I am an alcoholic. I live on an Indian reservation. My home sits perched on a desert mountain overlooking the largest hydroelectric power plant in the world, and I remember wishing Grand Coulee Dam could be filled with Canadian whiskey. Boy, then we could party!
I was forty when “Frank” and I found each other. We decided this had to be a marriage made in heaven. He was a man who lived to drink, and I was a woman who lived to drink. How could we miss?
Day by day, we drank ourselves into oblivion, and on Saturday and Sunday, we’d make each day count for two. Get drunk, pass out, wake up, get drunk, and pass out. Voila!
In the midst of our worst drinking, our knock-down, drag-out fights became widely known. We weren’t welcome anywhere, mostly because my foul mouth would infuriate my drunken Indian and we’d wind up fighting, no matter where we were. And nobody enjoyed our fights very much.
The Great Spirit decided to surprise us. When I was forty-three, I gave birth to a tiny five-pound tribal member whom we named Joey. I had been drinking whiskey throughout my pregnancy, and Joey was born a full-blown alcohol addict. Happy birthday, little Joe. He spent the first five days of his life in withdrawal.
I came to the conclusion that the Great Spirit had a lousy sense of humor. Good joke on this alcoholic–with a baby, she’ll have to stay sober. Oh yeah? I’ll show you!
And Frank and I resumed our daily drinking. We didn’t fight as much after the baby came, but we drank harder than ever.
Then Frank was offered a job, and we moved here to the reservation. The job lasted five days. Poverty set in. We spent every minute of our day trying to figure out how to get some drinking money. We sold everything we could sell, one thing at a time: pickup truck, camper, books, and even some of Joey’s clothes. Staggering Eagle and his family had reached a new low.
One early evening, Frank went into town to buy some beer. At two o’clock the next morning, I was still standing by the window waiting for him to come home and had begun to feel scared. I had the most awful feeling that something was wrong. Horrid fears crowded my mind and I went into a total panic. I heard myself weeping out of frustration and fear: “Please, God, just let Frank be alive; show me what to do.”
The pounding at my door jolted me from my alcoholic prayer. They carried Frank in, the gash on his head leaking blood all over his clothes. His car had sailed through the air on a mountain curve and had landed on all fours against an embankment. The car was totaled. He was found wandering on the road, bleeding, and wondering where he was.
They said to let him sleep it off, and as he snored, I cleaned the wound on his head and bandaged it. And I wept. Where is all this going to end?
I spent the rest of the night sitting by my baby’s bed, watching his serene face as he slept; and as the sun came up, I made my decision. Even if Frank continued to drink, I had to try to stop. Joey needed at least one parent with a clear head, and I couldn’t stand myself anymore. I knew if I kept this up, I’d probably be so despairing some night, I’d kill my child and myself. It had to end.
When Frank awoke, he told me he couldn’t remember anything except that a guy asked him for a ride across the mountain. He wept as he tried to remember; his frustration and embarrassment were terrible to behold.
Out of the depths of his misery and pain came the request, “Will you please call and get me some help? I want to go to treatment.”
I made that call on behalf of our whole family, and inside ten minutes, an AA member was at our door.
This all took place more than three years ago. We played around with AA and drank a few more times, but eventually, the magic of AA took over and we discovered the wonders of the program.
Such wonders included the Native American AA camp-out, which took place in the tiny reservation town of Inchelium, Washington in July 1985. Several hundred people came from all over the western United States and Canada, and Inchelium had never seen such a traffic jam. The campground near the ferry landing was nothing more than a huge stand of jack pines with no facilities at all except for a few ancient outhouses and a falling-down cookshack with some meat-drying racks beside it.
Campers pulled in between the trees wherever there was space and set up their camps. We had a tent, sleeping bags, and even a porta-potty, though many folks had set up traditional teepees and lean-tos.
In the center of the campground, a circle of logs had been constructed. This was the meeting place, fondly named the Serenity Circle. Day or night, over the next four days, campers would sit on the logs and talk AA, or pray before the sacred campfire. This perpetual campfire had been lit before the camp-out began and would not be allowed to die out until after the last camper had gone away. AA meetings were held all afternoon, and then a traditional supper of deer meat and dumplings was served at the cookshack.
As evening fell, it was told that traditional ceremonies would take place in the sweat lodges by the river. Joey and I returned to the Serenity Circle, and Frank chose to go to the sweat lodge.
The evening sky was glorious, red and gold with fleecy white puffs of cloud, as Frank entered the small hut. In the darkness of the hut, Frank opened his heart to his Creator. He prayed for all those who are dear to him, friends and family alike. As he whispered a final Amen, a voice from the darkness said, “Your prayer was totally unselfish. You have learned to pray. You are now truly an elder among us.” He felt deeply honored, and tears of gratitude and happiness trickled down his brown cheeks.
The sacred campfire was now roaring, sparks of faith shooting upward. The entire camp had assembled in the Serenity Circle, now dark except for the fire. It was so quiet a whisper could be heard.
It was told that a sacred prayer dance would begin, and the drums began softly, gradually becoming louder as one by one, elders, some in traditional regalia, entered the circle.
In the firelight, I saw my husband take the hand of our son, and together they entered the circle and began to dance to the heartbeat of the drums. It was the First Dance for both Frank and Joey, and I could barely breathe for the lump of pride and happiness in my throat. How beautiful that AA had given us this gift of a sober life, and now father and son were participating for the first time together in their common heritage. Three years before, this would not been possible. I found myself wishing I were Indian, so I could join them myself in the circle.
Following the dances, a giveaway was held and Frank was gifted with a new blanket. He presented it to me, and I in turn wrapped it around our young child, to signify family. The speaker gave honor to Frank for his service to the tribe and to the AA groups on the reservation.
We went to sleep that night in our tent, to the sound of drums, our hearts very full indeed.
A few days later, at the closing ceremony, several hundred tired but wonderfully inspired campers gathered around the sacred fire, We joined hands and formed a giant circle. A beautiful young Indian woman began to sing, “Our Father which art in Heaven. . .” As our hearts began to swell from the beauty of the moment, a distant roll of thunder sounded in the skies, then a gentle, warm rain began to fall. And I knew why it all had happened–the Higher Power had answered my desperate alcoholic plea and had shown us the way. Thank you, Great Spirit.
But there is an epilogue to this story too. On Christmas morning of that same year, amid the brightly colored wrapping paper, I found a package which contained an exquisite fringed dancing shawl and underneath it a pair of beaded buckskin moccasins. Through my tears I saw Frank and Joey grinning at me. “An elder’s woman must be properly attired if she too is going to dance in the circle.”