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a Blackfoot from Montana. He was good and strong and brown, and I don't remember much else about him because he left when I was three, taking with him my Indianness. I have read many books about Indians to learn our ancient ways. I can tell you our history, and have even memorized a couple of our stories, like the one about the Woman who Married a Bear, or how Marten got his Spots. But I don't think that this has made me any more Indian than I was. There are times when I don't even think I'm Indian, like when I watch the Fancy-Dancers in their beautiful costumes, or hear an old woman scold her grandson in the People's Tongue. And when I see a bunch of Indians smile and laugh, I'm reminded once more how much of an outsider I am. It makes my heart sore, makes me feel empty inside. Like no matter what I do, I'll never be Indian enough. I have sat for a thousand years in front of a mirror, turning my head this way, altering my expression that way, just to see if I really am Indian. And sometimes I can see it. Sometimes my cheekbones stick out just enough, sometimes my nose is crooked enough, sometimes my eyes are dark enough, my hair black enough, and I am proud. Because through these things I see a connection with my people and my past. Between me and a Blackfoot warrior who could sing of the noble things he'd done, of the enemy's blood he'd shed, and the food he had brought back for his tribe. A man who could sing of these things in his People's Tongue. And sometimes I can see for just an instant the face of my father who rode bulls and traveled and had a strong, sad face. Sometimes I can see these things, but then they disappear, and I'm just a boy whose skin isn't dark enough. Who could be Italian, or Mexican, or Jewish, or maybe, possibly, Indian. And I cry because I wish people could tell right off that I was Indian, even if they looked no further. Because then I could feel that I was something. That I had a race, that there were others like me, and I belonged. I only feel Indian when I see a crow, whose feathers are darkness, whose flight is more beautiful than that of an eagle. The crow reminds me of Indians because no matter what the environment is like, there are crows. We will survive. An alien religion, infestation, alcoholism, poisonous blankets, crippling poverty. None of that was able to stop us. The Indian is still here, and that part of me that must be an Indian - I'm not sure how much it is - feels happy when I see a crow, because I, too, have survived. The drum brings out my stolen Indianness too. It's holy call is echoed in my blood, floods my head with images of the past, prairie grass and a child's laugh, a warrior's song whose words I don't know, and the warmth of a horse beneath me. Maybe someday I will know more fully what it means to be Indian. Maybe one day I will be able to go to a Pow-Wow and not feel like a clumsy, ugly, alien. Maybe one day I will be able to speak in a language that is not English. Maybe one day I won't have to look in the mirror to know who I am, and I won't have any doubts as to whether I'm an Indian. Maybe one day I will know my father again. My father who was an Indian, a Blackfoot from Montana. On that day, I will know, and it won't matter any more.
written 1995 |
