Making Choices
BY NICOLE ADAMS

It was four a.m. and my mind, as it is prone to do, was racing. Endless checklists of the dozens of unfinished details for the next day's fundraiser were being drafted in my head. “Do we have enough centerpieces? Who will greet the caterer? We need an information table to be set up here, and someone needs to get bottled water for the emcee,” I worried. Alongside these ridiculous thoughts, a mantra served as a refrain for any moment when my mind quieted for even a second: “I'm not cut out for this type of work. Why am I doing this? Is this really what I'd rather be doing than being home learning my language and being near my family?” I recognized then, as I have during countless high-pressure situations I've encountered since joining the staff of the American Indian College Fund five years ago, that my anxiety-prone personality seemed to be in direct conflict with the “other duties as required” of my job.
But beyond that, I've found myself wondering more and more lately, “What the heck is this Colville gal doing in Colorado?” As much as the beauty of the Colorado mountains reminds me of the scenic Pacific Northwest, and as grateful as I am to work with passion for a cause I truly believe in—supporting the nation's tribal colleges and universities—I know that my path in life is not meant to end here. Rather, the pull of home that I have been moderately successful at turning away from seems to be gaining ground in the ongoing battle between “culture and traditions versus career choices” that has been brewing in my mind since I left the Northwest for Dartmouth College years and years ago.

Nicole Adams and her mother, Patricia Atkins, at the Satus Longhouse in Washington State

Why then do I stay? I suppose I could ask that of my many peers and colleagues who, like me, have selected a career path that literally has criss-crossed the United States. From interning in Washington D.C., to working for my tribe, to my current job in Denver, I have forged a career path that, in effect, can be summarized as following my "take a chance" philosophy of life. There has been no master plan. There was no guidance counselor who set me on my way to what I am doing now. No, I have just tried to make the most educated guess at varied junctures in my life as to what is the best way to create a career where I can give back to Indian people. Through each milestone or new job, I have felt pangs of guilt over the sacrifices I have chosen for myself. Unfortunately, there are no Sahaptin language courses in Colorado. I cannot learn to make cedar baskets here. I can only voice some weak words of support to my mother via the telephone during fishing season when she is literally up to her elbows in salmon that must be cut and stored. I am not there to help. Instead, I have chosen to find solace in the fact that I am helping others in a different way. Recently, I was asked to calculate the amount my departments have raised for the tribal colleges since I joined the Fund. It was over $10 million. On some days, it is enough. On others, it isn't.
In the end, the fundraiser went off without a hitch, despite my lack of sleep. People came, enjoyed themselves, learned something about the tribal colleges and donated hard-earned money from their own careers to help an Indian student change her life through education. Because of the work of the Fund, scholarships are distributed to thousands of students every year who will eventually attain their degrees and seek careers that will help others as well.
While this could very well be the moral of my story, an interesting thing happened the afternoon after the fund-raiser that brings me full circle in my reflections. Because the event was held in Portland, Oregon, my mother was able to come and fetch me in her green Dodge Caravan whose odometer is nearing 200,000 miles from the many times she has criss-crossed Washington and Oregon in her work with her community and family. Literally sweeping me off my exhausted feet, she swung open the door and let me crawl in and fall asleep.
When I awoke, I realized she had driven me to a powwow on the banks of the Columbia River in Eastern Washington. I watched the people come up and greet my mother as old friends, and felt those pangs again. "What job could be more important that this?" I asked myself. "Why don't I know anyone here?"
The next morning, the green Caravan pulled up to the Satus Longhouse near my grandmother's home of White Swan, Washington. Although she had to drive hundreds of miles to bring me there, my mother was determined to bring me to the huckleberry feast, one of our annual celebrations welcoming the coming of our traditional food and giving thanks for it. It didn't matter that I didn't know the words to the songs that were sung, or that I didn't remember the last time I had been at that particular longhouse. I danced and closed my eyes and prayed for some wisdom regarding the thoughts that had weighed heavily on my heart.
When the songs ended, my uncle rose to his feet to address the longhouse. To my surprise, he shared how happy he was to see me again, that he knew I had traveled far to join them, and that my presence there had made him very happy. His son then stood up and spoke. He added to his father's sentiments, mentioning that he knew I worked to help others to get an education, and that this work was deeply important to our people. He said it was good to see me again.
The words came through and touched my heart in a rare moment of clarity. I realized that my home was still my home, and my family would always be there for me. But beyond that I realized that when it comes to careers and choices, we are all just trying to do the best we can to help our people. Whether that includes working at the very grassroots level, or trying to find satisfaction from helping at a distance, we need to find peace with what we can give, while accepting the challenges and setbacks that go along with trying to help others.
Yes I am separated from my people. But I also do not have to endure the dysfunction of tribal politics impeding my life's work, like others I know. No I am not there to help my mother. But I still have choices to make, and the freedom to make them. My path goes on, and I continue to heed the words and wisdom of others who encourage me to keep helping my people and doing the best I can.

Nicole Adams, Colville/Yakama, works for the American Indian College Fund in Denver, Colorado, and is a contributing editor for Winds of Change.