Where dance is at the center of the world: New Mexican Andrew Garcia draws inner strength from his Pueblo Indian dance traditions, which he teaches and practices.

"By dancing, one awakens, arises.... To dance is . . . to participate in an ageless, cosmic movement.... Pueblo people thus honor the passing of time by dancing as a reminder to awaken, to participate in the connected flow of life around them."

Truly indigenous American dance can still be seen in its traditional setting, both spiritual and physical. Although the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico and eastern Arizona long suffered religious persecution by Christian zealots, they were never driven from their homelands as many Native Americans were--never forced to abandon their traditional style of town, with its dance plazas and sacred kivas (ceremonial structures) which are integral to their religion.

At the center of Pueblo society are ceremonial dances with origins that long predate the arrival of the white man. It is inspiring to spend time in a society where, in contrast to establishment thinking, dance is fundamental to life, a communal responsibility in which all ages take part. Although many early writers, such as Erna Fergusson and Frank Waters, assumed that Indian culture was dying out, the reverse has happily proved true. Current evidence of vigor can be witnessed, for example, at Santo Domingo Pueblo's annual Corn Dance, where a full thousand current or returning residents dance in imposing formations.

Although ceremonies in the kivas are off-limits to non-Indians, visitors are welcome at many dances that take place in the plazas. In contrast to powwows, with their individual prowess [see "Tribal Splendor," Dance Magazine June 1992, page 46], these group rituals, many of them performed in unison, often feature contained gestures close to the body, erect torsos, and small, earth-hugging steps--with powerful effect. Costumes are elegant and subtle, and each detail has meaning and beauty.

Native Indian residents will generally deflect curious visitors' questions about the dances; earlier harassment and more recent cultural appropriation by whites have made them reluctant to reveal meanings. It seems remarkable, therefore, to find that a Pueblo Indian teacher is currently sharing his cultural traditions and certain of the less sacred dances in classes at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. Andrew Garcia, respected veteran director of his own company, singer, drummer, and dancer, now teaches in UNM's dance department with the blessing of the elders of his pueblo, San Juan. (UNM's active dance department also offers a wide range of ballet, modern dance, and flamenco classes, as well as such subjects as dance history, criticism, and choreography.)

Today, Garcia is working with the students on San Juan Pueblo's Comanche Dance, commemorating the Pueblos' contacts with the Plains Indian tribe, some peaceful, some not. In accompaniment, he beats a small drum authoritatively and sings in his sonorous baritone, as the men move boldly, each holding a rattle and an arrow, while the women, holding eagle feathers, tread with small, springy steps. For this visitor, invited to take part, the dancing, along with the deep, soft drumbeat and expressive singing, gives a feeling of connection to the earth and to the other participants, even in this studio setting. At the same time that the steps are very "down," one feels that the women must be light on their feet. Later, we practice the Friendship Dance, which is shared by many tribes, a sidestepping round dance in which spectators may be invited to join. Garcia remarks approvingly that as the class progresses, all are bending their knees more into the dances.

The students have come into class practicing words that Garcia has taught them in Tewa, the language of his pueblo. Between dances, they gather around, asking questions. Some have followed him from previous courses. They are planning a potluck supper in his honor at the end of the semester.

This affable man with the twinkle in his kind eyes, whose traditional Indian name, NaNa T'saa, translates as "White Aspen," talks to them about the meaning of various dances, about the joy of dancing, upcoming dances at the pueblos, and his own difficult early life. (He is the subject of a forthcoming biography by retired Columbia University professor Louis Forsdale.)

Out of Garcia's personal struggles with alcoholism, which, he says, "almost killed me," has come a career of helping others, first in addiction counseling and ultimately through dance; and with his own company, Tewa Dancers from the North, he hopes to "guide young people in the right path," to help give them back their traditional values, on which they can build self-esteem. He allows no alcohol or drugs in the company. In the book Dances of the Tewa Pueblo Indians (1985), Jill D. Sweet singles out Garcia's company (then called San Juan Indian Youth Dancers) as "successfully using tradition to cope with a contemporary social problem."

She also notes that whereas touring presentations were once controlled by white entrepreneurs, "Tewa performance is increasingly in the hands of the Tewas themselves." This empowerment is an important trend for Native Americans, seen also in the new National Museum of the American Indian. Garcia's group receives invitations to appear at international cultural festivals, before heads of state, at drug rehabilitation conferences, and at fund-raisers for AIDS and other causes. It has appeared all over the country--in New York City in 1990, at President Clinton's first inauguration, and at Robert Redford's Sundance Ranch--and in Mexico, Canada, and Spain.

Later, at Garcia's home, which he shares with his wife, Verna, at San Juan Pueblo on the Rio Grande River north of Santa Fe, we talk in more detail. Of his teaching at the university, he says, "The history, culture, and dance that I present there make me feel good, because the students can get a better understanding of the Pueblo way of life. The Pueblo people dance in harmony with nature. For quite a number of years, I have been concerned to pass along some of these things to non-Indians. We've all got to learn from one another. I learn from the students, too. And I know the area where I need to stop, because I don't want to hurt my people"--by revealing information, for example, about nonpublic rituals.

The many personal tragedies suffered in his family, he says, "really put us through a lot of pain." But he speaks especially warmly of his grandfather, who belonged to the koshare society of sacred clowns. "He would sing me [traditional] songs when we would go for wood up in the mountains. And he told me stories and talked about the different dances that used to take place, and the games. I think that those are the things that I have now. I also learned many things from my uncles--they are well versed in the ways of our people here. And from our elders.

"But it was a battle with alcohol and drug addiction here in the pueblo. That's why, after making my U-turn at the V.A. hospital in Colorado--that was where I got rehabilitated and [then] went and got training--I came back here to San Juan Pueblo in 1970, and with some help initiated the alcoholism program to help the people who were battling that.

"In 1974 the young people came to me and my uncle Cipriano Garcia and said they wanted to do Indian dancing. This is how all this came about. I wanted to involve the young people, so they could get somewhere in life. And it worked. As I always tell them, as you go along with the dance program, you're going to get a better understanding as to why we dance. And how you get that joy of dance. A lot of them who used to perform are married now and working and having a good life."

An additional purpose of the group is preservation. For example, he says, "I was worried about the Butterfly Dance. It wasn't done here at the Pueblo for twenty years, but I had it going through the young people. This year, it was brought back again." Garcia was also asked to revive the Butterfly Dance for nearby Santa Clara Pueblo and to compose new songs, since even their songs for it had been forgotten. Recently he and some of his dancers took part in dances at Pojoaque Pueblo, where he has helped since 1980 in the revival of traditional culture (after that pueblo had been virtually abandoned at one time).

"I make all our costumes myself," he says. "We started out with nothing, not a single feather. Today we own everything that we have." He also made or loaned costumes used at Pojoaque Pueblo and in Santa Clara's Butterfly Dance.

"No matter where we travel, we always make friends. We go very proudly, with honor and showing respect to our ancestors. The young people feel real proud that they can share this beautiful culture with other people. That makes me happy." The meaning of the dances is the same whether in a ritual or nonritual setting, he says. "We're blessing the people who are there. A lot of non-Indian people don't really understand that [as spectators] they also become a part of the dance. They're in there too, with us. It's through their strength that we are also getting support.

"The song is the key to the dances," he explains. "In the case of a new song, the steps are fitted to it by its composer." To illustrate the closeness of song and steps, he jumps up to get a drum, then sings, his voice haunting, strong, and optimistic, throbbing the beats on the held notes. His skillful handling of this Buffalo Dance Song, with its difficult counts, has earned particular admiration.

"I do all my singing from the heart," he says. "In order to become a singer, a drummer, and in order to work with your dancers you have to listen very, very well to how the words are sung. After learning things from my uncles, who are very good singers, and going back to what my grandfathers used to sing, I make songs myself now."

The scene changes to the intensely sunny plaza of the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque, where Garcia's Tewa Dancers from the North are often invited to appear. Garcia is standing at a microphone wearing a band around his head and holding a drum. He draws in the large audience, explaining the origins of his company and telling them about its members, primarily from his own family. He is clearly very proud that his family dances. (His oldest grandson, called Butterfly, is active as a dancer but today is in a basketball tournament.)

"The sound of the rattle, when you're dancing," Garcia tells his audience, "signifies rain. And the drum itself is the heartbeat of Mother Earth." Rain and earth--two important aspects of life in this beautiful but arid country.

The dancers are completely intent and meticulous, taking their ambassadorial mission seriously. In the Buffalo Dance the demure Buffalo Maidens with their quiet authority are two daughters and a niece of Garcia's. Two grandsons, Curt and Darren, are here in their imposing buffalo headdresses, suggesting the power and strength of the animals, lumbering slightly as if with the buffalo's solemn weight and years of wisdom in their sinking walk. At the same time, they represent the hunters, by carrying a lightning stick (sometimes a bow) and an arrow in their left hands.

The women's Pueblo Dance blesses all creatures, in hope of peace. In the Eagle Dance, the two boys' small hops carry them forward with sharp, swooping movements of their outstretched, winglike arms. They seem to float down, bank a turn, then crouch as if on a nest. Without showy leaps, their grace makes the earth they dance on disappear, leaving them soaring through the free air and carrying, as Garcia says, prayers up to the Creator.

In spite of the glaring summer heat, at the end of the performance Garcia persuades a large number of us spectators to join his dancers in the Friendship Dance that he had been teaching in class. We get out there and feel a sense of accomplishment and a hint of the endurance necessary for the daylong ritual dances at the pueblos in all kinds of weather.

At home, he tells me, "We dance to honor the different animals. That's why when we dance we're moving like the animal. You feel like you're in there, identifying with it. Like one time, my grandson Butterfly told me, `I was dancing the Eagle Dance, and somehow I wanted to fly.' He wanted me to explain it to him. I said, `When you put everything into what you're dancing for, this is the reason you get that feeling.' I think the animal is giving you that strength.

"I always say to the young people, participate in the dances in this community. Don't just say that you're going to dance with my group. You are part of this community. When you're dancing, it makes you feel good. You're dancing not only for yourself but also for people all over the world. You're sending blessings. When you're dancing on Mother Earth, you're getting strength from her and also thanking her for all the things that she provides." Garcia sings and drums regularly at the pueblo, and family members dance.

Garcia is himself going to dance in San Juan Pueblo's annual Turtle Dance that marks the winter solstice, ending one year and commencing the next. This centuries-old dance is one of the Pueblo's most important, with a web of meanings beginning with the turtle's long life. Garcia explains that the songs, in pure Tewa, name a comprehensive honor roll of sacred objects in nature--not only animal species but spiritual beings, such as Evergreen Man and Woman, who provide the branches, indicative of long life, that are essential to pueblo dances. He tells me that the elders have designated one of the purposes of the Turtle Dance this year to be prayers for Bosnia.

The December day is sunny but crisp. The long, shoulder-to-shoulder line of 137 men and boys dance without shirts or leggings, in unison and elegant in their dance kilts and handsome asymmetrical headdresses with two feathers, eagle and macaw. The singing is quiet, low-pitched, and as if from deepest time. The turtle shell tied behind every dancer's right knee produces a low sound like rain. Time seems suspended. The dancers' moccasins caress, rather than beat, the bare earth of the plaza. Each change of rhythm and tempo and each pivot to face another of the four sacred directions suggests import, even to the visitor. The many spectators--mesmerized by the dance, the sounds of the dancers moving, the song, and the sun--follow the dance as it moves from one to another of San Juan's plazas, enfolded by the earthen adobe houses and, beyond them, the protecting mountains. The dance seems truly to be at the center of the world.

Garcia dances with great concentration and dignity, precise and fluid in his movements, shaking the gourd rattle. You can see that he knows the songs perfectly. This looks like dancing as meditation.

I remember that he said, "I still do what I have been given by my grandfather--the knowledge--and I'll hold onto it for whatever it takes. That's me. I guess I'll be singing and teaching dances until the last breath that comes out of me."

RELATED ARTICLE: If You Go to Dances at the Pueblos ...

This is a festive occasion, but just remember to act with the consideration due when attending a religious ceremony and visiting the vicinity of people's homes; this is not a show or a museum. Follow any instructions; inquire whether a camera, sketching, or note taking is allowed; if so, a small feee may be charged. The sun can be brilliant at any time of year, so consider wearing a hat, sunscreen, and sunglasses. Take along your patience as well as your courtesy, and then lose yourself for a while! If a resident should offer you the traditional hospitality of a meal, do accept. For schedules, call the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center at [phone]; it can also give you phone numbers at the pueblos to confirm information.