Dancing With Nookomis

I was five,
maybe six,
small enough that the floor felt big
and the gym echoed louder than my heart.

In kindergarten PE
they told us to line up,
to dance the same,
to follow the steps drawn for us.
But before that room,
before that teacher,

there was my grandma.
At her house,

the ground that already knew my feet.

She would watch me dance

and smile with her whole spirit.

She told me,
“Dance hard.
Dance like no one is watching.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you
you cannot dance.
I am Ojibwe.”

My body knew that
before my mouth knew words.
So when the cowboy music played,
I danced the only way I knew how
with my ancestors in my bones,
with my grandma’s voice in my ears.

Back in my grandma’s living room listening to her play the drum
and I was the only one.

My feet told a different story.
My arms moved with memory,
not instruction.

The teacher got angry,
told me to stop,
told me to sit down,
said I wasn’t doing it right.

But I was dancing.
I was dancing who I am.
I didn’t know how to explain
that my dance was older than that room,
older than the rules,
older than her anger.

I just sat there,
small and quiet,
not knowing I was
holding something sacred
inside my chest.

Now I’m older,
and I understand.
That little kid
was brave.

That little kid
carried culture into a place
that didn’t know how to hold it.