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try to choreograph a kind of family hoop dance. But the more I tried to understand about my life and my family history the more I realized I didn’t know. To fill in some of the holes I began to read—very tentatively—about various Native American traditions, and almost immediately I came across two ideas that fascinated me and helped me make sense of my situation. The first was the Native American belief in a circular, or “living,” past, as opposed to the linear past of Western European tradition. For American Indians the past is never over; every “then” still exists in the “now”—it just exists on a different level. This made perfect sense to me as I thought about a dancer’s constant challenge to show, with his or her body, how moments in time are linked, connected, and interactive—“We exist in time,” as Mr. B had said. This concept of a “living past” was exciting to me because it implied that experience does not evaporate, so that if you miss the meaning of something the first time around, maybe you could go back and look again. In which case all those years that I had not spent with my family, as well as all the experiences I had enjoyed as a dancer with the NYCB, should all be—in some sense—still available for exploration.
    The second Native American tradition that intrigued me was the intense physical and spiritual journey that Indian braves sometimes took, in search of their true self, called a vision quest. All my life I had been taught—by my mother and by my NYCB family—that I should try to move through life with truth and beauty and meaning. I realized that in order to do so now, given the recent changes in my life and the unknown topography of the future, I would need to embark on a vision quest through my living past, to try to see and feel all kinds of things I had not managed to see and feel before. If I could understand more about the steps I had or had not taken in my past, then maybe I would feel ready to choreograph my future.

The Sweet Confusion of a Multicultural Identity Crisis
    T HERE HAVE BEEN times when I have found my multistranded heritage as a half Navajo, half Puerto Rican, All-American, dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker confusing. But as the years have passed I have become more comfortable with my unusual blend of family legacy and cultural experiences. I sometimes use cooking as a secret language, and at a small dinner party I recently hosted I decided to serve four different desserts: Navajo Fry Bread, Puerto Rican flan, American apple pie, and New York cheesecake. My guests were surprised by the bounty, but none of them guessed that there was a message in my madness.
    My grandma Rachel taught my mother this recipe for Navajo Fry Bread, and my mother in turn taught it to my brother, Kiko, and me. Kiko became quite the expert Navajobread chef (and still is), and as young boys the two of us ran our own Fry Bread concession at various rodeos and powwows all over the Southwest. I would love to eat Fry Bread every day—but then I would be as big as a house.
Grandma Rachel’s Navajo Fry Bread
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    SERVES 12
    4 cups all-purpose flour
    Â½ teaspoon salt
    1 tablespoon baking powder
    1½ cups lukewarm water
    4 cups vegetable shortening or vegetable oil for frying
    In a large bowl, combine the flour, salt, and baking powder. Add the lukewarm water slowly, kneading the mixture until it is soft but not sticky. Shape the dough into about 3-inch balls—you should have enough for 12 balls. On a floured surface, flatten the balls into patties and then roll them out to about ½-inch-thick circles.
    On high (the surface of the oil should be shimmering but not smoking), heat the shortening in a large heavy skillet and fry the bread circles one at a time until nice and golden. Transfer the fried bread to a plate covered with a few paper towels. If you want to use the fried bread as a dessert, sprinkle the