Mohawk.
At the sound of the drumming and singing, these dancers
stepped in a counterclockwise circle to commemorate the rotation
of the earth, their feet pounding the soft earth, their bells jangling.
As the drumming and choral singing intensified, they crouched
slightly and stepped more quickly, moving together with precision.
One man nodded his head while another flapped his arms like an
eagle. Others gestured as if they were scouting or hunting.
There was a time when women were not allowed to dance at
these events, but they now joined in as well. Wearing blouses and
broadcloth skirts and handwoven belts, they formed a slower-
moving, dignified circle around the male dancers, keeping their
torsos and heads straight as they bobbed up and down with each
step.
Many Osage looked on from the benches, fanning themselves in
the heat; a few stole glances at cell phones, but most watched
reverently. Each bench bore the name of an Osage family, and as I
walked around to the southern side of the pavilion, I found the
one I was looking for: “Burkhart.”
Before long, an Osage woman walked toward me. In her early
fifties, she wore a powder-blue dress and stylish glasses, and her
long black glossy hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her expressive
face seemed vaguely recognizable. “Hi, I’m Margie Burkhart,” she
said, extending her hand. Margie is the granddaughter of Mollie
Burkhart. She serves on a board that directs health-care services
for the Osage, and she had driven from her home in Tahlequah,
seventy miles southeast of Tulsa, to the dances with her husband,
Andrew Lowe, a Creek Seminole.
The three of us sat on the wooden bench and, while watching
the dancers, spoke about Margie’s family. Her father, now
deceased, was James “Cowboy” Burkhart—the son of Mollie and