Even with a toddler, doing "sanctuary" at the Miccosukee Embassy in Miami sometimes gets monotonous. To combat the boredom, I started brushing up on my knitting and beading skills. This necklace is inspired by the Seminole patchwork designs. Maybe I'll add it to our "Store" page, right up there with our New Seminole Bad Ass Spices and books. Maybe. Right now I can't imagine selling it because it took so long to bake it. Sorry. I made the mistake of listening to some old rock music while I was a beading and I can't get that song out of my head no matter how hard I try.

Anyway, it appears this hardened terrorist has taken up knitting and beading along with raising a child. Who knew?

The "49 dance" is when guys and gals on the rez get together and get jiggy. Although it can be traced to the traditional Kiowa and Oklahoma tribes because of its rhythms, it doesn't commemorate bravery in battle. Instead it's celebrating fun and love, usually with a shot of firewater to help the dancers find their courage because, let's face it, striking up a conversation with someone you're attracted too can take all the help it can get. 

Busimanolotome Osceola, founder of the New Seminole (NS) and my father-in-law, encouraged our "tribe" to do this instead of the traditional powwow dances because-- I think-- he loved the dance's roots in rebellion, in the disruption of the status quo which, if anything, the NS were and are.  

My first introduction to the 49 dance came on a moonlit night deep in the Everglades on a hammock less than a foot above the water. The trees that had taken root there were covered by camo netting to hide us from the prying eyes of Uncle Sam's spy satellites (I know, I too thought our fearless leader was a tad paranoid until we shot down a drone over the Everglades).  This is what it sounds like-- and yes it traditionally uses English lyrics because the 49 dance's roots only date back to early 1900s.

But I took it a step further by pushing Busi's buttons-- which was easy to do if you read my books-- by dancing with Nokosee to music like this, supplied by BoomBox-- our tribe's black Alan-a-Dale-- on a giant ghetto blaster he carried everywhere we went, adding musical counterpoint to our fleeting moments while on the run from Army Rangers (our "charges" and "retreats"-- mostly retreats-- were signaled by BoomBox playing a cassette of regimental bugle music). This is also the song I sang to Nokosee on our wedding night again on a hidden hammock deep in the Everglades, a song we danced clockwise to in a circle where cultures collide and meld together, becoming something new. Something like the New Seminole.