My Native Roots

My whole life, I was told I was a mutt. While my friends went around bragging that they were half Italian, full blooded Russian, or a quarter Canadian, I could only sit on the sidelines, stuck with blood that was a mixture of so many European countries, I couldn’t list half of them I tried. I had no ethnic roots. I was not allowed to wear a shirt that says “Everyone Loves A (insert ethnicity here) Girl.” Then, one day, that all changed.

I don’t remember who exactly told me, but the truth eventually came out: My great great grandmother was a full blooded Indian. 

I know, right? How exciting. I was thrilled. 

My brothers and my parents brushed this little tidbit aside, but oh no, not I. I sucked onto it like a leech. I’d finally discovered that I was, dare I say, exotic? And I was not letting it go until I’d discovered everything about it. I mean, obviously there was an entire POPULATION of people I was practically related to! 

The first struggle was determining exactly how Native American I was. After some calculations, I discovered I was you know, basically a full blooded Indian. 1/16, my friends, 1/16. That’s 6.25% for my readers who aren’t too hot at mental math. 

Next, I had to learn exactly what type of Indian I was. There’s a lot of tribes out there and I felt it was pertinent to identify with the correct one. So, I did some interviewing and essentially, I’m Cherokee. Probably. I mean, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m Cherokee. There’s technically no evidence of this tribal affiliation, but after looking in the mirror for a few seconds, I decided that I’d go with that. It rolls off the tongue and my best friend’s Cherokee too, so we like to think that our great ancestors shared a wigwam. Maybe they even made headdresses together!

Unfortunately, once I logged onto the official Cherokee website, I learned that just “being pretty sure” doesn’t actually cut it. I have to have evidence. Oh, and there’s that little matter of having to be 25% Cherokee before they’ll even admit me into their little special club. Kind of cliquey, huh? Plus, even after all of that, the process of receiving any benefits of actually being one of them, like those fancy dividends from the casinos or a free education, is just not going to happen. 

But hey, that’s okay! Because I’m still Cherokee! And a little more time with The Google led me to an organization full of people who aren’t Indian enough to be in the official Organization, so they’ve started their own. And for $12.95, I can be a part of it!

Once that little matter was resolved, it was time to come up with our Native American names. Because my family had no interest in pursuing this with me, I gave them all names on their behalf. Cliff became “Frolics with Small Animals.” Don’t call her Mom, call her “Tivos All That Laughs.” The brothers needed special names, so David was branded “Mooches off Parents” and Jake got “Will Dance for Lady Attention.” I gave myself “Sunshine Cloud” and my dog “Raindrop.” I think these names put us more in touch with not only our tribe, but with nature. And nature, after all, was the playground of our ancestors. Plus, I have a new guilt trip for all my “white” friends. It goes something along the lines of “You should really be nicer to me. After all, your family stole the land of my forefathers. I think you’ve done me enough harm.” 

I was all set to pay the 12.95 and get the certificate of Ethnicity and hey, I could even slap it on my resume. But then, well, I decided against. I don’t need a club to tell me I’m Cherokee. After all, I have the word of my family, and they’re “pretty sure” that’s the tribe we’re in.