I think I've figured it out. I don't know how to be indian. When I think Indian, I think of buckskin and feathers, riding bareback across the open plains, I think of a shawl wrapping around me, it's edges covered in beads and shells, that make the pretties sound when you dance. At each bounce step you hear the rhythm of the dancer, like a low rush of a river. I can see the turquoise and silver dripping from my neck. A leather headband holds my single feather upright. Beaded bracelets and more turquoise and silver line my arms. Amber and precious stone rings the size of my knuckles cover my fingers. My people Woodland people, my clan the Crane. The men wear huge silver serving platter sized belt buckles, jeans that fit almost like a second skin and a shirt with some weird pattern held together with pearl buttons. On their feet, pointy leather cowboy boots and topping off the ensemble, the biggest 10-gallon hat you've seen, with some type of feathery hat band. When they look to their wrist for time, the hours are surrounded by boulders of red coral and turquoise stone.