When President Grover Cleveland welcomed a tall, skilled Zuni "woman" to the White House in 1886, he had no damn idea he was actually meeting one of the most remarkable gender-transcendent figures in American history. We'wha wasn't trying to pull one over on anyone—in Zuni culture, We'wha's identity as lhamana (what we now often call "two-spirit") was not only accepted but revered. But watching this Indigenous diplomat navigate Victorian Washington D.C., serving traditional foods to congressmen's wives and demonstrating Zuni crafts while white society remained completely clueless about We'wha's assigned sex at birth? That's some next-level cultural subversion that still resonates powerfully today.

Let's cut through the historical bullshit and colonial filters to understand who We'wha really was—a master potter, weaver, and spiritual leader who became perhaps the most famous lhamana in American history. Behind the remarkable story of We'wha's six-month visit to Washington lies a complex narrative about Indigenous gender systems that existed for centuries before Europeans showed up with their rigid binary categories and tried to erase them. This isn't just ancient history—it's about recognizing the rich diversity of gender expressions that Native cultures understood long before modern LGBTQ+ terminology even existed.

The question we're exploring: How did We'wha navigate between Zuni and American society as a two-spirit individual, and what does this remarkable cultural ambassador's life reveal about Indigenous gender traditions that Western society is only beginning to understand?

Born physically male around 1849 in the Zuni Pueblo of present-day New Mexico, We'wha was recognized early as lhamana—a traditional Zuni gender role that transcended the simplistic male/female binary. After losing both parents to smallpox when just around five or six years old, We'wha was raised by a maternal aunt and her family, who supported We'wha's development as lhamana.

Within Zuni culture, lhamana individuals weren't considered "men living as women" or vice versa—they occupied a distinct social category altogether. The role came with specific ceremonial responsibilities and was viewed as bringing special medicine and balance to the community. Far from being marginalized, lhamana were often central to Zuni social and religious life.

We'wha grew unusually tall for a Zuni person—standing around six feet—and developed exceptional skills in traditionally feminine arts like pottery and weaving while also participating in traditionally masculine activities like hunting and religious ceremonies. This combination of skills made We'wha particularly valuable to the community. We'wha's daily life involved dressing in women's clothing, performing women's work, and being addressed with feminine pronouns (though Zuni language has less rigid gender markers than English).

What's absolutely critical to understand is that in Zuni society, We'wha's identity wasn't viewed as a goddamn oddity or deviation—it was a recognized and respected social role with deep spiritual significance. When anthropologists and missionaries showed up with their Western gender binary and Christian sexual morality, they were the ones with limited understanding, not the Zuni people who had recognized the validity of gender diversity for centuries.

In 1886, We'wha's life took an extraordinary turn when anthropologist Matilda Coxe Stevenson, who had been studying Zuni culture, invited We'wha to Washington D.C. For six months, We'wha lived with Stevenson and her husband, meeting politicians, demonstrating Zuni crafts, and even shaking hands with President Grover Cleveland at the White House.

Here's where shit gets fascinating: throughout this entire visit, We'wha was introduced and perceived as a "Zuni princess" or "Indian maiden." Not a single Washington elite—including the fucking President of the United States—realized We'wha had been assigned male at birth. The newspapers reported on the "skilled Zuni craftswoman" without any inkling of We'wha's lhamana identity.

Why didn't Stevenson explain? She certainly understood We'wha's status as lhamana—she had been studying Zuni culture for years. Most historians believe she recognized that Victorian American society, with its rigid gender norms and sexual prudery, simply couldn't comprehend the Zuni concept of lhamana. Rather than subject We'wha to potential ridicule or worse, she allowed Washington society to perceive We'wha according to their binary assumptions.

During this visit, We'wha demonstrated weaving techniques to the Smithsonian Institution, taught Zuni cooking to society women, and produced pottery that entered prestigious collections. We'wha didn't speak English fluently but communicated through Stevenson and through the universal language of artistic demonstration.

Imagine the scene: Congressmen's wives and Washington socialites gathered around, watching We'wha work, admiring this "exotic woman's" skills, while completely missing the profound challenge that We'wha's very existence posed to their rigid Victorian gender constructs. We'wha wasn't performing or pretending—this was an authentic expression of lhamana identity—but the cognitive dissonance of white society prevented them from seeing beyond their own limited framework.

To truly understand We'wha, we need to grasp how profoundly different Zuni concepts of gender were from European notions. In Western thought, especially in the Victorian era, gender and biological sex were considered inseparable and binary—you were either male or female, period. Any deviation was viewed as perversion or abnormality.

In stark contrast, Zuni cosmology understood gender as more fluid and complex, with lhamana occupying a distinct social category that wasn't simply "in between" male and female but had its own spiritual and cultural significance. Lhamana weren't "transgender" in the modern Western sense—they were recognized as a specific gender category with distinct roles and responsibilities.

These responsibilities often centered around mediating between genders, much as We'wha mediated between cultures. Lhamana frequently served as caregivers for orphaned children (as We'wha had been an orphan), were skilled healers, and played significant roles in certain religious ceremonies that required transcending ordinary gender boundaries. They were seen as having special access to spiritual knowledge precisely because they embodied aspects of both masculine and feminine divine principles.

From a psychological perspective, lhamana identity wasn't framed as a "condition" or "identity struggle" but as a socially recognized role that brought balance to both the individual and the community. This stands in stark contrast to Western medicine's history of pathologizing gender nonconformity. The Zuni understood something that Western psychology is only beginning to acknowledge: that diverse gender expressions can represent healthy adaptations rather than disorders.

We'wha exemplified this tradition, serving as a cultural mediator within Zuni society and beyond. Anthropologist Matilda Coxe Stevenson described We'wha as having "the strongest character and the most intelligence" of any Zuni she had met—qualities associated with We'wha's status as lhamana, not despite it.

We'wha wasn't just a cultural curiosity or passive subject of anthropological study—this was an individual with political agency who actively resisted colonial control. In 1892, a few years after the Washington visit, We'wha participated in a Zuni protest against U.S. government interference with religious practices.

When U.S. troops tried to prevent a ceremonial dance, We'wha physically resisted a soldier, resulting in imprisonment for almost a month. This act of defiance demonstrated that We'wha's role as cultural ambassador didn't mean surrendering to colonial authority. Even while building bridges between cultures, We'wha remained committed to Zuni sovereignty and religious freedom.

This resistance must be understood in the context of the systematic oppression Indigenous peoples faced. The 1880s and 1890s were the height of the U.S. government's forced assimilation policies, including the infamous boarding schools where Native children were taken from their families and prohibited from speaking their languages or practicing their cultures. The government explicitly targeted Indigenous gender systems, forcing haircuts on Native men, requiring Western-style clothing differentiated by binary gender, and punishing any gender expression that didn't conform to European standards.

In this context, We'wha's very existence as lhamana—continuing to dress, work, and live according to Zuni traditions rather than colonial expectations—was itself a form of cultural resistance. By maintaining lhamana identity despite increasing pressure to conform to Western gender norms, We'wha preserved an essential aspect of Zuni culture that colonizers were actively trying to destroy.

When We'wha died in 1896 at approximately 47 years old, the funeral combined both traditional Zuni practices and some Catholic elements—reflecting the complex cultural negotiations Indigenous people navigated during this period of forced assimilation. We'wha's death was marked by widespread mourning in the Zuni community, demonstrating the high esteem in which this lhamana was held.

After We'wha's death, the story of this remarkable lhamana might have faded into obscurity if not for the extensive documentation by Stevenson and other anthropologists. However, even their accounts were filtered through colonial perspectives that often distorted or misrepresented Zuni gender concepts.

For decades, anthropological accounts described We'wha and other lhamana using terms like "berdache" (derived from a Persian word for male sex slave) or as "men-women" or "transvestites"—all terms that imposed European concepts onto Indigenous realities. Some accounts even sensationalized or fetishized these individuals, focusing on sexual aspects rather than their cultural and spiritual roles.

The erasure went beyond terminology. U.S. government policies actively suppressed Indigenous gender systems, with agents of the Bureau of Indian Affairs punishing Native children who displayed gender expressions that didn't match their assigned sex. Christian missionaries condemned traditional practices that honored gender diversity, labeling them "sinful" and "perverted." This systematic oppression drove many Indigenous gender traditions underground or led to their loss.

It wasn't until the late 20th century that Indigenous activists began reclaiming these traditions. In 1990, at the Third Native American/First Nations Gay and Lesbian Conference in Winnipeg, the term "two-spirit" was adopted as an umbrella term to describe the diverse Indigenous gender and sexual identities that existed across different Native cultures. While not a perfect translation of specific tribal concepts like lhamana, "two-spirit" provided a Native-centered alternative to Western LGBTQ+ terminology and helped connect contemporary Indigenous LGBTQ+ people to their cultural heritage.

Today, We'wha is increasingly recognized as a significant historical figure—not just within Native American history but in the broader history of gender diversity. Museums like the Smithsonian now acknowledge We'wha's lhamana identity when displaying the pottery and textiles We'wha created. Academic work on We'wha increasingly centers Zuni perspectives rather than imposing Western frameworks.

What does We'wha's story tell us about the psychological dimensions of identity? Unlike many narratives of gender-diverse people in Western societies that focus on struggle, isolation, and rejection, We'wha's story offers a different paradigm—one where gender diversity was integrated into community life and spiritual understanding.

In Zuni culture, becoming lhamana wasn't seen as rejecting one's community but as fulfilling a valuable social role within it. Rather than facing the psychological burden of being "othered," lhamana were given specific responsibilities that connected them more deeply to community life. This integration provided psychological stability that stands in stark contrast to the marginalization many gender-diverse people face in societies that lack recognized roles for them.

This isn't to romanticize or oversimplify Indigenous experiences—lhamana and other two-spirit people faced their own challenges, especially after colonization brought European prejudices. But the existence of established social categories beyond the binary gave individuals like We'wha cultural frameworks for understanding their experiences that weren't available in Western societies.

For contemporary two-spirit people, connecting with figures like We'wha can provide a sense of historical continuity and belonging that counters the colonial narrative that gender diversity is foreign to Indigenous cultures. Reclaiming these histories offers psychological resilience against the double discrimination many two-spirit people face—both as Indigenous people and as gender-diverse individuals.

As psychologist Dr. Alex Wilson (Opaskwayak Cree) has noted, "Reclaiming two-spirit identity is not about going back to some idealized past, but about bringing forward teachings about gender and sexuality that were nearly destroyed by colonization." We'wha's story is a crucial part of this reclamation.

What can we take from We'wha's life and apply to our contemporary understanding of gender, culture, and identity? Here are some key insights:

We'wha's legacy hasn't been preserved by accident—it lives through the deliberate efforts of communities committed to reclaiming this history. Organizations like the Two-Spirit National Cultural Exchange and the Bay Area American Indian Two-Spirits (BAAITS) work to revitalize and honor two-spirit traditions across different tribal nations.

The Zuni A:shiwi A:wan Museum and Heritage Center preserves cultural knowledge about lhamana traditions, ensuring these concepts are understood within Zuni frameworks rather than through colonial interpretations. Academic initiatives like the University of Saskatchewan's Two-Spirit Archives collect and preserve historical documents related to two-spirit individuals like We'wha.

Artists and writers continue to draw inspiration from We'wha's story. Novelist Aaron Cuffee (Zuni) has incorporated characters inspired by lhamana traditions into his fiction. Visual artist Bently Spang (Northern Cheyenne) has created installations exploring two-spirit history that reference We'wha's Washington D.C. visit.

These community efforts serve as a counterforce to the historical erasure of Indigenous gender systems, ensuring that We'wha's legacy isn't forgotten or distorted. By connecting historical figures like We'wha to contemporary two-spirit identity, these initiatives provide both cultural continuity and resources for resilience.

We'wha lived between worlds—between cultures as a Zuni in Washington, between traditions as Catholicism entered Zuni life, and between gender expressions as lhamana. Yet rather than being torn apart by these tensions, We'wha integrated them into a cohesive identity that served both as personal expression and community resource.

This capacity to build bridges while maintaining cultural integrity makes We'wha's legacy particularly relevant today. In a world increasingly polarized by cultural differences, We'wha demonstrates the possibility of genuine cultural exchange without assimilation or appropriation.

For those exploring gender beyond the binary, We'wha offers historical evidence that diverse gender expressions have existed throughout human history and across cultures. This isn't new territory—it's ancient wisdom that colonial forces tried to erase.

Perhaps most importantly, We'wha reminds us that history is always more complex and diverse than the simplified narratives we inherit. When we look beyond colonial filters and listen to Indigenous perspectives, we discover historical figures who challenge our assumptions about what was possible in the past—and by extension, what might be possible in the future.

The next time someone claims that gender nonconformity is a "modern Western invention" or that the gender binary is "natural law," remember We'wha—a respected lhamana who served as cultural ambassador, walked through the White House, and preserved Zuni traditions while navigating colonial pressures. Remember that Indigenous peoples have recognized and valued gender diversity for centuries. And remember that this history wasn't lost—it was deliberately suppressed, and is now being deliberately reclaimed.