Writing From Traditional Chickasaw Stories

From the moment I read The Story of the King of the Tie Snakes, a traditional Chickasaw story, I knew I wanted to write about the chief’s son. The impulsive boy throws his father’s vessel of authority into a stream and dives in to retrieve it, only to make matters worse. I envisioned this devil-may-care boy so vividly that Jasper came to life on the page. Fiercely independent and strategic Harissa came next, inspired by tales of the Wildcat and Panther clans. Slowly, the elements of a modern story emerged, complete with character arcs and plot.

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Still, something was missing. My tribe’s stories are sacred, so I was reluctant to stretch tradition too far, but early drafts lacked cohesion.

Then, in 2020, Covid afforded me the unsolicited opportunity to wait in school car loop lines four hours a day with my kids. I listened to hundreds of hours of kids’ audiobooks. This was when I encountered Chinese-American author Grace Lin.

Grace Lin’s novels, inspired by Chinese folklore, sounded like traditional stories that could have been. Just like that, I found the missing ingredient—a way to write from tradition without cannibalizing my tribe’s stories. I wrote a capstone myth for Undrowned in the rhythms and imagery of traditional Chickasaw tales. My story stood apart yet honored its origins.

I knew feedback from my tribe’s leaders was essential. I may be Chickasaw, but I don’t represent every tribal member, after all. I shared Undrowned with Chickasaw Press and eventually came to be a Leaning Pole Press author. What I learned from tribal editors and elders reinforced my opinion of the importance of traditional stories.

Simply put, because it’s revealing. Tradition speaks of dietary habits, resource availability, priorities, landscape, how time is spent, family dynamics, how problems are solved, and what is worthy of celebration. Storytelling reminds us that solutions often come from unexpected relationships, like the eight-legged spider who brought fire to two-legged Chickasaws by protecting the ember in a web. It would behoove you not to overlook others, the story intones. Traditional storytelling is chalk full of cultural values. And culture is fascinating.

Storytelling is a portal to a past when oral tradition framed the way in which information was disseminated through clans. Within the Chickasaw Nation, storytelling remains as fun as it is formative, and storytellers continue to shape the way Chickasaw values impart to the next generation.

Though some Chickasaw stories have been written down, tribal memory is alive in oral storytelling. Our stories are defining. They answer the million-dollar questions: Who am I? What am I to do? They are sacred, our stories, and storytellers are revered as keepers of the flame.

Because traditional stories speak to identity, retelling them without a relationship to the tribe is ill-advised. I’m talking, of course, about the cringe-worthy awkwardness of cultural appropriation.

Since I first began writing, I’ve been asked this question in every writing group. I welcome such good faith questions. Most writers are not trying to perpetuate stereotypes, after all. Usually, writers ask because they have no tribal connection, they want to feature a diverse cast of characters, they believe they are showing appreciation for tribal heritage, or they’re looking for a sensitivity reader.

Cultural appropriation occurs when marginalized groups have no control over their cultural expressions. A nontribal member borrows a cultural element and strips it of all but one dimension. Markets it as Indigenous. Sells it. Never confers with tribal elders. You see it with music, dance, regalia, literature, art, you name it. Culturally appropriated artistic expressions are often poor imitations of the original, cheaply made, lacking context, and sold outside the tribe without consent.

This pattern of cultural appropriation is neither new nor unique to First Nations tribes. It occurs across all marginalized groups the world over. It’s why tribal elders protect their most sacred rites with the same zeal that major corporations defend their logos.

True appreciation begins with curiosity, listening, building trust. Not just borrowing stories. If you have no tribal connection, you might start by reading Native authors. Become familiar with the tribe’s history. Then, when you reach out to tribal literary groups, you’ll understand the context. Share your genuine curiosity, be respectful, and explain your intentions are to collaborate, not appropriate. Retelling traditional stories, whether they’re yours or another’s, requires nuance.

If given the opportunity, share your writing not just with recognized tribal members but respected elders. Be ready to have your literary characters and themes challenged. And don’t be surprised if tribal relationships enrich far more than your writing. In seeking to honor the tradition of storytelling, you may find yourself heartily uplifting the Indigenous voices, not of strangers, but friends.

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