I was four when I was initiated into the powwow circle to dance. In my dad’s tribe, Ho-chunk, you’re given an honor song to welcome you in, and my mom made me my own jingle dress to dance in—it’s a colorful “healing” dress traditionally made of the bones of deer toes that clank as the dancer moves and lifts her fan to spread good health to the people around her. Now the dresses are made with rows of metal cones.
These traditions make me proud to be Native, and yet, when I was growing up, society made me feel ashamed of my heritage. At school I was one of only 10 indigenous kids in a class of hundreds. My reservation, Sandia Pueblo, was just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, yet most of my classmates knew nothing about Native people. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen some oversexualized Poca-hottie costume or been asked whether I live in a tepee. (The answer is no.) One time, when I dropped my books in the hallway, kids started dancing around me, making war whooping sounds. All I wanted in that moment was to cut off my long hair. It’d be so much easier to go to school if I were white, I thought.
Thankfully, I had my dance studio, where I could dance it all out and feel better. I began to practice ballet and jazz in my teens, but I still loved how expressive indigenous dance was. Once I graduated high school, I pursued both professionally. But for years I kept being typecast as the “Native girl” or “indigenous princess,” even when auditioning for Western roles. Now, at 27, I’m tired of it, which is why I’ve reenrolled in school to study indigenous liberal studies and business. My dream is to open my own indigenous dance company and tell Native stories through contemporary and classical dance. I want to show how nuanced and resilient my people are. There’s real beauty in our culture when it’s not appropriated.
