Note: This is an old post. It’s one of the first things I tried to write about race and identity. It makes me wince now, but I’m leaving it here as a testament to how hard it is to find the words, and how changing the way you think sometimes starts with saying things before you have the language and finding a narrative where there isn’t one and being generally sort of dumb. I’m not all that less dumb now. I’m still trying to find the words. ❤
“I’m more Indian than you are,” the girl told me.
We were at the lunch table. I looked at her, at her blue eyes and blonde hair, sitting between her friends, two Native American girls. She did have one thing in common with them–she hated me.
“They’re jealous of you because you’re so pretty,” Mom told me. As a second-grader, even I knew better. They weren’t jealous. They were looking for a target, and I–one of two fair-skinned children at Crowheart Elementary School at that time–fit the bill. But it wasn’t just my skin.
Back to the lunch table.
“No you’re not,” I told the blonde girl.
“Yes, she is,” said Birdie, a fourth-grader. “The black things in her eyes are bigger.”.
I pointed out that at least my eyes were brown, and that Birdie and I were second-cousins.
“No, we’re not,” said Birdie, “You’re white.”
They wanted me to know that they disliked me because I was not Indian, but the truth was, they didn’t like me for other, less identifiable reasons. I cried easily. I had no friends–of any color–except a boy who had moved away last year. I spent recess breaks talking to the teachers, reading, or wandering off on my own, constructing things out of pine cones and talking to myself. My light skin was just the easiest thing to pick out.
As I defended my heritage (“My dad has papers,” I would tell them), a group of boys on the other side of our table began sharing new swear words, and from her adjacent table, the teacher’s ears perked to the sound of impending chaos. She stood up and blew from the whistle hanging around her neck–our signal to cease all noise immediately.
“That’s enough,” she said in the hush that followed. “If anyone makes a noise, you’re going to lunch detention.”
I waited about three beats, and yelled. Not words, just a sound–“Ahhh”–like you make for a doctor inspecting your tonsils, but louder. I had imagined laughter from the other kids, but they just stared.
The teacher rushed around the table and took my arm. “Okay, Tasha, grab your tray.”
It was the Friday before Halloween; we had mud pie for dessert. Not the taupe slop I would eat when I transferred to another school in the fourth grade, but a multilayered ice cream cake with gummy worms sticking out of each piece, prepared by the school cook, Mrs. Hindman. I took my seat, a classroom desk that I would begin to think of as my own over the next two years, in the kitchen by the sink. Mrs. Hindman talked to me sometimes, in the way that an adult does when she pities you.
When I finally did transfer to another school, the emphasis shifted to my weirdness rather than the color of my skin. I had preferred the latter–it was easier to handle. If people didn’t like me because of my race, my suffering carried a sweet heroic angle. All the Cheetos rubbed into my hair on the bus, the games I was barred from–these things I endured for a greater cause. But if they didn’t like my personality–if I was now being teased explicitly because of who I was rather than what I represented–well, that was an entirely different feeling.
In high school, my brother transferred to Wyoming Indian to play basketball, and begin spending a lot of time with the friends he met there. Ben is darker than me, looking faintly Middle Eastern, and blended in much easier than he did at the school I went to. Like his skater period, or the time he joined the LDS Church so that he could date a certain girl, I assumed this was another phase: Ben, the Native. A week later it would be Ben, the Goth–or Ben, the Environmentalist.
It annoyed me that he was embracing his heritage now when he’d previously shown little interest in it, and I dismissed it as simply another way for him to fit in. During one particular argument, I started to tell him that he wasn’t any more Indian than I was–a measly 7/32nd–but then I stopped. For an instant, I saw us as we were:
Ben: Successful, as I never really was, in gaining acceptance from his peers.
Me: Replaying a scene from my childhood in which I experienced inevitable rejection.
We had been shaped by our heritage in different ways–Ben connected to it; I did not. For him, it is a source of identity; for me, an interested back-story, a unique little gem I could pull out of my pocket to dazzle friends in college, forgetting about it a few moments later. I grew up on an Indian reservation, I might say. My Dad is half Shoshone.
Maybe I’d feel differently if people were able to look at me and see it, but for the most part, my race seems clear: light skin, light brown eyes, and hair that’s slowly darkened from downy blonde to an inscrutable shade of brown. When people looked at Ben, they saw a certain truth–an Indian boy standing a calculated distance from his weird, white sister, who didn’t get him.
“The color of your skin has nothing to do with who you are.” This is said with trembling conviction by a woman on a talk show segment exploring racial inequalities.
Doesn’t it? I think.
Then she says something that I’ve heard many times, but today, makes my hand pause on the remote: “At the end of the day, you’ve got to be proud of who you are, whatever that is.”
A few years ago, a friend of my boyfriend’s parents saw a photo of me and asked my boyfriend, “What is she?”
As he recounted the story, he told me it took him a second to figure out what she’d meant. Then he’d responded, “She’s part Indian. Like Native American Indian.”
“I thought so,” the woman had said.
Despite myself, I’d felt a little thrill of victory rush up my spine. I told you.
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