"Once, our family lived in the north," Christina's father used to tell her. It was only on those hot summer nights in August, when the windows were wide open and the crickets would sing for hours on end, that he'd say this. Every year, without fail, her father, Ahote Haski, would sit her down at their little wooden table in the kitchen they shared with two old men, who lived in the adjoining house. He'd lean back in his chair, the one with the cushion that had lost half its stuffing, light a cigarette, and begin his stories.
"We weren't called the Diné- that wasn't the tribe we belonged to then. The name that everyone knew us by were the Thunderbirds. When we flew through the sky in our true forms, our wings beat like thunder and our cries pierced the night like lightning. To prove themselves, men from other tribes would come to us and try to steal a feather from our cloaks. Only the most worthy would succeed.
"But we grew old, and instead of wisdom, all we gained from age was stupidity and arrogance. We joined bloodlines with the other tribes, and through them, our own power grew weak. Our own blood was tarnished by the blood of humans. We were no longer Thunderbirds, the mighty beasts that ruled the sky and were second only to the gods. We were human, unable to change shape, unable to take to the sky and be free.
"Our ancestors scorned us. They called us mongrels and half-breeds and much worse. But it was too late. Our line had ended, and the closest we could get to the rest of the Thunderbirds was by giving our bodies to our ancestors. Our wives and children would run from us when our eyes glowed like fire and we became not human, but Thunderbird once again, if not for a little while. Only the strongest of our tribes, only the warriors and heroes, could do this and survive. And at the insistence of our families, it was soon forgotten, becoming the stuff of legends and fairy tales told to scare our children.
"When the white men came to our lands, we moved south, to join with the more powerful tribe of the Diné. It was then that we were truly lost. Our powers, our legends, our legacy. We were dead. The only way we could continue to thrive was to tell our children, and their children, and their children's children. My father told me this story, just like I'm telling you.
"One day, Christie, you're gonna do great things. They might not change the world, but they'll be great. Our family is old, and powerful." This would be when he'd ruffle her hair and say in a low voice, "You never forget that, Christie. You never forget that."