Please stop asking me this!

When she was growing up, Dina Gilio-Whitaker was constantly asked, "How much Indian blood do you have?" She could never figure out how to respond, which is not to say she didn't know who she was.  "I knew that I was Native, I knew that I was Colville, I knew my family up there on the reservation," she said recently. "But what I grew up with was a process of not being seen and not being recognized as being Native, because I was completely out of context.  "People think that they're being friendly or whatever when they ask you that question. But what they're really trying to understand is if you're a real Indian or not."  (Dina Gilio-Whitaker, 2016, On Columbus Day, A Look At The Myth That 'All The Real Indians Died Off')

My response to that question used to be based on my audience, but I stopped that several years ago.  Now my response is uniformly and very politely, "Would you ask me that if I said I was Italian?"  To which, the answer is always, "No" or "Of course not".  My next question is, "Why not?  Why do you ask me that if I identify my nationality as First Nations but wouldn't if I were to identify my nationality as Italian?" (Or, for that matter, any other country on Grandmother Earth)?  Some people get defensive and accuse me of being difficult or nasty or rude.  Other people actually stop and think about it, and the response after some thought is usually, "I was just curious."  These are the folks with whom I then engage in conversation in an attempt to challenge the status quo and to educate.  I try to help them see us as human beings and not commodities to be measured.

The National Day of Mourning

Yesterday, I spoke out.  

My university's diversity officer sent out a card to all faculty wishing us a happy thanksgiving (writing that in lower case is my conscious choice).   I was going to ignore it as I do most such things, but the fact that it came from the university diversity officer and it was sent to the entire university community just was too much to ignore.  I thought to myself for a moment, what would my silence mean?  The diversity officer doesn't know me so s/he would have no way of taking my silence as my own form of protest.  Then, too, I have had several faculty, staff, and students come up to me and ask about my "Native American heritage" and admit, almost as a dreaded secret, that they, too, had "Native American heritage."  My question is always an enthusiastic question about "which nation"?  Why enthusiastic?  Again, a conscious choice.  Even though I can pretty accurately predict that it will in all likelihood be a Cherokee grandmother, it isn't always.  In addition, I feel that if we of the First Nations of Turtle Island always react with skepticism or cynicism, we drive away those who truly are of indigenous blood that has always been denied or hidden.  Our own form of superiority and racism.

My own family is an excellent example of the heritage of the "savage Indian" attitude.  Boarding school made my grandparents ashamed to be Lakota, so it was never broached with my father, yet he was still fed the messages that he was no good and would amount to nothing, never understanding the reason why but absorbing it all the same.  My grandmother, for some odd reason, decided to start in on me at the tender age of 7, but she made a critical mistake.  She actually told me in very disparaging terms that I was Lakota, and then in the same breath, told me I would be lazy and no good.  The amazing thing about the resiliency of my age was that I met this revelation with excitement but also ran away from my angry grandmother and the broom she was holding.  I burst out into the small backyard with its single tree and was met by a cacophony of birdsong and squirrel chatter that seemed to echo my happiness.  It was as if a puzzle piece clicked into place and I knew who I was.

So, I don't want to deprive another person of that same experience.  In other settings outside of these, the response to "what nation?" has pretty much ALWAYS been a Cherokee grandmother.  However, at this university, the answers more often are not that.  Responses have included "Eastern Cherokee", "Western Cherokee in Oklahoma", Catawba, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Muscogee, Seminole, and even Hopi.  My equally enthusiastic response to these revelations is meant to add support to these individuals sharing what often is a secret with me.  Perhaps it is my way of welcoming them home.

One of my elders, a survivor of the typical horrific abuse at a boarding school, once said to someone who asked him how we could have light-skinned, red-headed Indians: "Even if you only have one drop of Lakota blood, if that is the only drop that you hear, then you are Lakota."  This applies to anyone with indigenous blood.  There is the problem with wannabes, but they usually can't back up their claim with anything substantial - and I don't just mean a U.S. Government statement of blood quantum.  I mean what do they know about the people they claim are their own?  What have their relatives told them?  What have their elders taught them?  Iron Eyes Cody talked a good talk, but when questioned carefully, his story always gave away the truth.

So, when the diversity officer sent out that email of a happy thanksgiving card, I replied in a very respectful way with the story of the Wampanoag massacre.  I suggested finding a way to reach out to and bring together the many in our university community who have indigenous blood and to support them officially.  I suggested founding a student chapter of AISES.  I will be curious to see if I get a response....

Which leads me to the question, from where did I get the title of this post?  I drew it from an excellent op-ed by Savannah Maher on NPR's Code Switch (For Many Native Americans, Fall Is The Least Wonderful Time Of The Year).  Ms. Maher's article led me to another article, also on NPR's Code Switch, by Leah Donnella (How To Enjoy Thanksgiving Without Swallowing The Stereotypes).  The lead-off to Ms. Donnella's article was this image (Credit: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images).  Something immediately jumped out at me.  Notice that all the First Nations men are sitting on the ground at the same level as the dog looking on while the men of European descent are standing.  One First Nations man has a pipe leaning against his thigh with the bowl on the ground - not laying across his lap - while behind him is what looks like a club that is colored to blend in to the dirt of the ground. The only First Nations person standing is a woman in the far background and she is facing forward while a woman of European descent is talking to her.  The European woman is taller and leaning over.  Two men of European descent have weapons clearly displayed (one sword and one gun).  The man with the gun is glaring over at the woman of European descent speaking to the First Nations woman (or is he glaring at the First Nations woman)?  I wish I could say that all of these observations took me several minutes to make, but, sadly, they all jumped out at me.  Even if I admit to being very sensitive to how we are portrayed, it is still clear to me that a number of messages are being conveyed by the painter of this image.

I will close this post with how Savannah Maher closed her article.

"Black Friday?" My grandmother shouted at the TV in 2008 when we learned that President George W. Bush had chosen the Friday after Thanksgiving to celebrate us. "You've got to be kidding me!"  One last measure of insult heaped atop a season's worth of injury.