Through writing for American Spirit, the magazine Hammock produces for the Daughters of the American Revolution, I have acquired a newfound fascination with American history--especially with groups that typically have been marginalized. A few weeks ago I finished reading Black Elk Speaks, John Gneisenau Niehardt's record of the Lakota (Sioux) chief's experiences as tribal healer and holy man, and his account of the battle at Little Bighorn and the massacre at Wounded Knee.

Two years ago, when I was a junior in college and planning to become a high school English teacher, I spent four weeks teaching Language Arts classes to Lakota children at Pine Ridge Middle School on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. This particular reservation was a hotbed of activity during the American Indian Movement in the 1970s, with the Wounded Knee Massacre occurring there in 1973. I spent my time "on the rez" (as the locals call it) shadowing a sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Donna Jumping Eagle, and overcoming the awkward race relations that sometimes still exist between White and American Indian cultures.

Two nights before I left Pine Ridge, Mrs. Jumping Eagle invited me to her home to experience some of her culture firsthand. Nervous about the prospect of indulging in traditions completely foreign to me, I almost turned down the invitation--and nearly turned the car around and retreated to my hotel room as I drove toward her house that evening. When I finally--and reluctantly--arrived, we shared a meal of Indian flatbread with her homemade chokecherry jam, a Lakota delicacy, before retreating outside with her friends and family to participate in a sweat lodge ceremony.

This Native American religious service takes place in a four-foot tall hut made of sticks and animals hides, with a pile of heated rocks placed in the center. The purpose of the ceremony is for participants to "sweat out" their iniquities, and a designated participant ensures this will happen by repeatedly pouring water on the rocks to create steam and increase the temperature of the sweat lodge. I remember distinctly trying to concentrate on improving my character, but somehow I was unable, preoccupied with the wonder of being so intimately introduced to this hidden sect of American culture.

We spent about an hour in the sweat lodge and I sat attentively while Mrs. Jumping Eagle and her friends sang religious songs in their native tongue. Once the sweat ended, Mrs. Jumping Eagle insisted that we smoke a peace pipe together to celebrate building a bridge between our two cultures (Don't worry: I checked first to make sure we weren't smoking peyote). As I drove away from Mrs. Jumping Eagle's house that night, I remember thinking two things: 1) Participating in a sweat lodge was the most uncomfortable thing I had ever experienced; and 2) I should stray from my comfort zone more often.

Since sharing that experience with Mrs. Jumping Eagle, I've developed a passion for helping Native Americans conserve their culture. Organizations like the Native American Rights Fund help American Indians defend their rights and maintain their traditions, and the DAR offers scholarships and cultural camps for Indian children. I've worked hard to donate extra money to organizations that help my friends on the Pine Ridge Reservation hold tightly to the culture they so bravely and openly shared with me.

It's strange, but every time I smell pipe tobacco I feel instantly thankful that I didn't turn the car around that night.