A Moment That Brought Everything Full Circle

Images by Adam Conte & Terry Goedel

You know those moments that feel bigger than you—like time just folds in on itself and suddenly you're standing in the middle of your past, present, and future all at once? Dancing for Stan Walker was one of those moments.

It was already special knowing who he was—his powerful voice, his connection to the Māori people, and the way he represents Indigenous culture on a global stage. We’d seen him on TV back at my daughters house in Hawaiʻi, so to have the chance to perform for him in person felt surreal. But what made it even more meaningful was that I wasn’t dancing alone. My granddaughter Tacoma and my great niece Melia were right beside me, carrying on the same cultural traditions I once shared with their parents. Together, we offered a hoop dance—a prayer in motion, a story told through movement.

The drum group Buffalo Nation was there too, their voices grounding the room in something sacred. The minute they began to sing and the doors opened for Stan and his group to enter, the air shifted. Everyone stood—not to cheer, but to honor. In that moment, it didn’t matter where we came from. It was an Indigenous Connection that filled us with joy.

And just beneath the surface of all that joy was a story I hadn’t told in a long time—one about the Māori community in Australia, and how they once cared for us when we needed it most. This post is a reflection on that experience—on the power of cultural exchange, the deep roots of Native tradition, and the sacred dance that brings generations together.

Dancing for Stan Walker

It’s funny how life brings you full circle in the most unexpected ways. I remember watching Stan Walker on TV back in Hawaiʻi—his voice so full of strength and soul, his story inspiring so many, especially within Indigenous communities. I knew he was Māori, and that connection instantly felt familiar because my own daughter’s family is Māori too. But I never imagined I’d one day be performing a hoop dance for him in person.

The room was already buzzing with anticipation when the drum group Buffalo Nation began to sing. And then the doors opened. Stan entered with his group, and just like that, the energy shifted. Nobody clapped. Nobody shouted. We all stood silently, respectfully—just like we would during an honor song in Native American culture, and just like the Māori do when greeting someone sacred. It wasn’t just a performance—it was protocol. It was reverence. It was kinship.

Then Stan stood and began speaking in Māori, sharing his genealogy and where he came from. It was beautiful, even if I couldn’t understand every word. Soon after, Bishop Watchman rose and responded in Navajo, introducing himself through his lineage. Two Indigenous languages, two worlds, side by side in harmony. It was a moment that gave me chills. To witness Stan Walker sharing who he was in his native tongue, and to hear our own people respond in ours—it reminded me of the power of language, the sacredness of story, and why we dance at all.

The 1980 Australia Story: A Deep Cultural Connection

Before I performed that hoop dance for Stan Walker, I felt this deep urge to share a story I hadn’t spoken about in years—a story that has lived quietly in my heart since 1980.

That year, I was part of a small group of Native American performers who traveled to Sydney, Australia, to dance at the World Cup Rodeo. Things started off great, but after just two weeks, the event unexpectedly folded. We were left stranded—far from home, with no place to stay and no money to get back. It was overwhelming. We were young, tired, and uncertain about what to do next.

That’s when a Māori man named Rangi heard our story. We had gone to church that Sunday, and word got around. Rangi and his community didn’t just offer sympathy—they offered action. They rallied together to find homes for all of us, fed us, and even organized performances so we could earn money for our trip home. They paid us. They supported us. They saw us as family.

And then, when it was time to leave, over 100 to 150 Māori people showed up at the airport to say goodbye. They stood at the gate and began to sing their Māori farewell songs—a sacred, emotional send-off that brought all of us to tears. We exchanged regalia. We exchanged stories. And we left knowing we had made a bond that would last forever.

So when I had the chance to hoop dance for Stan Walker—a proud Māori, just like the people who once cared for me—I had to tell that story. I told the audience how, over 40 years ago, the Māori embraced a group of Native American performers like family. And now, generations later, my granddaughter Tacoma, who is Māori herself through her father, was dancing right there with me.

It was more than a performance. It was a cultural circle completed. The gratitude I felt back in 1980 came rushing back as I looked across the room and saw familiar faces, Indigenous youth, and Elders, all sharing in that sacred space. That’s the power of Indigenous traditions—they don’t fade. They live on, passed down through dance, language, and acts of kindness that echo for generations.

Generations Dancing Together

There’s something sacred about sharing the hoop dance with your family—especially when you're dancing for someone like Stan Walker, an icon in Māori culture and an inspiration to so many Indigenous youth. But what made this moment truly unforgettable for me wasn’t just the chance to perform—it was who I got to perform with: my granddaughter Tacoma and my niece Melia.

As I stood next to them, watching them prepare, I couldn’t help but reflect on the passing of time. Years ago, I danced alongside their parents, sharing our stories through movement and music. Now, here were their daughters, stepping into those same rhythms—graceful, confident, and full of light. It felt like watching the future unfold before my eyes.

Tacoma had already met Stan Walker earlier that day through BYU Living Legends, and she was so excited! She's been a fan for a long time, so to dance right in front of him that night meant the world to her—and honestly, I think I was even more excited for her than I was for myself.

To see your granddaughter carry on the Native American traditions you’ve spent a lifetime honoring… it’s hard to put into words. But I can tell you this: dancing with Tacoma and Melia wasn’t just a performance. It was a legacy in motion. It was proof that our stories, our dances, and our spirit will continue long after we’re gone.

Cultural Exchange & Kinship Through Art

There’s a reason we start so many of our stories with a dance. In Native American culture, the hoop dance isn’t just a performance—it’s a prayer, a teaching, a story of life’s many cycles. Each hoop represents something: the earth, the seasons, our relationships, and the sacred connection between all living things. It’s one of the most beautiful ways we express who we are, and it’s especially powerful when we’re able to share it with others.

Performing the hoop dance for Stan Walker and his group—many of whom are Māori—felt like a deep honoring of our shared roots. While we may come from different lands, the connections between Māori and Native American traditions are surprisingly rich. I spoke to the audience about how in the Pacific Northwest, we have longhouses just like they have marae. We carve totem poles, and they carve ancestral stories into their meeting houses. Both cultures use red and black as sacred colors.

Even our traditional items have similarities—poi balls, used in Māori dances, reminded me of the yo-yos used in Alaska. We have canoes, they have waka. The deeper you look, the more you realize: we are different branches of the same tree.

What made the night so special was the way music and dance acted as a bridge. Without speaking the same language, we understood each other. Through rhythm, movement, and ceremony, Indigenous peoples around the world are able to connect in ways that are timeless and true. That night, art didn’t just entertain—it united us.

The Round Dance & Celebration

Before our hoop dance performance for Stan Walker, we invited everyone in the room to join us in a traditional round dance—a beautiful symbol of unity and celebration in Native American culture. What made it extra special was that Stan and his group didn’t just watch—they joined in.

Led by the heartbeat of Buffalo Nation’s drum, we moved together in a big circle, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, as one. There’s something so simple and profound about a round dance. It invites everyone—elders, youth, performers, guests—to be part of the story. As we danced, you could feel the joy fill the room. Laughter, smiles, and the rhythm of our people filled the air.

We also had  Abraham Thomas stand and sing an honor song, offering one more moment of reverence before the celebration continued. When Stan sang, the Polynesian people in the audience responded with a song of their own. It wasn’t rehearsed—it was a beautiful, respectful exchange between people of the same culture. Each took a moment to sing to the other, and it felt like the whole room was part of something sacred, united in welcoming Stan to Utah.

Then came the feast—tables lined with food, (boil up, and maori bread )people gathered in conversation, and stories flowing just as freely as the music.

We took pictures with Stan Walker and his group, who were so kind and genuine. Tacoma even let a few of them try out her hoops, which turned into a fun, light-hearted moment that brought even more laughter.

That night wasn’t just an event—it was a true gathering of cultures, rooted in deep gratitude for our people, our stories, and the richness of our traditions.

Full Circle: Meeting the Daughter of a 1980 Host

Just when I thought the night couldn’t get more meaningful, a woman approached me after the event—eyes wide, heart full. She told me that her father had shared a story with her growing up. A story about a Native American dance group stranded in Australia in 1980… and how the Māori community had taken them in.

She had always wondered if it was real.

Meeting me that night confirmed everything. I was one of those dancers. I had lived that story—and now, here she was, the daughter of one of the people who helped us all those years ago. We hugged, and talked, and of course we took a photo together. Crazy our paths crossed more than four decades later. 

It was an emotional, full-circle moment—a reminder that Indigenous stories don’t disappear. They travel. They grow. And when we keep dancing, sharing, and remembering, they find their way back to us… generation after generation.

(Picture: Mechelle Tenney who actually happens to be 3rd cousins to Aaron Campbell my Son in Law)

Stitched in Spirit: My Regalia Inspired by a Māori Gift

After we had performed in Australia, the Māori community we met there gave us something I’ll never forget. We had watched them perform, and they had watched us. It was more than just a show—it was a connection. And at the end of it all, they honored us with gifts: a Māori belt, a piupiu skirt, some woven cloth, and other traditional items. It was humbling. I didn’t know how I could ever truly thank them.

My mother always taught me the importance of giving and receiving gifts. Gifts are never just things—they carry meaning, intention, and spirit. So when I received those pieces from the Māori, I knew I had to do something to carry that moment with me.

I ended up creating a shirt and loin cloth inspired by the belt they gave me. I used the same colors from the belt and incorporated them into the design of my regalia. Every time I wear it, I remember the kindness and generosity of that community. It’s my way of honoring them and keeping that connection alive.

It was a privilege to receive those gifts—and even more of an honor to wear them in a way that continues the story. When people ask about my regalia, I get to tell them where it came from, who it connects me to, and why it matters. Because it's not just about what we wear—it's about what we carry.

And now, that connection has grown even deeper. My daughter, Erin Campbell, has married a Māori man, Aaron Campbell, and together they’re raising their children in the beauty of both cultures. What began as a bond formed through dance, generosity, and shared tradition in 1980 has now become something much more personal—we’re truly family now. Their children, my grandchildren, are growing up surrounded by both Native American and Māori traditions. I've seen them wear Māori regalia with pride, standing in the same circles where once I stood as a guest.

To me, that's the full circle. What was once a gift from new friends has become part of my family’s legacy. When I look at Erin and her family, I see the continuation of something sacred. It’s a reminder that our stories don’t just live in museums or memories—they live in our children, in our homes, and in the way we choose to honor one another across generations.

Photos by: Didier & Roz Pedron

Reflections & A Message to the Next Generation

There were so many moments that night when I had to just pause, take a breath, and let it all sink in. Gratitude, joy, awe—it was all there. Watching my granddaughter and niece dance beside me, hearing the voices of Buffalo Nation, seeing Stan Walker honored in the way our people do, and feeling the presence of so many Māori and Native brothers and sisters in one room—it filled me with something I can only describe as sacred.

These kinds of cultural exchanges are more than performances. They’re moments of healing. Of recognition. Of saying, "I see you, and I honor where you come from." They remind us that even across oceans and generations, our spirits know how to find each other.

To the next generation of Native dancers, culture keepers, and storytellers: you matter. Your roots matter. The songs, the steps, the language—it’s all part of something bigger. When you dance, you're not just moving your feet. You’re carrying your ancestors with you. You’re building bridges with people you may never have met, but who will recognize something familiar in your spirit.

So keep dancing. Keep learning. Keep sharing. Our stories don’t end with us—they begin again every time you step into the circle.

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