In fact, I’m not enrolled, because like a countless number of my ancestors, the roots of my line fled relocation via the Trail of Tears, so I can’t ever be part of the “official” tribe because my family was really good at destroying records and not being found.
Doesn’t change who I am.
But what I’m actually interested in talking about today is the other side of this coin. I’ve ranted on this in some of my writing– including a piece that numerous editors have found a little too combative but that I will keep revising and resubmitting to places until it is out there because people NEED to read it. It’s a very simple premise.
I am mixed-blood Cherokee.
I am NOT every Cherokee ever.
Let that sink in.
Because there’s a whole class of intelligent people who don’t get that. It doesn’t surprise me that the people who think that every Cherokee lived in the past (like I’m the only remaining chunk of Cherokee DNA, merged Jurassic Park style with some other thing but mostly a dinosaur) say that. But other scholars do it, too.
An issue will come up that relates to Indigenous culture, or politics, or something similar. And to be fair, yes, I do have an opinion on pretty much every Indigenous issue, from pipelines to casinos to mascots to being the Lone Ranger’s bullet caddy. But I am not the user-signifier, the one Cherokee who can bind them all.
Imagine how you would feel, reader, if you… go look in the mirror, in some reflective surface. Look at your race, your gender, your size, your age… all the things that make you who you are.
Now imagine being expected to speak for everyone who holds those traits.
If you’re a white male, this probably seems ridiculous to you. And that’s the whole problem.
I am glad to share my opinion on race and culture any day of the week. I will rattle on. Really, I will. I’ll get mad, I’ll get sad, I’ll pump my fist.
But don’t expect me to stand for everyone who was ever descendant from an Indigenous culture.
I don’t make you all stand for your races, religions, genders, creeds, sizes, shapes, etc.
Don’t you fucking do it to me.
Just don’t.
I want to end this with a funny anecdote that is tangentially related. The other day I was walking across campus and an old white dude scowled at me. He said “I’m a Red Sox fan!” and I realized I was wearing my Yankees cap. For those of you who missed my Facebook post on this, I bought a Yankees cap because El-P from Run the Jewels wears one frequently and “Yankee” as a word has a symbolism for me. And I had this exchange with the lovelier Dr. Alexander:
Me: Is it wrong to buy a Yankees cap just because El-P wears one?
Julie: (exasperated) That’s the reason why people buy make-up… THAT’S WHY PEOPLE BUY STUFF!
So I bought it. And I wear it.
So back to the guy in the parking lot on campus. I looked at him and said “oh, yeah, I’m not a Yankees fan. I like a dude who wears a Yankees hat. Come to think of it, I don’t like baseball, I like the idea of baseball caps.”
He looked at me like I was a mutant.
Why should I stand for every Yankee just because I wear a damn hat?
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