Fancy Dancer

Mom walked a bit lighter on the earth; my little sister, Suzie, giggled louder; and I—well, I gained a dad. Most people would call Paul my stepdad, but there’s nothing “step” about him.

My father, the man whose genes run through me, had left two years earlier, when I was 9. One day, he just never came home from work. Mom tried to explain it to us, but we already knew that things weren’t good between them. What I didn’t expect was that he would never come to see us. He never even phoned.

You probably think that as his son, I was sad. But I wasn’t. My father was not a kind man. Not to me or my sister, and especially not to my mom. 

When my parents found out they were pregnant with me, my father moved Mom far away from her family in Saskatchewan, Canada, to Ann Arbor, Michigan. I had never met my grandparents, aunties, uncles, or any of my cousins. 

He never said it, but I’m pretty sure my father hated that my mom was Cree. Why else would he forbid her to speak Cree or practice our ceremonies or do anything that was part of our culture?

I do have one memory though. I was about 7 or 8. In the middle of the night, I headed to the kitchen to get a drink. As I got close, I noticed music playing. The music was new to me, and the drumbeat was powerful. I peeked around the corner, and there was my mom, dancing by candlelight. She stood tall, her head high, shoulders back as her feet softly moved to the beat of the drum. In her hand was what looked like a bundle of feathers. 

In the middle of the night, she was keeping her culture—our culture—alive.

Nine years of living with my father meant I knew almost nothing about who I truly was. I’m pretty sure he was ashamed of us, or at least that’s how it felt. But I always knew Mom was proud of me, and that was all I needed—until she brought Paul home.

Paul quickly became a regular at our dinner table and around our house. He’s Cree like us—but from Treaty 8 territory in Alberta. He came to teach for a semester, and loved it so much he stayed. Paul and Mom both work at the University of Michigan; that’s where they met. He came into the library looking for a book, and my mom, a librarian, helped him find it. 

Not long after Paul came into our lives, Mom got back in touch with her family. Our family. Although we hadn’t been able to go to Saskatchewan to meet them, we were FaceTiming a couple times a week. I liked knowing I was part of a big family and that I looked like them. I especially loved watching how Mom laughed with her siblings.

Now Mom walks every day just like she did that night I saw her dancing: head high, shoulders back.

A couple months after Paul moved in, we were driving home from a day of fishing when he turned on the stereo. Out of the speakers came the same music that Mom had on that night in the kitchen. The drumbeat went right to my heart. My head began to move to the beat.

“You ever been to a powwow?” Paul asked. 

“A what?”

“Guess that answers my question.” 

“What’s a powwow?” I asked him.

He glanced at me. “Where do I begin? It’s both a ceremony and cultural gathering, where we dance, sing, visit, and laugh.” 

Paul chuckled. “Then there’s the food. My mouth waters just thinking about the fry bread loaded with butter and salt. Oh, and can’t forget the Indian tacos. No powwow is complete without at least one Indian taco. Mmm, mmm.” 

After a moment, he added, “But really, for me and how I was raised, powwow is a way of honoring our traditions, our families, and our Ancestors.”

“Is it just us?” I asked. “You know, uh, Native Americans?” 

Our family had hidden who we were for so long that I wasn’t sure what to call us.

“Mostly, yes. Native people travel from all over to go to powwows, but non-Natives are welcome too. That’s part of the beauty of the powwow, the sharing of cultures.” He turned his head toward me. “We have one of the biggest powwows in the United States right here in Ann Arbor. It’s called the Dance for Mother Earth Powwow.”

“Really?”

Paul nodded. “I noticed you dancing in your seat. I think you have the moves to be a fancy dancer.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t even know what a fancy dancer is. And second . . .” My father’s voice ran through my mind. Hope you got some brains in that head of yours, ’cause you sure ain’t got any hopes of being on any sports team. 

I leaned my head against the window. “I’m not good at anything that requires coordination. I’d probably be awful at this fancy-dancing thing.” 

The next night in the garage, I had my first fancy-dance lesson. We started by smudging. Paul showed me how to take the smoke from the sage in my hands and run it over my head and then down my body. He explained it was like having a shower, but instead of cleaning my body, it cleaned my spirit. 

When Paul turned on the music, he told me, “Just close your eyes. Let the drumbeat and the song wake you up. Notice your breathing.”

My body wanted to move, but I was afraid. It was like Paul could read my mind. 

“It’s okay, Rory. There’s no right way, only your way.” 

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in my eyes. “Your body remembers how to dance. Your Ancestors have been dancing like this for generations. Trust yourself.” 

It was an icy-cold January morning when I found it, lying there in front of my cereal bowl: a flyer for the annual Dance for Mother Earth Powwow. On the flyer, Paul had written, I think you could be ready to dance at this, but it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think. Love, Paul.

I shoved the flyer into my backpack and left for school. At lunch, I pulled it out as I began to eat my ham and cheese sandwich. I could just imagine what my father would say: How Indian are you trying to be, Rory? Maybe he was right. But I felt different when I danced. More like me. It was all so confusing. I crushed the flyer into a tiny ball and tossed it into the garbage.  

That night I pretended to have a stomachache. I was lying on my bed when there was a knock at the door.

“Yeah?”

Paul came and sat on the side of my bed. “If you can’t come to the garage to dance, then the dancing is going to come to you.”

“I really don’t feel like it.”

“I know. That’s why I brought some homework for you.”

Paul reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out an iTunes gift card. “I want you to download your favorite powwow music. That’s your first homework.”

I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t help it. 

“Then I want you to practice standing on one foot at a time, up on your tippy toes. I want you to focus on your breathing, like I showed you. We have to get your mind and body believing in each other.”

I gave him a What are you talking about? look.

“The song is the bridge between your mind and body. But right now, your mind and your body don’t trust each other.  Learning to believe in yourself is the greatest gift fancy dancing will give you.” 

That night, as I practiced my balance and listened to my favorite songs, I felt a determination I’d never felt before. I decided I was going to prove my father wrong. But mostly, I was going to prove to myself that I could do it. I was going to be proud of who I was.

The next morning, over a bowl of mush and blueberries, I announced, “Soooooo. I’m gonna do it.”

“Do what?” asked my sister as she shoved oatmeal into her mouth.

“Enter the Junior Boys Fancy Dance at the powwow.”

“Yes!” Paul said loudly and raised his fist straight up.

Mom reached over and hugged me. “Oh, my boy. I’m proud of you.”

I had just over two months to get ready.

A few weeks later, I found two boxes on my bed. One was large, and the other was ginormous. I noticed the return address was in Saskatchewan. I opened the large one first and pulled out the most beautiful regalia. I had been watching fancy dancing on YouTube and hadn’t seen anything quite like this. It was turquoise, white, and black, and when I held it up to myself, I knew it would fit.

I quickly opened the ginormous box, wondering if maybe it had a bustle in it. Sure enough, wrapped carefully in tissue paper was a bustle that matched. At the bottom of the box there was a letter. 

    Nephew,

I want you to have my regalia. Dance it proudly. Make it come alive . . . just like I used to.

If the feathers got a bit squished, ask your mom to steam them. She'll remember how.

I hope to see you dance one day. Hey, you should come home for our powwow. I can teach you some of my moves.

                   Uncle Fred

Come home. Those words put tears in my eyes. I’d always thought of Ann Arbor as home, but I was beginning to wonder if there were lots of places to call home.

As the weekend of the Dance for Mother Earth Powwow approached, Paul and I spent time going over how the judges would be scoring the dancers. Not that I expected to win or anything, but I needed to know what they’d be looking for so I could make sure I did my best. 

Paul had written out the judging criteria for me:

• Dance style
• Stopping (over/under step)
• Regalia (authenticity, footwear)
• Attitude (sportsmanship)
• Judges’ call on song quality
• No points if any items dropped

Finally, the day we’d been preparing for arrived. I danced in the Grand Entry at the start of the powwow. I wasn’t too nervous, because all of us dancers were part of it, but when it came time for the Junior Boys Fancy Dance, everything changed. 

I stood near the entrance to the Skyline High School gym, and Paul adjusted my headpiece. “Ready?” he asked.

I shook my head. The other dancers looked calm, confident.

“Look at me, my boy.” 

Paul took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Don’t be comparing yourself to the other dancers. Uh-uh. When you walk out there, you breathe deep. Feel those Ancestors with you, and on that first drumbeat, feel their love come alive in you.”

I gave a slight nod.

“The first time I danced, I was afraid. Shaking so hard my feathers were jiggling. But I’ve learned that sometimes in life, you gotta be brave before you can be good.” He motioned his head out to the gym. “Go out there and be brave, Rory. The good will come.”

The emcee announced, “It’s time for the Junior Boys Fancy Dance.” I took the biggest breath I’d ever taken and turned to enter the gym.

“Rory,” Paul called out.

I looked back and realized I never would’ve gotten here without him. Actually, so much of who I was, who our family had become, and my life now was because of him.

He smiled at me. “Kisâkihitin.”

I smiled back at him and felt myself relax. “Kisâkihitin, Dad.”

_{Abridged from “Fancy Dancer” © 2021 by Monique Gray Smith. First published in Ancestor Approved (HarperCollins Publishers, 2021). Used by permission of the author.}

From the back seat of the car, 12-year-old Tank Young watches his hometown of San Lorenzo, California, slip into the distance. It will be many hours until he reaches his destination, but Tank is already buzzing with anticipation. Soon, he’ll be laughing with friends, eating delicious foods, and dancing to the thumping heartbeat of a drum. To Tank—who is Cherokee, Choctaw, Jicarilla Apache, and Taos Pueblo—there is no place better than where he’s headed: a powwow. 

Powwows are gatherings where Native Americans connect with each other and celebrate their cultures through dancing, singing, and other traditions like storytelling and eating special foods. Most powwows are intertribal, meaning that people from many tribal nations attend. Many are also open to the public, and people who are not Native American are welcome to come so they can learn about Native American cultures. Every weekend of the year, there are powwows of all sizes across the United States and Canada. 

In the interview below, Tank talks about one of his favorite parts of any powwow: the dancing.

I’m a fancy dancer, which involves a lot of tricks and fast steps. My sister is a jingle dress dancer, which is a kind of dance that is believed to bring healing. She wears a dress covered in rows of metal cones that jingle when she dances. My other sister dances fancy shawl, which is a graceful dance that looks like a butterfly flying.

I go to a place called the Intertribal Friendship House every Wednesday to practice. There’s a drum and singers who sing different styles of songs. People of many ages and from many different tribes come to practice and learn dancing there.

The first couple of dances I did at a powwow were nerve-racking. But it just feels good now. If I’m in a bad mood, just putting on my regalia puts me in a better mood because I know I’m going to start dancing soon!

My regalia is purple, blue, and white. It took around two years for my family to make my bustles, which are the two circles of feathers I wear on my back. My previous bustle was gifted to me by an Elder. On my head I wear a headdress called a roach, which a family friend made for me from porcupine hair and deer tail.

I dance for the people who can’t dance. Some people don’t get to dance because regalia is too expensive, or they’re ill, older, disabled, or anything like that. I do it for them, and that’s what’s most important when I dance. 

^{This story was originally published in the September 2022 issue.}