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 real father had left two years earlier, when I was 9. One day, he just never came home from work. You probably think I was sad. But I wasn’t. You see, my father was not a kind man. 

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

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

    After my father left, Mom met Paul at the University of Michigan, where they both work. He quickly became a regular around our house. He’s Cree like us. Soon after, Mom got back in touch with her family. Our family. Although we hadn’t been able to go to Canada to meet them, we were using FaceTime a couple of 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 with her head high and her shoulders rolled back.

    A couple of months after Paul moved in, we were driving home from a day of fishing when he turned on the stereo. The drumbeat in the music 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.

    “It’s both a ceremony and gathering. 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 I can’t forget the Indian tacos. Mmm!” 

    After a moment, he added, “But really, for me and how I was raised, a 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.”

    “OK, 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.”

    Paul glanced at me. “Dancing isn’t just about being athletic. It’s about telling a story and revealing the strength that is in your heart,” he said. “There is a lot of strength in your heart, Rory.”

    We sat in silence except for the powerful beat coming out of the speakers. My upper body began moving again. 

    “You know, Rory, I was quite a fancy dancer back in the day. If you wanted, I could teach you.”

    “Really?”

    “Sure. I’d love to.”

    Hesitantly, I answered, “OK. Might help if I knew what a fancy dancer was.”

    Paul laughed. “You’ll find out.”

    The next night in the garage, I had my first fancy-dance lesson. Paul turned on the music. He told me, “Close your eyes. Let the drumbeat and the song wake you up. Notice your breathing.”

    My body wanted to move, but I was afraid to give in to the urge. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it right.

    It was like Paul could read my mind. 

    “It’s OK, 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.”

    After a couple of months of practicing two nights a week, I could feel my whole body getting stronger. I loved the dancing. But I especially loved the time with Paul.

    A couple of weeks later, I found two boxes on my bed. I noticed the return address was my mom’s home community in Canada. I opened the large one first and pulled out the most beautiful regalia. It was turquoise, white, and black. 

    I quickly opened the other box. Wrapped carefully in tissue paper was a bustle that matched. At the bottom was a letter.

    Finally, the day we’d been preparing for arrived. 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. 

    Paul took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t be comparing yourself to the other dancers. 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.” 

    Paul continued. “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.”

    Then he smiled. “Kisâkihitin (kee-SAH-gee-tin),” he said. Cree for I love you.

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

    I took my place in the flow of dancers entering the gym. I rolled my neck, lifted my shoulders, and planted my feet. I scanned the bleachers for where my mom, my sister, and Paul were sitting. When I found them, I gave a nod and they all waved. I could see my mom wiping tears from her eyes. She put her hand on her heart. Then the host announced, “Junior Boys Fancy Dance. It’s powwow time! Let’s see what you got, boys.”

    With the first beat of the drum, I began to dance. I felt alive. Proud. Cree.