A Gathering of Spirit
! want to write about what it means to put together an issue by North American
Indian women. I need to explain and share my feelings connected to that work.
There is an urgency to relate the physical details， the spiritual labor， the ritual， the
gathering， the making. Because in the unraveling， the threads become more ap-
parent， each one with its distinct color and texture. And as I unravel， I also weave.
I am the storyteller and the story.
Jan. 3， 1982-Montague， Massachusetts. I am visiting Michelle Cliff and Adrienne
Rich， editors of Sinister Wisdom. We are sitting in their living room. Dinner is
over. It has been snowing all day， the
outside. Michelle has lit the oil lamps
white flakes muffle any sound coming from
The light is warm yellow and soft. We are
talking about writing. About women of color writing. I ask if they had ever thought
of doing an issue devoted to the writing of Indian women. They are enthusiastic，
ask me if I would edit such a collection. There is a panic in my gut. I am not an
\"established\" writer. {To this day， I am not sure what those words mean.} I have
never edited any work but my own. And I do not have the education. And to me，
that says it all. To have less than a high-school diploma is not to presume. About
anything.
I don t say these things out loud， only to myself. But I do say polite words-I m
sure someone else could do a better job， I really don t think I have the time， etc.， etc.
Michelle assures me that editing is not the mysterious process I think it is.
Adrienne tells me that they would not consider undertaking such a project. One is
Black. One is Jewish. Neither is Indian. So I am caught， asking the inside me，
why did I raise this if I wasn t willing to take it on?
As I lay in bed that night， I wrestle with this very complicated question. And I
struggle with the complicated realities of my life. I am uneducated， a half-breed，
a light-skinned half-breed， a lesbian， a feminist， an economically poor woman.
Can these realities be accommodated by my sisters? By the women I expect to
reach? Can I accommodate their realities? I think about responsibility， about tra-
dition， about love. The passionate， stomach-tightening kind of love I feel for my
aunts， my cousins， my sister， my grandmother， my father. And so， I am told-it is
time to take it on.
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