The woman in the correct-size high heels was leaving a trail of indents in the pine needle covered soil. Other women were working quietly--gathering, fishing, cleaning. The high-heeled "modern" woman looked alarmed.
"You can come in here as far as the picnic table."
"Don't worry. It's not satanic. Not klannish. Not even tribal."
"What is it?"
"Some of us are learning from the Native Americans how we take care of our men!"
A look of aghast. "After all you've seen of (i)them(i) and their, their (i)ways(i)."
The Native American women had frozen in place. "I like their ways."
"Not them! (i)THEM(i)," she waved a manicured hand at the world-at-large.
"She a manhater?" Asked a black Native American person.
"She's the one who wants a husband so badly she's trying every which way to be an (i)ideal(i) woman." A look of flabbergasted at being talked about in front of strangers. "A (i)good husband(i)."
In Cherokee someone said, "That's the tramp." Someone else picked up a smooth flat matada. "You better move. And speak in English." The person said, "That's the tramp." And moved as the corn grounding rock was plopped into place near the campfire. The high-heeled woman's head sunk low into her fleece jacket. Tears dripped.
"Probably fake." Someone said.
"Not for you to say that," someone else chided.
"I can say what I want."
"Not at the expense of (i)relations(i)."
A tissue was taken out from a sweater sleeve and proffered. It was taken.
Sniffles. A nose blow. "It's not just about finding a better man out there, but, but," the woman broke down into crying.
"Maybe I should go find your bestie."
The crying woman shook her head (i)noooooooo(i). The other women went back to work preparing.
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