14 days and 300 jingles Later, I walked into the arbour a dancer

By Jolene Banning

14 days and 300 jingles until I dance at the annual traditional Fort William First Nation pow wow.  When I signed up to make a regalia, I had not operated a sewing machine since Grade 8 Home Economics. Okay, maybe I used a sewing machine once or twice since then, but not much. I grew up around pow wows, my matrimonial family followed a traditional lifestyle, living off the land but I never had a regalia.

Our first class is filled with community members just like me, first time dancers, making regalia for a younger family member. The instructor tells us what to measure, how to measure: not too tight, what that piece will look like on the fabric, where to cut and go! As she explains things, she tells us what we’ll do each step of the way. It feels overwhelming, like I signed up for some really hard chemistry class taught in a foreign language. Then, I breathe.

 Day two. I forgot I was scheduled to work. I’m disappointed but remind myself that there’s always tomorrow. I come to class early and try to catch up. I spent so much time picking out ribbon, trying to decide how to lay it out, flip-flopping on my decisions. We’re only at the beginning of this project, doing a task that should have been simple and fun yet I found it nerve-wracking. I’m not an artist.

Over my next few nights, I made 300 jingles. After I make a few and get the hang of it, the rest feel like I’m in meditation. All stress is gone and everything feels right. I feel good about my colour choices, my ribbon placement, and my dress pattern. The thought of dancing however, makes me nervous. I acknowledge the feeling and let it go. I stay in the moment.

Slowly my dress is taking form. Many nights are late nights sewing with my cousin. Each bias tape is laid out and sewn. 300 jingles are added, one by one. I made a few mistakes during the process. A few each day. Sometimes the same mistake more than once. My dress came to life as I finished my first row of jingles. I’m smiling ear to ear at the row of jingles. I lift it up to take a closer look. I hear clink, clink as they fall out. I ran out of bobbin so nothing was sewn together.

After I finished my dress, I enter ceremony to have it blessed and I make my offerings. Grand Entry is at one o’clock in the afternoon and again at seven o’clock in the evening. I drive up to the mountain with all of my regalia in tow. I get dressed, smudge, and go in search of the spiritual advisor. I offer my sema and he tells me the story of where the jingle dress comes from. It’s a beautiful story that I will hold onto as I dance. I wait at the eastern entrance for Grand Entry. I’m told to stand in line with the other jingle dress dancers. We all enter the sacred area and it happens. I put my hands on my hip and my feet move to the beat of the drum, one foot in front of the other. As I dance, I think of my family, I think of the story of the jingle dress and I feel overwhelming pride and it shows. In any picture taken of me in that moment, I’m beaming with a full smile.

And why wouldn’t I be? I have had many teachers in my journey so far that I’m grateful for. I had my daughter there with her six-month-old daughter. Each and every time the drum was beat and the dancers danced by, my grandbaby would kick her little feet, smiling and giggling, totally loving my jingles. By next summer, if she’s walking, I’ll make her a dress and all three of us will dance the healing dance.