Zuya (Warrior)

By Jim Genia

I

First her aunt called to say her father died, then her boss asked if she’d murder his mother. Twenty-year-old Zuya the Fancy Dancer. Reservation refugee, stripper. Every day was usually the same, but this one was pretty remarkable.

“Your father passed on,” said her aunt.

Zuya lowered the phone.

Around her, the dim hallway between the dressing room and the stage. Echoes of whatever hip-hop the disinterested DJ spun at that moment. The half-hearted catcalls of pipeline workers on their lunch break. The sounds of her life since she left home.

She waited for sadness to claw up from her stomach and choke her, but it didn’t.

The phone back to her ear, her aunt spoke of funeral arrangements, of going to the service and saying a final goodbye, and for Zuya, the feeling that seemed to bubble to the surface was… was forgiveness.

Every day, a Fancy Dance. Informing every action, every thought.

A Fancy Dance. Every step forward, every step with intention. A change only when there’d been a full circle. These were the old ways, the ways of tradition.

Around her the hallway, and though from where she stood Zuya couldn’t see the girl on stage, nearly naked and shaking her ass for crumpled dollar bills, she knew the girl was there. Knew the leering men were there, holding dollars between two fingers, waving them with equal parts lust and violence in their eyes.

Zuya couldn’t see the girls in the dressing room, applying makeup to cover their black eyes and clutching lipstick in shaking hands, couldn’t see them but knew they were there. Knew why they were there, in a club outside of Bismarck.

It was because of men like her father.

Yet every day a Fancy Dance, and for all his failures, he’d at least made sure she knew tradition. Made sure she knew every movement, every song.

Every step forward, every step with intention. Change after a full circle, so Zuya told her aunt she’d be there, because she was different now.

First came the phone call from her aunt. Then, in the dressing room, came the visit from Kunsi Esther’s son.

“Here comes trouble,” said Robin, the one girl in the dressing room who was a boy—a very pretty, very effeminate 18-year-old who did everything the girls did. Robin leaned down, and with a gentle hand on her shoulder, whispered, “Look out.”

An affectionate squeeze of the gentle hand, and she watched Kunsi Esther’s son approach.

His eyes were bloodshot and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Zuya is Lakota for ‘warrior,’ innit?” he said. He handed her a folded towel, its edges frayed and its color faded.

It was heavy with something within. Too heavy. She grimaced. Set it down on a dressing table, knocking over empty cans of hairspray and Diet Coke.

“Every day my ma suffers,” he said. “She coughs up blood in the morning. Goes to bed at night and lays there moaning until the pain meds kick in.”

The others in the dressing room did their best to seem busy with their outfits, their bumps of powder, the glitter they applied to their chests.

This would never be asked of them.

“I can’t do it,” said Kunsi Esther’s son. His kindness had always disarmed the most hardened of runaways, cracking open their shells until they understood they were part of a family. But a year of his mother withering away had made him more like the frayed towel with the gun in it.

As each thread unraveled, Zuya’s trust in him diminished.

A Fancy Dance. A bustle of feathers, honor and courage for the menfolk. A shawl of ribbons, healing and love for the womenfolk.

“Of all the girls, you’re the strongest,” he said. “You know right and wrong.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “She trusts you. You could do it and… and she’d respect you for it.” These last words fell to the dirty carpet and twitched like dying vermin.

Zuya suddenly didn’t want to be there, hearing these things and confronted with the reality that her found family had come to this.  “My father died,” she said, the only words that came to mind that weren’t an old Sioux song about grief, an old Cree song about honoring elders or an old Cheyenne song about being good to your parents.

Kunsi Esther’s son’s expression changed. His face became more like the one she’d first known. “Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

The girls in the room joined in with words of consolation.
​
“Go see my ma,” he said, and as she rose and headed the door, she glanced back. Saw him tuck the towel under his arm.

---

Zuya stood in the doorway to the office, staring at Kunsi Esther in her wheelchair.

Illness had chipped away at the grandmother until she was a skeleton covered in sickly yellow skin. Tubes ran from a small oxygen tank into her nose, and gone were the fiercely burning flames behind her eyes. What was there now dwindled, like campfire embers in the waning hours of night.

“Don’t stand there letting the noise in,” Kunsi Esther croaked.

Zuya shut the door, grabbed a chair, and dragged it until it was behind the wheelchair. Under the harsh light of the fluorescent panels above, she went to work braiding the grandmother’s hair.

This was how we honored our elders.

“Your father passed,” said Kunsi Esther. “Say something nice about the man.”

Without hesitation, Zuya said, “He made me tradish.”

This was how we honored our families.

With great effort, Kunsi Esther twisted in her seat so she could see Zuya’s face. After a few seconds, she turned back. Said, “Most girls get all torn up when they hear their daddy died. All them unresolved issues. You seem fine.”

Zuya said nothing.

“You were wild when you first came to us. Like a coyote cub. Shy, but ready to bite.”

Zuya grinned at the analogy.

Kunsi Esther coughed and her chest rattled, prompting more coughing. Her frame heaved. After catching her breath, she said, “He was white?”

Zuya nodded, but remembered the woman couldn’t see it so she said, “Yes. White. I’m red on my mother’s side.”

It was Kunsi Esther’s turn to nod. They were both Oglala, which Zuya had always assumed was why, of all the girls, only she was asked to tend to Kunsi Esther’s hair. “Are his people holding a service for him?”

“In Nebraska,” said Zuya. “Near where he was from.”

Kunsi Esther angled her head so Zuya could see one eye. “Go. It’s important to send him off the traditional way.”

Zuya shook her head. Said, “I can’t leave you.” She thought of the frayed towel.

Kunsi Esther scoffed.

“Something bad might happen to you,” said Zuya.

“Something bad already did,” said Kunsi Esther. “You staying ain’t changing that.”

Zuya thought of the things that could only be asked of her. Of how unfair it was to be asked such things.

“I know what you’ve all done to help,” said Kunsi Esther. “I know it ain’t been easy.” She paused. “I know it ain’t sustainable.” A turn of her head so Zuya could see one eye. “You know what that means? ‘Sustainable’?”

Before she got sick, if any of the girls ended up with a bruise, cigarette burn or other mark after a private dance, justice would’ve been swift. But now a patron could just pay extra, and in advance. This had been the girls’ idea, a way to help with Kunsi Esther’s medical bills. Something a family would do for a loved one.

“It means I’ve been hanging on longer than y’all thought I would,” said Kunsi Esther.

Zuya braided in silence. When she was done, she repeated, “I can’t leave you.”

“Go,” said the grandmother. “Say goodbye to your father. Finish that part of your Fancy Dance.”

Kunsi Esther had always been tough but fair, respectful of tradition, and wise. A good elder to have.

Zuya sighed, rose and stood before the wheelchair.

She began to sing an old Anishinaabe song about the sick getting better, and on the worn carpet, she began to dance.

Kunsi Esther made a sound—not quite one of relief, but of remembering pleasant things long past.
​
When Zuya was finished, she gave the grandmother a tender hug and left.

---

II
 
The sun rose and fell and rose again with Zuya on the bus, nothing but highway ahead and behind. But she didn’t mind the travel. There was a certain freedom to the road, where the future was both set and unpredictable, and because she’d spent so much of her youth traveling from powwow to powwow, crisscrossing the country just to don a jingle dress and dance in a contest, it was familiar.

Zuya thought of Kunsi Esther and the frayed towel while the bus carried her through the Dakotas, but once they passed the sign announcing their entrance into Nebraska, her mind began to fill with thoughts of her father, a leap from worry to anxiousness.

How best to honor the man? She could imagine the other girls wailing hysterically as their fathers’ coffins were lowered into the ground. Could see them throwing rocks at the tombstones. But she wasn’t them.

He’d failed her, but in some ways he’d done right by her. How best to honor that?

When the bus made a stop at a rest area, it was clear she was going to miss the service. Which was fine. He wasn’t going anywhere, and she didn’t need an audience. Whatever she was going to do at his grave could be done alone.

The summer sun beat down stern but fair as she stepped off the bus, and while her fellow passengers disembarked and made beelines to restrooms, vending machines and areas they could pollute with cigarette smoke, she gazed at the surrounding fields.

There was a lone tree in the distance. Perfect for solitary reflection.

She headed towards it, her eyes on the grass. As she got closer, she looked up, and was surprised to see a woman in a white dress sitting against the tree, reclining as if the trunk were her throne.

Zuya was almost positive there’d been no one there when she’d started walking.

“Sorry,” said Zuya as she came within speaking range. “Didn’t see you. I thought I was going to be alone.”

The woman smiled. She was beautiful, with delicate features and flowing black hair. Though her skin was pale, she had a very “Indigenous” look to her. If there were such a thing as Native royalty, Zuya imagined this was what it would look like, a Disney princess brought to life. 

“There’s room here for two,” said the woman, her voice like music.

Zuya halted before the woman, and was close enough to see that, while she lacked all the usual signs of age, the woman’s eyes brimmed with wisdom. Like an elder without the wrinkles. “Hoka, kunsi,” said Zuya, greeting and labeling the woman as a grandmother as a sign of respect.

“Hinháŋni wašté, koda,” said the woman, the Dakota phrase for “good morning, friend.”

Zuya grinned. The last time she’d been around someone traditional was when Kunsi Esther had piled her and a few of the girls into a van and took them to a Dakota Access Pipeline protest. A cultural field trip, Kunsi Esther had called it.

The woman canted her head to one side, and it made Zuya think of a dog, straining to hear the unheard better. After a moment, the woman said, “My name is Chano’tilila.”

There was a patch of grass in the shade of the branches; Zuya lowered herself down into it and began to stretch her limbs. A lifetime of dance had made her lithe and agile, and left her with a need to stay limber at all times.

“What brings you here?” said Chano’tilila.

“I need to send my father along to the ancestors,” said Zuya. “I know songs to show honor and dances to show mourning, but they don’t really mix.”

The fields rippled with the breeze, their own kind of dance, one of harmony.

“There used to be no divide between the songs of menfolk and the dances of womenfolk,” said Chano’tilila. “A bustle of feathers for the menfolk and a shawl for the womenfolk, but that teaches that honor and courage are only for men to possess, while healing and love are for women.” She shook her head. “Separate the song from the dance and what do you get?”

It took a moment for Zuya to realize an answer was expected. “I guess you don’t get true medicine.”

The woman smirked as if pleased.

Zuya had the feeling that there was something more to this conversation than what she saw, that this was more than an encounter between a girl on the way to a funeral and a woman sitting against a tree.

Her mother was long gone, but she had fuzzy memories of her stories, told with her breath all malt liquor and pot. Tales of violent dwarves and spirits in the trees.

The sound of the bus coming to life, its engine roaring and then steady, and passengers began to re-enter one by one.

“That’s my ride,” said Zuya, leaping to her feet. “Thank you for your wisdom, kunsi.”

Chano’tilila watched her. “You’re very close, Zuya Nettles. Closer than most.”

Zuya didn’t know what to say to that. There were only a few passengers left waiting to board, and she could picture the doors shutting and the bus leaving without her, so she gave the woman a wave and sprinted. When she reached the asphalt she slowed, and when she got to the door, the bus driver acknowledged her.

Zuya looked back.
​
No one was there. Just a lone tree in a field.

---

Her aunt picked her up from the bus station. Told Zuya she looked healthy, said coming was the right thing to do, and seemed content to let silence enshroud them as they drove.

In the distance, a worn church rose from the earth, and as they got closer, Zuya could see the lot beside it. A motley assortment of headstones marked the final resting places of those who’d called this part of the world home.

Her aunt brought the car to a halt at the edge of the cemetery. “Do what you need to do,” she said. “You can’t miss him.”

For a while, Zuya sat there, staring out the window, her fingers on the door handle.

Her aunt seemed to acknowledge the hesitation as important, and said nothing.

Eventually, Zuya took a deep breath, tugged the door handle, opened the door and got out. She hopped the picket fence that marked the border of the cemetery, and her eyes quickly found the gravesite. The dirt was fresh, and a shovel was stuck in the ground nearby. She walked toward it.

Just outside of the cemetery, a gnarled oak stood sentry.

Zuya glanced at it. Glanced again when she saw the woman from the rest area leaning against it.

Chano’tilila met her gaze, and with the grace of a ballet dancer, began walking toward her.

Zuya slowed so the woman would intercept her before she got to the grave.

“How did you know my father?” said Zuya when she was in earshot.

The woman looked down at the grave. “I didn’t. I’ve known many like him, though.”

Zuya wondered if that meant she knew white men who, for better or worse, got tied up with Native women? Who came to Pine Ridge to help when the government laid siege to Wounded Knee, and went all in on Native culture, including the drinking part? Who failed their daughters…

Zuya stopped herself from going down that path in her head. There was no worthwhile medicine that came from anything other than love, and nothing smothered love like wounds we didn’t let heal.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “How did you become so grounded?”

“Why are you here?” said Zuya.

Chano’tilila gestured at her. “I want to see how you honor your father.”

There was more to the woman and her presence at this cemetery, and Zuya knew it.

“For generations, Natives have been given fragments of strong medicine,” said Chano’tilila. “I like to be there whenever someone holds all the pieces. Will they finally be assembled?” She paused, then said: “Send your father on his way.”

Above, the sun began its descent. There was no breeze, just the scent of recently disturbed earth.

Zuya nodded. Looked down at the grave. “John Patrick Nettles” was etched into the headstone.

Whoever had come to his service had left nothing behind to accompany him on his journey—no tobacco, no token of importance, no representation of anything he’d been in life.

Zuya inhaled. Put an arm in the air, an arm off to the side, and like a bird taking flight, began to dance. A foot to the left. To the right. Back and to the side. A prancing of crows, and she stepped forward, almost kneeling before rising with her chest thrust out, an emergence of butterflies.

A bustle of feathers for the menfolk and a shawl for the womenfolk, but what Chano’tilila said had stuck with her, and she began to sing—a Blackfoot song about a young warrior honoring his mentor who’d fallen in battle. A song only menfolk were supposed to sing, yet one that felt right.

For the man who’d known only battles fought and battles lost, it felt right.

Zuya danced and sang, her moves full of confidence, her voice full of what was within her heart.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

Love.

She danced and sang, and then, after making a circuit around the grave, she was done.

A deep inhalation to catch her breath. A hand to her brow to wipe away sweat.

Zuya turned to Chano’tilila.

The woman watched her intently, expressionless, until a smile broke through, revealing all. “Well done,” she said. She pointed at the grave.

Zuya looked down.

There, in the fresh dirt, a single flower sprouted.

“Well done,” Chano’tilila said again.
​
Zuya stared, full of wonder and questions, as the flower bloomed.

---

III
 
The woman disappeared into the tree trunk, and Zuya didn’t see her again until the bus made a stop at a casino in South Dakota.

Hours of riding, hours of accumulating dread at what lie ahead, and Zuya almost missed her, almost walked past the slot machines without stopping. But Chano’tilila was there, sitting, watching her, out of place with her white dress and natural beauty but somehow belonging so much that all ignored her.

“Hoka,” said Zuya.

“Every step forward,” said Chano’tilila. “Every step with intention.”

“Are you telling me how to Fancy Dance?” Zuya didn’t want to be anything other than respectful, but thinking about Kunsi Esther and her son had made her edges rough.

Chano’tilila smiled. Said, “Change is rarely easy but often necessary, and I’m curious to see the change your full circle will bring.”

Zuya continued to the restroom and splashed water on her face. When she returned, the woman was gone.

But her words lingered.

The bus arrived at the station in Bismarck, and in the taxi ride to the club, Zuya thought of Kunsi Esther and her son, the home they’d provided and the family they’d made her a part of. Mostly, though, Zuya thought of the last part of the Fancy Dance.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want.

It was that odd, quiet hour of the morning when there were no patrons—those who’d partied all night had left, and those determined to get an early start on the party today had yet to arrive.

Since there was no need for anyone to be on stage, it was empty. Kunsi Esther was the sole audience member. Zuya walked up behind her wheelchair. Announced her presence with a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you send him off right?” said Kunsi Esther with a wheeze.

“Yes.”

The grandmother nodded. “Show me.”

Zuya headed to the dressing room.

When she entered, everybody seemed so far away, the distance between herself and them a vast gulf of anger and pain.

“Five-hundred dollars,” said one of the girls, her voice fraught. “That’s how much someone paid to get rough with Robin. Now Robin’s in the hospital.” Tears had made a mess of her makeup, made a mess of the other girls’ makeup, as well.

“New plan,” said Kunsi Esther’s son. “You dance and distract her. I’ll do it.” There was no frayed towel, just the bulge of something tucked into his belt.

Zuya’s heart sank, but she fought back the despair.

She changed into a pair of cutoff jean shorts and shimmied into a tank top. “Thank you for taking me in,” she said, slipping into a pair of doe-skin moccasins she’d beaded herself. “Thank you for everything.”

She knew if they were listening to her words—truly listening—they’d understand she was telling them this was her last dance for them. But none listened, and as her words fell to the carpet and twitched and died unnoticed, she left the dressing room and went to the stage.           

A glance at the DJ booth and she saw he was watching her, a co-conspirator waiting for the signal. The thought made her grimace, and the music began, as if her grimace was the sign he’d been waiting for.

Before the stage, Kunsi Esther sat. Her face was impassive but expectant.

Off to the side, in the shadows, stood Kunsi Esther’s son.

Zuya took a deep breath. Put an arm in the air and an arm off to the side, and began to dance. A foot to the left. To the right. Back and to the side. A prancing of crows, an emergence of butterflies.

She made up a song in Lakota, matching the lyrics with the rhythm and spinning a tale of a family huddled around a dying fire, growling wolves threatening just outside of the light. What could save them?

She danced and sang on that stage, but for a moment she was eight at a powwow in Albuquerque, learning moves from someone who’d known her mother.

Ten-years old at a powwow near Seattle, listening to an old man sing.

A powwow in South Carolina, learning from a stranger.

At a powwow in Michigan, in Minnesota, in Iowa, in Arizona, hearing the various languages and mimicking the steps.

She danced and sang harder.

The music blasting from the speakers faltered. The lights flickered. But Zuya’s voice rang out clearly, and the room grew bright, brighter than before. Brighter than ever.

A family huddled around a dying fire, and what could save them from the wolves? Love.

Love could save them, and as Zuya sang the words, Kunsi Esther’s face was illuminated.

The song ended. Zuya ceased dancing.

The lights came back on, as did the DJ’s music.

Off to the side, Kunsi Esther’s son stood frozen, staring at the stage in astonishment.

Zuya put her hands on her knees. Caught her breath. Looked at Kunsi Esther.

The grandmother’s expression was full of surprise, but there was something else. Something beyond the wonderment of beholding powerful medicine.

Her fingers went to the tubes, and she slipped them off her head and cast them aside. She took a deep breath. Took another. For the first time in a long time, she rose from the wheelchair unassisted, and even though there was distance between them, Zuya could see the flames that had once burned fiercely behind Kunsi Esther’s eyes had returned.

“Damn, girl,” said the grandmother, her voice strong.

Zuya smiled and climbed off the stage.

Gave Kunsi Esther a hug.

And walked out the door without looking back.

A Fancy Dance and a change.
​
This is how we honor ourselves.

---

​Jim Genia—a proud Dakota Sioux—mostly writes nonfiction about cagefighting, but occasionally takes a break from the hurt and pain to write fiction about hurt and pain. He has an MFA in creative writing from the New School, and his short fiction dealing with Indigenous themes has appeared in MAYDAY, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, ANMLY, Roi Faineant, the Indiana Review, the Baltimore Review, and more. The Community of Literary Magazines and Presses included one of his stories on their reading list for Native American Heritage Month 2024.