In the glow of stage lights and the quiet hum of late-night writing sessions, where grief finds its counterpoint in laughter and stories become a way back home, there’s an artist weaving comedy into ceremony and turning survival into art.
Shea Vassar, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, is a writer, comedian, and filmmaker whose work carries both the ache of memory and the spark of joy. She’s developed a voice and space that insists humor can hold even the heaviest truths.
Her journey has moved through journalism, with words in Teen Vogue, Men’s Health, and RogerEbert.com, to the creation of Howdy Cat Comedy, where laughter is stitched together with poetry and possibility. Now, as a 2024 Sundance Native Labs Artist in Residence, she’s shaping Julie Takes a Walk, a romantic comedy set in northeast Oklahoma, where queerness, Indigeneity, and adoption intertwine in a story that feels both timeless and urgently now.
In this conversation, Shea opens a window into the worlds she’s building, for herself, for her community, and for all of us who crave stories that remind us we are still here, still laughing, still in love.
Q. Can you share a bit about your upbringing and how your identity in both academic and artistic spaces has shaped your relationship with storytelling and comedy?
I’ve had the much-too-common experience of surviving childhood trauma so it was early on that I found safety in writing and creating stories. There is a deep rooted sadness that comes from never being able to know a world without pain. That’s where the jokes come in. Humor allows for some of the most difficult human emotions to be explored in an accessible way. Still, there has always been a disconnect I felt about myself. I grew up with non-Native parents who didn’t have the knowledge to empower me in this identity. Sure, I’ve been enrolled since I was a child and I knew I was Cherokee but my biological dad and my adoptive mother who raised me came from a time where the goal of the general American identity was watered down to whiteness. It was really throughout my 20s in New York where I learned from a variety of Indigenous artists, fashion designers, poets, musicians, comedians, writers, and more where I came into my identity as a Cherokee woman in a place where most don’t really think about Native people living.
Q. As a writer with bylines in Teen Vogue and RogerEbert.com, how does your critical lens influence the kinds of stories you want to tell on screen or stage?
When I was younger, I wanted to be an academic. I admired filmmakers and comedy writers (I probably read Tina Fey’s memoir a good fifteen times the year it came out) but I didn’t believe I could ever do what they did. While I was at Hunter College in New York for film school, I prioritized reading and understanding theory. That shifted during the 2020 lockdown. I tap danced, attempted to bead earrings, painted whatever canvas I could get my hands on, and even produced a short lived podcast about basketball.
Since then, I’ve been pivoting from a more critical lens to a place of “make art! even if it’s bad!” but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to separate myself from the deep histories I’ve spent so much time and energy obsessing over for half a decade. Having a theoretical background reminds me to stay intentional with my art because there are power structures built into the modern version of these art forms that we can’t ignore. We have to be mindful of the world we live in and who else could be hurt or helped in the way stories are told. I just sometimes wish I could be a little more open to the spontaneous creative freedom rather than thinking and analyzing every aspect of a project but I think that’ll balance out the more I am able to make movies.
Q. At what point did you feel the pull toward comedy, and how did your background in reporting and critique prepare you for writing jokes or building out comedic narratives?
Any one that knew me as a kid is not at all surprised that I am now a comedian. I was a musical theatre kid who nerded out about my Lord of the Rings trading cards and thought Whose Line is it Anyway? was the best show on television. But comedy has always been a boy’s club. Sure, there are some incredible women that I looked up to but I didn’t think I was the same type of funny as them.
When I was a journalist, I would read pieces that were able to weave in appropriate little lines that just would elevate the entire article. I remember thinking “I want to have this sort of ability” and slowly I recognized I would rather be writing jokes full time than freelancing. Going to my first open mic was scary but I did it. And then I went to a few more. And then I got booked on some shows in Brooklyn. And slowly that wanting to make people laugh just completely took over my entire existence.
Q. Let’s talk about Julie Takes a Walk. What inspired you to create Julie Takes a Walk, and how did you decide to intertwine themes of queerness, Indigeneity, and adoption within a romantic comedy framework?
Julie Takes a Walk the short film is actually based on Julie Takes a Walk: The Pilot Episode. This was the third pilot I had developed on my own but the first that really clicked. With the first two scripts, I wrote with a very auto-fiction style. The thing about being inspired from your own life is that sometimes you’re too stuck on the truth that you don’t allow the story to just show you the way. With this world, I was able to separate my emotions from the purely fictional story. The characters in Julie Takes a Walk are all inspired from the very real experiences I’ve had with being adopted and being queer and figuring out my own Cherokee identity. This allows me to really understand the fictional world and their emotions depending on the situations I put them in without any one character being a direct doppelganger to me.
Q. You’ve described Julie Takes a Walk as a “Desert Hearts meets early 2000s rom-com” set in northeast Oklahoma. How did you balance nostalgia with a fresh, contemporary lens?
My time writing about Native representation in film and television showed me that filmmakers LOVE to put a Native character in stories that are set in the past. And that isn’t always a bad thing. We have been here in the so-called United States since time immemorial so it makes sense to include us in a variety of different period pieces. But why is it so rare that we don’t have Native characters in the more recent past? There were queer Native women in Oklahoma in the 1990s so why not show a dream version of what that looked like? Obviously, times were different and we aren’t trying to revise the past but I’m tired of general audiences only seeing Native characters in the historical past. This only adds to the horrible narrative that we aren’t alive anymore which just is objectively false.
Q. Was there a particular scene or moment in Julie Takes a Walk that came directly from your own life or felt like a love letter to your younger self?
My family was very religious growing up and being gay was seen as something sinful. I remember having crushes on girls when I was a preteen but because of the church I was scared of anyone ever finding out. It was treated like liking another girl was an unforgivable sin. In most ways, I think the whole short film felt like a love letter to my younger self. It was a very public fuck you to the teachings that were drilled into me. Seeing characters that I created come to life and fall in love was such a healing process. I definitely sobbed on set a few times.
Q. What’s your dream for where Julie Takes a Walk leads you creatively, whether in writing a feature, building a comedy series, or telling more Indigenous queer stories?
The ultimate goal would be to turn Julie Takes a Walk into an eight episode mini-series (for all the executives that are reading, please note I will settle for a feature budget). The story of Julie and the bartender she meets, Cass, is super fun and nuanced and ready to be explored more. We need to see these two go through a few more days together at least!
Ultimately, I just write my silly little stories and see where they go.
Q. You often work across formats, short films, live shows, essays, reviews. How do you decide which stories belong in which medium?
Deciding the medium or vessel of a story all depends on the urgency. Film is a journey that takes months, sometimes years, before going in front of an audience. What I love about performing stand up is you can be very topical to the breaking news of that moment. Same with an essay. But essays are usually what I use when I want to be vulnerable about an experience but maybe it isn’t something I’m ready to take to the stage or put into a bigger narrative which requires more of an investment, like filmmaking. I say all that but honestly I keep a list of all the ideas I have that I can’t get to at the moment but might want to commit to later like my personal favorite: an audition to be Shea’s new mother (first one abandoned me, second one died, I’m in need of a replacement!) and I would play all the characters who want to be Mommy #3 just for the realization that I can be my own mother. That one came to me when I was on a run over a year ago and I wouldn’t be surprised if I do that in a few years.
Q. What do you think mainstream media still gets wrong about Indigenous people, and how do you try to challenge or correct that through your work?
Mainstream media is behind the times because they aren’t taking chances and for some reason, hiring storytellers to tell original stories is too risky these days. Native people are not a monolith and by that I mean there are over 570+ sovereign tribal governments with their own set of rules and culture and histories. There is no one way to capture the Indigenous experience because even people from the same community have totally different stories. I think the best way to combat that is to tell stories that showcase our humanity as Native folks. We deserve to have fun . Native characters that go through ridiculous life events like falling in love
Q. Looking ahead, what kind of Indigenous representation do you want to see more of, not just in terms of visibility, but in terms of nuance, agency, and creative control?
Ultimately, I hope every Native that wants to try something that feels as out of reach as filmmaking does is able to. But that takes people within the industry recognizing the gatekeeping that goes on and remember to pull people up as they also rise. This is just the beginning for me. I hope to bring all my talented friends along with the next generation of tenacious filmmakers with me. I just want as many storytellers as possible to be allowed to share their stuff with the world. No creative expression should be inaccessible because of budget or experience or whatever the roadblock might be. There is enough room for us all.
Shea Vassar moves through the worlds she builds with intention, carrying the weight of history, the joy of survival, and the promise of what comes next. Her work opens doors for other storytellers, for queer and Native voices, for anyone who has ever felt unseen.
And as we step back from her words and her worlds, one thing is clear: the stories Shea tells are ours to witness, to hold, and to carry forward. Alive. Laughing. Unafraid.
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