Living Legends tonight - front row seats

I was in a field, at home. Probably wearing exactly what I wore today — tennis shoes, jeans, a t-shirt and my blue Adidas jacket. I was probably in front of a crowd, because I felt a little solitary, even though I couldn't have been the only one there. The ground was hard and the grass was kind of matted to the dirt; it was like one of those early-morning service projects that gets you out of bed a little before you were really ready, but fills you with a little thrill of excitement partly just because you know you're up before most of the world. It was early enough that the fog was still pretty thick on the ground, and the water droplets in the air would tingle the skin just a little. (You can tell I'm not writing about Utah, here.)

I digress.

We were obviously waiting for something, and I knew the early hour was worth it, even though I wasn't sure exactly what was coming. Suddenly, someone wearing big white wings came out of nowhere, and before I knew it, the field in front of me was full of feathers, drums, and calf-high boots made from rabbit skins. I felt almost invited to experience the emotion that drove these people to share with me what made them who they were.

This was my first time to see Living Legends, and I was blown away. With nearly every transition, I felt carried away to the mystic cultures which called out from the stage for me to notice that a little part of what made them, them, was probably in me, too. It was something that tied us all together as part of the whole human race. From the depiction of the ships sailing to the Promised Land and the tribal war dances to the wedding-white dresses of the Polynesian story of rebirth and the closing hymn, “I Am a Child of God” (which, I'll admit, choked me up just a little), there was something essentially real and human that drew me in. No wonder this group takes this show all over the world as a missionary tool.

I grew up in various parts of the Midwest, and took tests in elementary school about the Native American cultures who inhabited my neighborhoods before my parents' parents were born. I've always identified with this part of history just a little, if for no other reason than I was constantly surrounded by it. Tonight, during this show, I was carried back to the historic Indian villages I used to visit as a little kid. I was carried back to the bus in middle school, when my friend Jessica told me about the life size Cherokee babies her mother crafted for shows and stores. I remembered the poem I wrote in seventh grade about Andrew Jackson giving out the order which marked the beginning of the eviction march called the Trail of Tears. I even thought about calling my mom to see what happened to that photo of me wearing the headdress my grandpa brought back from his mission to the Native American people back in the late '40's.

My veins flow with some of the whitest blood there is—lots of English, lots of Dutch, a smattering of Danish and every other little European country that produces blonde hair and blue eyes (plus a few that don't). Tonight, though, as the story of my country and others like it unfolded, along with the sneaky, well-placed Book of Mormon verses dotted throughout the performance, I felt like the dancers were telling my story, and that of every other member of the audience.

Welcome home.