a belief <strong>in</strong> my own<br />

physical strength that advanc<strong>in</strong>g middle age can’t quite erase.<br />

My mo<strong>the</strong>r used to tell me about <strong>the</strong> Acoma Pueblo women she<br />

had seen as a child carry<strong>in</strong>g huge ollas (water pots) on <strong>the</strong>ir<br />

heads as <strong>the</strong>y wound <strong>the</strong>ir way up <strong>the</strong> tortuous stairwell carved<br />

<strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> face of <strong>the</strong> “Sky City” mesa, a feat I tried to imitate with<br />

books and t<strong>in</strong> buckets. (“Sky City” is <strong>the</strong> term used by <strong>the</strong><br />

Chamber of Commerce for <strong>the</strong> mo<strong>the</strong>r village of Acoma, which<br />

is situated atop a high sandstone table mounta<strong>in</strong>.) I was never<br />

very successful, but even <strong>the</strong> attempt rem<strong>in</strong>ded me that I was<br />

supposed to be strong and balanced to be a proper girl.<br />

Of course, my mo<strong>the</strong>r’s Laguna people are Keres <strong>Indian</strong>,<br />

reputed to be <strong>the</strong> last extreme mo<strong>the</strong>r-right people on earth. So it<br />

is no wonder that I got notably nonwhite notions about <strong>the</strong><br />

natural strength and prowess of women. Indeed, it is only when I

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