Cornerstone Theater Company Brings Larissa FastHorse’s Wicoun Home

An Unconventional Opening

After a winding drive through the pristine wilderness of Custer State Park, a helpful attendant in a Cornerstone Theater polo shirt directed me away from the Black Hills Playhouse’s imposing main door, where I thought I was heading, toward a nearby picnic area. Nestled on the grass next to covered tables sat a small, temporary playing space that evoked a festival. A triptych of hand-painted backdrops hung from tentpoles, fluttering audibly on the gusts of the mountain wind. Members of the production team, including MacArthur Fellow and Broadway playwright Larissa FastHorse, hospitably if anxiously mingled with the small yet mighty arriving audience. You see, in twenty minutes, the world premiere of FastHorse’s newest play, Wicoun, would fittingly find its public voice within this sacred grounds of a South Dakota state park ironically named after notoriously incompetent Army cavalry commander but reverently known by the Lakota people as Paha Sapa.

On 25 May in the rustic setting next to the Black Hills Playhouse, and again on 26 May in the urban parking lot of Racing Magpie in Rapid City, South Dakota, I witnessed the first two performances of Wicoun. Devised over the past four years by FastHorse; her Cornerstone director, Michael John Garcés; and Native collaborators from across South Dakota (Sicangu Lakota Nation, Oglala Lakota Nation, Ihanktonwan Dakota Oyate, and other tribes), this groundbreaking production represents a major happening in the flourishing story of Native theatre. After proudly proclaiming in her pre-show speech that “I’m from South Dakota,” FastHorse continued, “we created this play together based on what they [her fellow Native American collaborators] wanted to include, what they want us to know about them.” Over the course of the summer of 2023, Cornerstone Theater shared this community-inspired vision across South Dakota through a series of free performances. In doing so, the Indigenous Nations of the Great Plains—cast members and audiences alike—participated in a transformative story of brokenness, inclusion, and generosity.

From “the Old Stories” to the New

It all starts with story. The opening moments of Wicoun introduce teen siblings Khoskalaka (Kenny Ramos) and Áya (9A) as they struggle to finish high school while simultaneously raising a houseful of rambunctious siblings and cousins on the Rose Bud Reservation. The affliction of addiction apparently prevents the adults in the family from properly caring for the children. To entertain and educate the young ones in their charge, the studious Khoskalaka writes an original comic book in which a brain-eating toxin called “meth-icine” creates a new breed of zombies who terrorize the countryside. Rather than eating brains, these unique zombies persuade their victims to try meth-icine, which of course creates more zombies. As a force of good in the comic book, Khoskalaka creates a “slow talking” Elder Superhero (Rosetta Badhand-Walker) who fends off a zombie invasion by boring the “twitchy” attackers into submission and/or by offering them home baked cookies. Heartbreaking, yes, but also hilarious.

Soon thereafter, Áya, who presents as female but lives in what FastHorse describes as “a true two spirit place often called non-binary,” finds themselves in need of a real Lakota superhero. As Áya walks alone on an isolated road, three nefarious characters appear. Up to no good, they want to visit one of the children protected in Áya and Khoskalak’s home. Described in FastHorse’s colorful diction as “rez necks,” these menacing visitors consist of two of Native characters and one “white guy.” Distracted by Áya’s brave diversion, the white guy turns his aggression toward Áya, threatening sexual assault. Perhaps inspired by Khoskalaka’s comic book, Áya accidently and surprisingly summons Woohitike (Victoria Picotte-SunBear). Roughly translated from Lakota as “Bravery,” Woohitike appears from the dimensionless sacred space costumed in traditional Lakota dress but with Marvel-esque design touches, including a Fantastic Four-style embroidered belt buckle centering her deerskin robe. Using her super strength, Woohitike quickly subdues the rez necks and then immediately devotes herself to helping Áya discover their true purpose in life.

To transition into a Lakota superhero strong enough to protect their family, Áya must first fully accept their own gender identity.

More Lakota superheroes soon join the quest. First comes the shapeshifter Wówačhiŋtȟanka (Christopher Alexander Piña), which roughly translates from Lakota as “Perseverance.” With two superheroes now in tow, the teens embark on a road trip across the state to Rapid City to seek wisdom from a comic store owner named Marcus (Brandon J. Sazue Sr.). When they reach the foothills of Paha Sapa, a superfast superhero named Wówačhaŋtognake (Gina Project Celebrity Mallory) joins the group. Wóohitike means “Generosity” in Lakota.

After several complications, Áya eventually discovers that the true power to protect their family resides in embracing “the old stories.” As discussed earlier in the play, the old stories consist of narrative from the elders that everyone used to know, but that have sadly been forgotten by many. To transition into a Lakota superhero strong enough to protect their family, Áya must first fully accept their own gender identity. Khoskalaka coaches, “It’s the old way. Be you. All of you. No more fighting with who you are.” FastHorse’s stage directions effectively describe the transformation witnessed onstage: “Áya makes a grand dramatic gesture to shed the female expression of themself and transitions before our eyes to a trans man, with a little flair that holds their female power too.” In this majestic and magical flash, Áya transforms into Ahí, and a fourth mighty Lakota superhero is born.

FastHorse intersperses her epic story of becoming with a series of poetic interludes that poignantly express touchstones of the contemporary Indigenous identity. Presumably taken from her fieldwork interviews, these statements offer multiple responses, both in English and Lakota, to the following prompts:

“I feel powerful when…”

“Things I want to change: …”

“My superpower is…”

Delivered as a chorus of voices by the acting ensemble, the dozens of responses include empowering statements such as “I feel powerful when my hair is in a braid,” “things I want to change: colorism,” and “my superpower is being a caretaker.”

The Cornerstone Aesthetic

For over three decades, Cornerstone Theater Company has pursued ambitious community-based drama, commissioning over 100 playwrights and producing over 150 new plays across the United States. Following Urban Rez and Native Nation, Wicoun represents Cornerstone’s third collaboration with FastHorse. In addition to a resident company of theatre artists, Cornerstone employs an innovative methodology that infuses their productions with local members of the community, many who have never acted before. Building upon a core of professional actors who travelled from Cornerstone’s home base in California, Wicoun’s cast includes a majority of “local” performers from six different Native Nations. Far from a detriment, this unique blend of professional with novice yielded some of the production’s most memorable and powerful moments.

Based on the performances I witnessed, two holy moments of what I respectfully refer to as the “Cornerstone aesthetic” stood out. First, as the slow-talking Elder Superhero, Badhand-Walker initially appeared tentative in her role, especially in the opening performance. Slightly uncomfortable silences filled the air between the middle-aged actor’s cues and lines, and her wide eyes hinted the terror of stage fright. And yet, these minor rough edges only increased the gravitas when Badhand-Walker, a member of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe, found her note. She elegantly calmed and quelled the growling zombies with her serene countenance. After the zombies retreated, the Elder Superhero, supported by an assistive cane, gently reminded the Native teen who she protected, “Remember, all zombies were just people once. People we loved. And still do.” During the Black Hills Playhouse performance, Badhand-Walker’s sensitive delivery of this subtext-filled line serendipitously coincided with a gust of wind blowing through the surrounding pines of Paha Sapa. Yet it did not drown her out; instead, the Elder Superhero’s wise words seemed to ride the wind.

Cornerstone employs an innovative methodology that infuses their productions with local members of the community, many who have never acted before.

Likewise, as the super strong Wóohitike, Sun-Bear may not possess the vocal or physical training of her professionally trained castmates, but she more than filled her role. In a conversation prior to the performance in Rapid City, FastHorse shared with me that, as a student, Sun-Bear had suffered from speech anxiety to such an extent that she received permission not to take public speaking. Yet as the powerful Wóohitike, Sun-Bear showed no signs of timidity as she vocally and physically commanded the space with a strong and confident voice. The fact that she was visibly with child under her superhero costume only added to her projection of feminine power. This fierce young woman from the Sicangu Miniconjou Lakota and Sisseton Wahpeton Sioux Tribes boldly played her role with authenticity and poise, embodying the virtue of her character’s name, “Bravery.”

Artists at Work

The rest of the ensemble shined as well. As the conflicted Khoskalaka, Ramos propelled the production forward with his energy and physicality. He succeeded in expressing the inner tension of a young and intellectually gifted caregiver torn between his duty to family and his desire to attend college out of state. As Áya, 9A compellingly played a valiant soul whose fluid gender identity failed to conform to expected norms of their rough, restrictive context. Indeed, the true center of the story, Áya’s impressive transformation into the mighty let loving Ahí provided the cathartic climax of the show.

The various production elements also succeeded, which is no small feat for a traveling show on a temporary stage. Director Garcés proved masterful at dynamically flinging his actors across the modest playing space, setting a brisk pace without sacrificing the intricate rhythms of FastHorse’s hilarious dialogue. Talon Bazille Ducheneaux’s sound design effectively supported Garcés’ direction. The design consisted of several practical effects, including a very funny Native radio broadcast, but also commendably underscored the supernatural shifts in tone with a convincing array of ethereal, otherworldly sounds.

Designers Nephelie Andonyadis (scenic), Lynn Jeffries (puppets), and Jeanette Godoy (costumes) collaborated on a mise-en-scène that travelled well. Andonyadis designed backdrops of Devil’s Tower ("Bear's Lodge” to the Cheyenne) and Bear Butte with Paha Sapa in the center; the billowing fabric danced in the perpetual South Dakota winds and provided a spiritual backdrop for Garcés frenetic staging. Likewise, Jeffries cartoony cardboard puppets playfully accentuated a graphic novel aesthetic while producing several playful visuals. Highlights include a brood of cardboard children dancing across the stage, Wówačhiŋtȟanka’s adorable prairie dog hat, and dueling camps of Native versus white protesters towering above the action during a Mount Rushmore protest. Similarly, Godoy’s costumes, which included contemporary dress as well as fantastical superhero garb, served the show well. Her colorful superhero creations, especially the powerful and flattering costume for Ahí’s transformation, could and should inspire a new universe for aspiring Native graphic novelists.

A Few Lessons Learned…

When the performance in the Racing Magpie black asphalt parking lot in Rapid City triumphantly concluded, the multi-generational, mostly Native audience rose up from their carried-in camping chairs to show their appreciation. Actors and audience gleefully merged into one. Stories shared; selfies taken. For several minutes, I loitered on the periphery, dazed by the glorious and rare opportunity to witness a mostly Native cast perform a Native play for a mostly Native audience. As I watched the actors mingle with the appreciative crowd, FastHorse’s opening speech drifted back to mind: “We created this play together based on what they [her fellow Native American collaborators] wanted to include, what they want us to know about them.” From that festive parking lot, a few lingering observations of what her statement could mean became clearer.

Cultural and gendered identity merge into a sacred source of strength.

First, and perhaps most obvious, Wicoun offers a timely lesson in the restorative power of inclusion. The play starts with an abusive chorus of voices viciously attacking Áya. Sadly, hostile barbs like “Get out of this bathroom!” and “Why don’t you just kill yourself?” hardly seemed overstated in light of South Dakota's recent legislation against the LGBTQIA+ community. Early in the play, Khoskalaka wisely extolls the two-spirit identity of his beloved sibling: “If we were back in the old days, you would not have to hide who you are or chose one way to be... You’d be the holiest of holy. So powerful, who knows what you could do? Walk on water! Command the winds!” By the end of the play, Khoskalaka’s words proved prophetic. In FastHorse’s Native futurist parable, superpowers derive from the “old stories,” transforming Áya into a savior figure. Cultural and gendered identity merge into a sacred source of strength.

The afterglow of the show ushered in a second revelation of what they want us to know about them: the vital Native virtue of generosity. Near the end of the play, the superfast Wówačhaŋtognake spends all of Áya’s money to feed the Native protesters and the “wasicus” (white people). When Áya complains, Wówačhaŋtognake retorts, “But the true give away is to give all. Hold nothing back.” Wówačhaŋtognake continues, “Today we go buy things, extra things to give. But in the old way you would give away everything you had.”

At the risk of overgeneralizing, this countercultural virtue of uncompromising generosity runs deep in Native American cultures. As an ally, classmate, and co-worker to Indigenous people in North and South Dakota during my younger years, I witnessed such big-hearted generosity more times than I can count. No doubt wasicus like me dismissed such munificence as reckless and unwise; we certainly failed to reciprocate. Worse yet, devious and opportunistic settlers surely exploited this inclination towards selflessness during the colonization of the continent. In spite of such abuses, however, Wówačhaŋtognake’s demand for total generosity transcends as a beautiful ideal. It should underscore today’s customary land acknowledgement statements read aloud in theatres, not as tacit lip service but as sincere covenants to acknowledge and subvert ongoing structural wrongs. In a way, I suppose Cornerstone Theater Company’s production of Wicoun reflects this characteristically Native virtue: a nationally renowned professional theatre company extravagantly offering free performances by, for, and with the original stewards of the lands on which we all now live.

Certainly, FastHorse’s dense and wise ninety-minute comedy contains dozens of additional life lessons worthy of unpacking. Over the summer months of 2023, Cornerstone Theater Company’s production of Wicoun allowed the inspired voice of a fabulously talented playwright to extend beyond the concurrent Broadway run of The Thanksgiving Play. Through a satirical comedy about Lakota superheroes, her wise words resonated throughout the sparsely populated territory of her native state, from the Black Hills across the Great Plains. If only her message of inclusion, generosity, and love could somehow carry further into the collective consciousness of our greedy and unreconciled nation.