Behind the Scenes

My mom walked toward me in a solicitous was as I was stretched out on my grandmother's apple green couch. I remember how much I hated those couches when I had first moved down to Greasy Hill Loop, they were always so damn uncomfortable. I grew to love them, up until they had became a self-proclaimed throne of mine. My mom smacked my leg as she asked for paper, more specifically graphed paper. I didn't have to answer her at all, she already knew I did. From the many years I spent doodling, and hoarding sketchbook after sketchbook, I had accumulated stacks of paper of many different varieties. I ran off to my side of my grandmother's bedroom and searched for graphed paper, tossing everything aside, I was anxious to know what she had needed it for. I took the papers into the kitchen, and placed them neatly on the dining table. Surrounding the oval dining table was the three women of the house, the fourth slowly made her way down the hall. My mom, Evelyn, sat at the end with a pencil handy, and the papers laid in front of her. My sister, Earla, sat adjacent to her, this was her usual spot at the table. To the side of her sat my grandmother, Evangeline, she was silent and gazed off into the distance. Their demeanor and silence had made me anxious and curious. I turned and stepped into the kitchen, just as my grandmother Floria had eased herself into her chair. I opened the fridge and glanced over at the table, they were all seated so still, and not one spoke a single word. The TV was the only noise filling the empty space between all of us. I grabbed the nearly-ancient pitcher of iced tea and headed for the counter. I stood there as I examined the pitcher, and wondered just how old it was. I reached upwards into the cabinet for a glass, I could not take the dead silence any longer. I spoke. "Why are you all so serious? It is freaking me out."

"We're going to build a house." She said it expressionless and flat. I chuckled as I poured my drink, as I took a sip, I peeked at her to see a sign of sarcasm on her face. She showed no sign of humour, or sarcasm, she looked dead serious. I placed my glass on the counter, and froze. "Uh, why?" She started explaining in Zuni her reasoning, all I could do is listen. Her voice went on and on, but I couldn't focus, my mind wandered. The reality of the ordeal gripped me, and forced me to understand what it was that was going to happen. For years, families had been hosting houses for "them," and I was the one looking in. "Them," it was, and still is, impossible for me to explain what "they" are, it is something that needed to be seen to be understood. She had been thinking about this ever since, we as a family, had gone through the divorce years back. She spoke with an eagerness in her voice, and went on about how she came to her decision. I couldn't move, I just stood there, leaning against the wooden chair, listening. Her voice broke, "I just want my own house, for all of us." I didn't disagree, I was tired of moving, and changing. That's how it had been for us since the divorce, everything had always been changing. It felt like maybe this could be the last change we'd endure for the better. It was settled, a house was to be built. It wasn't like we could change our minds, that'd be considered a sin or taboo in our culture. It is believed that once it'd been said, and decided there was no way to go back on our word, or our future won't be certain. Finally, she lifted her hand, gripped the pencil and began sketching boxes on the paper in front of her. The glass I held in my hand was wet, and nearly slipped out of my grip. As I took a drink I concentrated on the cold liquid descending into the pits of my empty stomach. I flung myself back onto Earth, and headed back toward the Granny Smith couch. I thought about the years I had spent watching houses erect, women dressed in aprons cook, men in headscarves build, and realized that was going to be us. In those moments, anxiety struck, the village would be talking about us shortly. Images of people talking, crowding, and watching us filled the void behind my lids. I lied on that throne of mine with my eyes shut, dreading what would become of this. The responsibility we had taken on was beyond my comfort zone, but it had to be done.

Days had passed faster than I had anticipated and the seasons had begun switching eagerly. The first months had begun slowly, as the layout seemed to change everyday. My mom had sketched three different versions of the house, she was rotating the rooms nearly every chance she got. Where she had wanted the bathroom and the kitchen, was where she wanted the living room and where the bedrooms were didn't seem to fit her liking. A number of changes were made and my stacks of paper nearly dissipated at the expense of her dream home. Eventually, a final sketch had been drafted and transferred into an official blueprint. During those months, several opinions had been made and a few heated moments emerged, but I hadn't quite paid attention to what the bickering was in regards to. We'd spend moments together at the family home, nearly directly in the center of the village. I don't remember much about that place, but I had spent a few minutes of my childhood there with my great-grandmother, Tsitda. Tsitda translates to mother, I bet she would've shushed the bickering going around the fifty plus year old table. From where I had sat, I heard them, all arguing like a group of scientist trying to prove a new-founding theory on humanity. Eventually, the days rolled by and the summer breeze begun blowing through the windows in no time. Along with the allergens came even more responsibilities and engagements. I had expected the summer days to be that much like previous years, filled with misguided adventures, late night movies, and other shenanigans I wouldn't be able to explain. Not in this particular piece of writing, that is anyway.

The summer day was to be spent cooking, and cleaning for the men who helped build the house. My grandmother would wake up painfully early, just as the sun had risen from behind Dowa Yalanne. She made sure she was ready before my mom had arrived to help with breakfast. Once she had arrived, Hotda, or grandmother, would already have the coffee brewing on the counter, and the eggs frying in the pan. It was hard for me to remain in my slumber, the clanging of the pans and silverware would beckon for my help. It was the smell of fresh coffee that would widen my eyes as soon I had stepped into the living room. Earla had just got home from a twenty four hour shift and headed straight into her bedroom. We bid her a well-deserved rest just as we had finished setting the extra folding table. The job I had was to butter the toast and set both tables. Along the counter were plates, each was designated to either eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, hash browns, or pancakes. That was the set up each morning. Each table was set with plates and napkins placed just beside them with silverware laid neatly on top. With precision the mugs and tumblers were put just above the plates, I took that task very seriously. After all, that was my only job, I had to make sure it was done to my satisfaction. Men would enter the house just as I'd begun placing towering plates of food on both tables. We had a mix of men from both groups we were hosting, Mu:he:kwe and U'pts'ana:kwe, all that had helped build the house. Each man greeted us accordingly, "Ko' don a:wan dewa'kya?" We answered, "K'ettsannishi, i:dinakya, i:donna:we." Translated means, "How was your slumber?" By which we had answered, "Good, sit down, eat." As part of our cultural ways, one must always greet the household members in this fashion upon entering their house. There are different ways of saying this greeting for the various times of the day. They had chosen their seat at either of the tables, as I'd walk around serving coffee, just as if I were a waitress. Those men had become so familiar to me in those months, it was easy to carry a conversation with them. Across the room my mother and grandmother would rest easy on the couch, everyone would be engaging in conversations from all angles of the house. The mornings were filled with masculine laughter and voices, loud clanking of coffee mugs, and various input for what was to be accomplished by nightfall. Once the men had left to the site for the morning, we'd gather the dirty dishes, and demolished towers of food, then fetch our own clean plates to finish what was left. The bacon was no longer crisp, the fried eggs had gotten cold, and the toast had lost their crunch, but still we did not complain. As we begun to wash the dishes, they'd lay out their plans for the day, more like menus. Women have the role of cooking, cleaning, and taking care of other household chores. That's not to say that women don't have superior roles in Zuni, because they do. Women are cherished beyond belief, for the simple fact that they create life all around us. Men are more likely to handle the labor for women, chopping wood, fixing houses, or something as simple as taking the garbage out. Those days I was seeing the roles being played out first-hand, it tugged on the veil of my comfort zone, I wasn't prepared to embark on said roles. I watched my Hotda run the hot water, a mountain of dishes piled beside her, she didn't seem to realize the heaps of dish detergent she'd thrown into the sink. I watched her stare out the kitchen window, she was staring at the apple tree, I wondered what she might be thinking. She had finally snapped back into reality and her water nearly flowed out of the metal boundaries. While she was washing the dishes, my mom was pulling ingredients out of the kitchen left and right. By then, I knew I had to change into some actual clothes before I could help them for the rest of the day. During that time the house came alive. Everyone emerged from their darken caves, with bushy hair and sleepy faces. The kids did not waste time washing up, they'd get dressed and head straight out the front door to their next adventure. We didn't mind at all, as long as they were out of our way and keeping themselves busy. I enjoyed being as young as they were, running through the sandy slopes, and pushing our metal go-kart around the loop. Those were fun times, and those are the kind of adventures kid should have. As the sun hit the apex of the sky, again our house would fill with more food, more voices, and more laughter. Just as the morning, the men would arrive just as we'd set the delectables on the tables. Each would enter with a greeting as they headed straight to the bathroom to wash up before setting into their seats at the tables. We'd cater to whatever they had needed as we'd engage in conversation. I enjoyed the words being tossed every which way in that big living room. The older men would engage in more serious discussions, they talked in a monotoned hum. While the younger would speak more humourously and light-heartedly. Eventually, they would all engage in a series of jokes and sarcasm, poking fun at one another. Every syllable spoken was like a flow of honey, thick and surprisingly smooth. Their voices boomed and ricocheted off the eggshell white walls. Then, just as the morning, the voices waned and we shoveled the dirty dishes into the sink. The clock was nearly non-existent, as time passed more helping hands would appear. Before the sun fell behind the hills we had to have dinner finished and set on the tables. With the extra sets of hands offered by my other grandmothers and aunts it was not as time consuming to prepare the menu for the night. They'd allowed me to try my cooking skills in the kitchen and gave me a dessert recipe that was nearly impossible to mess up. It was a simple request, but I took the task seriously. For evenings to come the ladies had me make the dessert; often I made cakes, or ambrosia salad, or just about anything that they had wanted me to make. Everyday these were the tasks, or chores I had to do, we all had to do, we didn't complain one bit, we weren't allowed to either way. I did enjoy those times, the only flaw was that I could not spend my summers the way my other peers had. Nonetheless, looking back now, I am glad that I had got to experience that. Not all moments were catered to my liking. I would listen to the ladies bicker and gossip, all the emotions crashing like waves on their faces. I never engaged, just listened to how they conveyed others' lives, and I did not feel the need to do that, especially when others were doing that exact same thing to us during that year. Although, I did learn a few phrases containing vulgarity in my language, eventually they'd forget the gossip and continue on making harmless jokes. I felt as if I was only looking in on the scene, but not engaging in it. I watched as the ladies waved their hands around emphasizing each sentence, their smiles stretched from ear to ear. I embraced the laughter of my aunts and grandmothers, they were often too serious or uninterested. Growing up I had always seen them as strict, strong women, too upset or worried to even crack a smile. When I saw them laughing and joking with one another, they seemed soft and unbothered, a sight I haven't forgotten. It was a privilege to see them in such a calm and open state. With the countless amounts of silliness and laughter, getting the meals prepared seemed tireless, the clock was forgotten. As soon as dusk fell, the men returned, ravished and completely drained. Again, they greeted us in Zuni, and most went after the line into the bathroom, others wouldn't mind and would proceeded directly to their spot at the table. They remained silent when they poured their drinks and piled heaps of food onto their plates. None of us spoke, I watched with empathy and thought about the labor they had just, voluntarily, put into my future home. It made me feel small, but very appreciative. As they ate, none spoke a word, until one of the men jolts their head up from their plate, and says, "A:lideyashi?" A chorus of deep laughter erupted and a few replied in sync, "E:lehde, a:lideya hoti." Meaning, "Is it good?" A phrase commonly used to mock one's hearty appetite, usually replied with, "Better than ever..." in an equally sarcastic manner. That was an informal icebreaker, after, the conversations and laughter ensued. Discussions regarding building materials, and improvements were being tossed from table to table. As dessert made it's way around the tables, everyone became laid-back, and started throwing harmless jokes at one another. I enjoyed this part of the day very much. Although, my words couldn't find the correct way to place themselves before I spoke, I did my best to reciprocate their jokes. The company they provided was something I hadn't yet experienced before. Hearing everyone's voice mix and amplify one another kept my spirits lifted. To hear that they are grateful to have me in their presence made me feel special and needed. This is how it was everyday, for most of the year we cooked and they built. The routine became hectic and overwhelming, but it had to be completed. The summer months were incomparable to the final three months of the year. From October to the first week of December, each of us became drained, mentally, spiritually, and physically. With the house nearly complete, the cooking days became more overwhelming and tiring. School took up more than half of my days, so I didn't lend an extra hand until dinner rolled around. It was taking a major toll on my grandmother, but she wouldn't let it show. My mother's will and reputation were constantly being tested by the local gossip girls. Persistent talk of our house being incomplete, or that we were financially incapable, were being spoken throughout the masses. All of which were obviously untrue, she had enough confidence to not let it get to the best of her. These were the tougher months, all if not most, Sha'la'ko hosts go through this sort of ridicule while building their homes. After the Koyemshi (Mudheads), marked the 45 day countdown, we would have to hold our cooking days every four to ten days, until "The Day" approached. That meant a larger amount of gossiping ladies, humorous men, delicious food, and high-decibel voices.

On cooking days, my grandmothers would arrive early and prepare breakfast while others would begin kneading washtubs full of dough, left out to rise the night before. Then, a flood of ladies would crash through the doors, nearly all were unrecognizable to me. As I walked around the table I notice the ladies examining me and watching intently as I set dishes down. Most seemed to be trying to figure out who exactly I was and where I came from. Eventually, one of the loudest made her way toward me, when she reached me she exclaimed, "Hi:ya! Dosh Apple an e'le?" Apple being my mom's lifelong nickname, they were excited to learn that I was her daughter. Being the youngest out of four kids, I was hardly brought up in conversations unlike my siblings. Before I answered, I shot a quick glance at my mother, unsure of what I should say I replied shyly, "Uh yeah." I stood awkwardly, unaware of what I should do next, I could tell she felt just as uneasy. Immediately, she looks for another lady and scuttles to the other clusters of people, leaving me uncomfortable and confused as to why I hadn't said anything else. That moment made me realize that being unable to speak Zuni created a barrier between myself and everyone around me. A hindrance between me and the people who would expect me to know my own language, enough to be fluent in it. I'd watch the men and women engage delightfully with one another speaking fast and fluent. There were multiple times when I'd tried to butt in a conversation, only to be disregarded and unnoticed. Their expressionless faces would leave me, and they'd carry on with their deeds. The whispers and dead faces discouraged me, but I carried on with tasks. I had plenty of things to occupy my mind, I had to wash dishes, grind corn, set tables, and make a few dishes. I did everything in silence, listening to the words float by me, each weighing heavier than the other. At the end of the night, I'd lay in bed with my insecurities covering me as well as my blankets. In my head I'd recite words and pray they'd stick, but they never would. On days not spent cooking, I'd try my hand at talking Zuni, only with my immediate family. After each conversation, they'd say the same thing, "Kop lad kwa do' lesna beye:na:ma? Hish do de'lok'yannan iskon bo:wa:ke'a. Do be'yep chim dom a:yuhe'do'kenna." And each time I'd sit in silence unable to answer, eventually I'd reply, "Dem ho' yam bena a:deshu'a. Kwa ho' ele kwa:hot i:kwe:na'ma." It was a rehearsed conversation, we'd gone through this plenty of times. They'd always ask why I didn't speak in our language, in public, the way I do at home some times. They felt that if I spoke more like this, everyone would hear me and understand me more. But, I didn't know how to explain my difficulty, I always just told them I couldn't find the words to say correctly, and if I could I would talk more. The night's after conversations like this I felt embarrassed and a fraction of shame. After all, if I'm unable to speak my language, then why should I be considered a Zuni. Language is seen as the root of our culture and most of our traditions. Endless thoughts crept into my mind, often making me wonder if my own mother, the hostess of the Sha'la'ko house, felt embarrassed her own daughter was unable to speak Zuni. It was an continuous whirlwind of anxiety that came over me before the final days. As those days approached, the rush wasn't as overwhelming as the beginning months, it had become more bearable. The last week of preparations allowed me to become more involved and help with the more timid aspects of the house, such as: decor, food, and the final moments leading up to the main ceremony. I listened more than I spoke, obviously, but slowly I began to absorb different words, words that carried more meaning and depth, rather than a simple phrase turned into slang. I created enough courage and strength in myself to speak , even if it was in English. Slowly the shell I created started to break, not a full break, but chips eventually began to fall off. The only ones I felt comfortable to speak to were my Sha'la'ko brothers, they were the men who'd guide the spirits residing within the kachinas. All four were more than fluent in Zuni, but when I spoke they didn't giggle, they didn't shun me, they just replied. When I spoke, a thick caucasian accent lurked behind the exotic words, it was quite amusing to them, but i laughed at myself too. "Ma:chi ele do' ko:we shiwi:ma beye'a." They say as soon as they finished laughing. To hear them tell me it's fine to not speak correctly, as long as I try, made me feel better and less insecure. It was obvious how hard I was trying, you could hear the struggle behind my words. I just wouldn't push myself far enough to fully engage in it all. Then, the day arrived, the moment we'd all worked toward. It was nearly seven o'clock, crisp air filled the morning hour, I awoke energetic and joyful. A surprise, since I hadn't had the best night's sleep, and my dreams were filled with relatives who had passed on. I took it as a positive sign, knowing they'll to be watching the festivities that'll take place later on in the day. We immediately throw our aprons on and head over to the house. We served breakfast one last time before the men headed out for the West Hills. Instead of directly clearing off the dining table, we engaged in prayer, they blessed us directly and bestowed nothing but positivity upon us. Following their prayers, a calming sensation overtook my body, leaving me optimistic. Before they stepped out the door, I gave my brothers a warm embrace, and said nothing. Being the men of the house, they were to leave for the hills to greet the beings that were to rest in our home later that night, It was their responsibility along with many other men, to guide the spirits to their new homes. The air felt clean and brand new, the sun shone bright. His rays touching the terra cotta bricks, blessing the house with it's presence. It was hard to imagine that a year before, the field the house is on was completely vacant. We stayed behind at the house, ate and then cleaned, all that was left to do was wait. The morning passed quickly, the sun showed no mercy for the numbers on the clock, today we go with the sun. We left to Evangeline's, her house being the closest to the West Hills, we were able to see everything without having to be restricted by the village rangers. At my grandmother's, her home was spick-and-span. She has laid out the same maroon-colored rugs that only make it out this time of the year. They were clean and placed in such a meticulous manner they appeared to be glued in place. The dining table shone through the lace tablecloth, opposite of the usual faded fruit covered tablecloth. The two large windows were nearly invisible to he naked eye, free of streaks and spots. Brand new curtains hung effortlessly on either sides of the clear panes of glass. Perfect lines spaced between each photo that bedizened the bone white walls, creating an atmosphere we all recognize to well, it felt like home.

Ranger units start blocking the road out front, they place orange cones in a perfect line across the asphalt. A sure sign that "they" must be headed our way now. Soon after the cars started coming around only to be stopped and redirected by the cones and the rangers. As I stepped outside, the sun neared the center of the sky and the cold wind pushed the clouds faster, creating a grey sky, no longer as bright as the morning hours. I grab my scarf and wrap it tightly around my neck, the weight of my coat comforts me. Soon, everyone is outside standing beside me, we watch car after car drive by, just to turn around at the cones and park farther down the road. We all stared intently into the horizon, small blurry figures erect from the hills. The men take turns peeking through a pair of binoculars, informing us of every move the shadows made. Our faces showed anxiety yet we all remained patient, hardly moving, only to get a clearer view of what's happening in the hills. As the wind slows, it carries with it the chants and prayers of men. I head back into the house to alert others that they are near. Slowly my grandmother made her way toward the large front windows. Her legs crooked and bent, they carried her to a clearer view of the Greasy Hill. Back outside, everyone has completely dispersed, most have made their way toward the neighbour's yard, so I follow. From here you are able to see the men emerge from the top of the hills, with no obstructions. I stood completely still, embracing the moments before they appear, knowing that'll be the start of a new beginning. We can hear the chants, prayers, and bells grow louder, more clearer, it seems that they are just on the other side of the hill.

Seconds pass, and then there they are, emerging with nimbleness they look majestic and otherworldly. First, were groups of men wrapped snug in their wool Pendleton blankets, chanting, and shouting in our beautiful language guiding them to the open space in the middle of the vast hill. The words acted as a sort of compass needle leading them home. Behind the knots of men were different kachinas, each representing a different aspect sacred to our way of living. Behind them were six beings, six odd shadows towering into the skies. Every year before, I see these same beings and the same rituals being carried out, but today was tinted by a different color, their features appeared more defined to me. Their feathers ruffled in the calm winds, the bells chimed in tune, they make their presence known as clearly as possible. The chants and prayers combine, sounding as if they are coming from only one man. A deluge of unperturbed emotion shows on the faces of those that are watching, for that moment we remain still, we remain hushed, all we do is watch. The shadows sway with the wind, then as if by no obvious command, the men get louder, and the figures cautiously make their way up the steep slope to get to the other end of the hill. All six and more make their way following a familiar, unmarked path toward the opposite end. The chants, prayers, and bells start to fade, I can no longer hear them, I assume they've reached the bottom of Greasy Hill. It seemed as if the wind had only slowed and calmed for that one moment and now it's back. The air smells of winter, a crisp scent of pine and oak hovers over the village. The wood burning in stoves, create clouds, turning th ambiance into a sort of mixed realm of spirituality and realism. You can smell the bread and sheep heads cooking in various outdoor ovens, the best part of Sha'la'ko most would say. I can't tell what time it is anymore, the clouds shield the sun, it feels as if hours had passed in that single moment.

I realize everyone has started retreating back toward Evangeline's, but I'm still standing there, with my eyes fixed on the space where they had just been. A ghostly image developed in my mind, a moment forever embedded within me. I can feel my face getting numb, as it stings from the cold air lapping at my cheeks. I bring myself to turn back around to face the house. I see my grandmother still standing at the window, she smiles just before she moves away. Walking back all I think to myself is, "Wow. This year is almost over, in twenty four hours it'll be complete."

I get back inside my grandmother's house and directly head over to the stove, I need to warm my nearly frostbitten fingers and toes. Everyone loitered the kitchen grabbing delectables within their range. I join in with some warm bread and butter next to a cup of hot chocolate, we're again left to wait for nightfall. As they sit and prey at Habindina, a sacred area that's catered to the beings and their rituals, we rejoice and recap all that it took us to get here. The rest of the day goes by just as the morning had, fast and unnoticed. Before the sun reaches the horizon, we pile back into the car and head over to the house. Already, there are numourous cars parked outside wanting to put their chairs in a spot with a perfect view. We get in and they follow, black metal folding chairs in hand. We throw our aprons back on and get back to preparing food, and it needed to cater to the vast amounts of people we were expecting that night. When dusk does fall all are welcomed into our home, for it isn't quite yet ours. We must greet everyone with hospitality and kindness, offering food and a place to rest ones feet. People came to the house to donate whatever they could, food, drinks, flour, or clothing. The traffic of people made me nervous, because we had to recite a certain prayer when we received these gifts, it was a form of blessing to bring good luck, and another happy year. Leading up to the night's events, I had not said it before, I never had a good enough reason to. Eventually, that time came to recite the words everyone has been saying all year.

Her frail frame adorned with a vintage style dress, reminding me of my late great-grandmother. Her shoes seemed worn and scuffed, she scuttled slowly to toward our door. Coming into clear view I see she's struggling to carry a large sack of flour, immediately I rush to her aid. I look around the house as we get in, frantically searching for my mother, she has her hands full speaking to other women. I realize I have no other choice but to recite the blessing to her on my own. I felt queasy, and pretty confident that I'll make more than a dozen mistakes. I look into her dull eyes, her mouth crooked, she holds my arm for balance. I take a deep a breathe, with fortuity on my side, the words roll off my tongue, I spoke with ease and strength. The expression on her face must've matched mine, her smile stretched from ear to ear. She accepted her blessing, "Do' dethinan lit i'du. Do' i'skon bo:wakyanna." I pointed to a chair I originally placed for myself, explaining she can come watch the dances in here. "Hi'e:ya. Ho' lit dechina." She gleamed and told me when she'll may be arriving later that night. I helped her out the door, and made sure she made it into her car. I spent more than minute watching the car disappear down the road, I needed to take in what just happened. The look in her eyes reminded me of something, I stood in the cold trying to figure out what they resembled. I realized she was nearly a mirror image of my late great-grandmother, a faint image of her came into mind. Was it her that gave me strength to speak? The sharp pinch of icy air gripped my body, I finally move and step back into the house.

The clock inched closer to nine o'clock and there were ladies all throughout the house. Some seated in their designated chairs on the upper and lower floors, most engaging in conversations with one another. In white metal chairs that contrasted greatly with the exposed red earth, the Suski:kwe (Coyote Group), my uncle's singing group. They spoke amongst one another, examining the growing audience. Each guest greet us as they entered, by the looks on their rosy faces, I knew they weren't expecting our interior to be as decorated as it was. Each wall was blanketed with vast amounts of fabric, each Pendleton weaved with a different pattern. Mounted on each wall were heads of deer each embellished with pieces of bright turquoise jewelry. Along the edges of the ceiling hung long, thin poles, each one suspended by wiring. On those poles hung elegant, traditional dress of our Zuni men and women. Mantas, aprons, headscarves, leather leg wrappings, moccasins, shawls, belts, and different jewelry drape the poles. In the center of the ceiling was the heart of the house, a wooden shrine suspended by a single piece of board, hand-crafted and painted uniquely for our home. Two hand-wrought figures of the two beings rest on the shrine, they were the beings whom our home was made for. This shrine is to stay with us for as long as the house stands, it is a critical aspect of our home. Should anything happen to the shrine, our family and future won't attract the best of luck.

More whispers emerged and the clanking of dishes subsided, one by one the house grew more crowded, each pair of eye grazing over the bold decor. From inside, the faint chanting of men start to amplify, outside large groups of men sing, directing the being closer to the house. The crowds grow quiet as they approach the doorstep, a few of the men from the singing group head out the front door. The center isle, near the shrine, move out of the way and make room for the other men, my Sha'la'ko brothers. One by one each man comes in and recites prayers, blessing the entrance before climbing the ladder placed underneath the shrine. The bundles of feathers and prayer sticks they placed underneath the entrance and atop the shrine, will protect the house for as long as it remains. When they finish they return outside, the men start chanting again, then the beings make themselves known, loud and clear. The head of the first enters through the wide orifice, it's feathers ruffling against the frame, the tall triangular body stretches through the door. It nearly reaches the ceiling once it comfortably walks in, directly after, the second enters, in the same delicate manner. The high ceilings provided ample space for the beings to comfortably make its way toward the alter. An alter of feathers and prayer sticks sat at the end of the room creating a sort of power source for the beings. As the first settled into it's new home , the second made it's way toward the first and the ladies rearrange their chairs back into perfect rows. While the beings rest and the men behind them find their seats along the benches, we gather food and drinks. Once served, everyone relaxes and engages in conversation, while most were exhausted, they did their best to not show the arduous toll the journey put on their bodies. While the men prayed, hours passed, I stood in the room closest to the back door, from here I see my mother and grandmother sitting adjacent to the singers. My mother's eyes glistened and shone with pride and satisfaction. She turned to find me, my eyes met with hers, but she only smiled. I returned hers with a gentle smirk and continued to gaze at her. A faint voice spoke from behind me, it sounded familiar, I spun around to find the older lady from earlier approached me. She spoke with such kindness and warmth, it enveloped my senses. There was something about the way she looked into my eyes, an emanate of unreserved words thronged from within me. I usher her to an empty seat and made sure her perspective was vast enough to view everything. We exchanged a few more words before I went to find an open spot for myself. Crammed between metal chairs and packs of other people, I slowly made my way near the wood stove. Standing with my back toward the wall, the heads and shoulders of others created a tunnel vision, focused on the feathers fanned along the top of the beings' head. Just as I was questioning in my mind when they'll begin, the men simultaneously start to hum in tune. I snake my way through the crowd into the back room filled with loaves of oven bread. A few empty chairs remained, I took a seat before someone else had. As soon as I settled the humming turned into singing and the beat of the drum grew stronger. Their calls of the beings echoes behind the men and the drum beat. They rose with a distinguish sense of grace, stretching upwards toward the ceiling. The swayed delicately to the beat of the drum, daintily walking along the space provided in front of the rows of people. As they paced back and forth, more people entered and squeezed into areas with a clearer view. Fogged windows blurred the faces peering in from the outside, our house was sheltered by a sea of people. Glancing around the house, the look everyone had in their eyes was astounding, their gaze transfixed on the amazing beings dancing in front of all of us. The expressions on their faces gave me happiness and appreciation for what we'd just accomplished. I embraced the music, each song telling a different story in Zuni about how the world came into being I watched the two, tall figures sway and bounce to the rhythm of the drum. I closed my eyes and felt the energy and presence of our ancestors watching. I had never felt a sensation quite like this. This is what it meant to embrace my identity, to embrace the fear of being involve. I embraced the hardships right beside my mother, now as I watch her, I would not as for anything differently. This is who I was born to be. Someday, I'll endure the same struggle as my mom, maybe even more so, but in the end I'l be grateful for the culture I was born and raised into. I can't precisely explain how alienated I felt before this moment in time. Sitting in that black folding chair, listening to the words of the men, the smell of the bread all around me. The warmth radiating off the loved ones surrounding me, as I faced these beautiful beings, as they danced magically to the song of our creation, I felt at home. I felt Zuni.