Post Project: Reflections by Kegan

Group: How Do We Lead with Empathy in the Global Healing of Anti-Racism? Facilitated by ManMan Mui
By Kegan - Minneapolis, MN

Thoughts on Identity

I was born and raised in Wyoming.         

My great grandmother on my mom’s mom side is, was, full blood Ojibwe. She passed away on Christmas Day 2019. I did not attend her funeral.

We were not close.

My mom’s side has a “complicated history” and she wanted me to grow up “away from all that.”

Growing up, I was told I was Indian. That grandma is a full-blooded Indian and I need to spend time with her so we don’t lose our heritage. I was also told I wasn’t allowed to spend time with “that side of the family.” How was I ever going to reconcile these teachings?

In 1995, Pocahontas was released. I was 2, and an “Indian, just like Pocahontas.” I watched it on repeat the way 2 year olds do. I wanted to learn. If I am just like this, why do we not dress like this? If I am “just like Pocahontas,” why don’t I look more like her? I tried so hard to fit everything from this movie into the schema of my world, but the puzzle pieces were wrong.

I remember being in preschool, and someone speaking to me in a language I didn’t understand. They thought I was Mexican.

I remember the previews for Mulan when it was released in 1998.
I remember how excited I was that she looked like me.
Round face, almond eyes, dark hair, light skin.
She also dressed as a boy and used a sword and had a dragon.
That’s way cooler than Pocahontas. Sorry, Mom.

In first-third grade, we learned about the Plains Indians. Heard all about the history of Custer, and Kearney, and my (5x great) uncle on my dad’s side- Buffalo Bill Cody. We were taught that the Blackfeet and Crow were ruthless, blood-thirsty murderers. The idea that they were “savages” but the Shoshone and Sioux were “reasonable” was prevalent in my history classes.  Hating the way my teachers and classmates talked, and knowing that I was “Indian,” I rose my hand. “My great grandma is full-blooded Indian, so I am too. We’re not savages…” I remember proclaiming. To which my teacher replied, “Everyone is part Indian. It’s nothing to be proud of, and certainly nothing special.”

 So that settled that. My mom’s side of the family were “bad people” that I was to avoid and my teachers confirmed that there were things I was too naïve to understand. This must be that “complicated history.” I watched Mulan again. Man, she’s so cool.

 In fifth grade, we had to do a report on an Indian tribe. I decided to ask my mom which tribe Grandma is from. “Chippewa! Like the song. ‘My baby she's a Chippewa-waaaa, She's a one of a kind.’” (Tim McGraw, “Indian Outlaw")

 So, I decided to do my assignment on the Chippewa. I remember reading that we were actually Ojibwe, and Chippewa was the Colonizer’s pronunciation. I hated it. None of what I read aligned with what I had been taught about Indians, nor did it fit with our geography. Where were the teepees?! How did they find the supplies to make a canoe like that?! We don’t have enough trees here for all of these wiigwams and birch baskets! What about the bison? Why do they not hunt bison?! I got so angry in my confusion, and switched topics. I did my report on the Powhatans because Pocahontas was more familiar than my own family.

 “Mom, why is Grandma in Wyoming? The Ojibwe are from Minnesota.”
“Grandpa brought her out here. She’s moving back to Minnesota to live on the Res.”

 That settles that. I’m not Indian like Grandma because I’m from Wyoming. I’m not Indian like Crazy Horse because I’m actually from Minnesota, even though I’ve never been there. I don’t look anything like Sitting Bull. I don’t look like Pocahontas, Disney’s version nor her real self. It must be because I’m white like my dad. But I’m not white. My blond hair, blue eyed brother is white. Never mind that our parents are the same, so our blood is the same. My head hurts. I’m going to watch Mulan. When will my reflection show who I am inside? I don’t know. Someday. Maybe.

This was around the time I was old enough to be told why we don’t spend time with that family.
Turns out alcoholism and sexual abuse run rampant. I heard my teacher again.
“Everyone is part Indian. It’s nothing to be proud of, and certainly nothing special.”

That settles that.

Never mind that it was my great grandfather, a white Norse man, was the one that started the chain of abuse. Never mind that Great Grandma was a victim, not a perpetrator.

In high school, we had to learn a second language. Japanese was offered. It wasn’t Chinese, like Mulan, but man, oh man. That was as close as I was going to get. In that classroom, there were other kids like me. Dark haired, light skinned. White Dads and Other Moms. We shared a common thread: we wanted to be close to our mothers’ cultures, but were stuck in the cross-fire of being biracial in Republican Isolated Wyoming. So Japanese would have to be close enough. 

 I went to Japan in 2010. I remember eating shabu-shabu with my host family. I saw my reflection next to theirs in the window and my heart sank. I floundered. I panicked. I choked the panic back and promised to enjoy my trip. Those feelings were not going to tarnish these memories. Mama told me that if I was on the phone, my language was good enough no one would know I wasn’t Japanese. I could ignore my reflection a little longer.

 I moved to Minnesota in 2016 before the election.

 I visited my Great Grandma in Hinckley. The disconnect I felt to her culture made me seek out solace somewhere I thought I belonged.

 I started playing taiko. I was surrounded by Japanese culture again, but my language suffered from the lack of use. I had to face that panic from dinner years ago: I’m not actually Japanese. The day of my wedding, my Grandma came to take my Great Grandma back to Wyoming. I say that like she ruined my wedding. I eloped. They didn’t even know it was happening. I’m gay? Did I forget to mention that? I got a message while I was donning my wedding dress that they were in town and wanted to visit, and I laughed because I was in Wisconsin.

 I learned about the boarding schools. I think I finally picked up the right puzzle, because those pieces started to align with my own recollection of our history. Why was Great Grandma, a full-blooded Indian, the most Christian woman I knew? Why are all of her dresses made of cotton, not deerskin? I still couldn’t face some of the other facets of our intergenerational trauma.

 And then she died.

 I never got to learn more from her while she was alive.
I hid myself in a representation that I resonated with because there was no accurate representation that felt or looked like me. Every Indian on TV was crazy, alcoholic, mean, or a fantasy creature on par with Unicorns. I didn’t want to be like that. So I found the closest things that represented me, and it turns out they were from a totally different culture with their own stories and histories of racism.

 When George Floyd passed and the riots broke out, my family responded in appalling ways.

 It brought up so many micro aggressions in my own life. History untold, history warped, experiences ignored and belittled. And my internalized hatred of my Indian family. I want to be a better ancestor. I don’t want to take away from the Black Lives Matter movement. I don’t feel like it’s my time to speak because my experiences are not life-threatening. But they are. Not for me, but for others like me... For those who are actively fighting and disappearing over the Mount Rushmore protests.

 Working through Non-Violent Communication is about listening.

 I have finally been given the permission to listen to myself, to all the hate in my heart, and lay it out in front of me. To pick it up, to hold it, to ask it why it’s so angry. What is it so afraid of?

And the answers are still coming. It’s still too soon to share these new thoughts. But the first answer was that I’m afraid of never belonging anywhere.

 Which is a fear my mom had. Our family miscalculated the blood quantum laws and she thought she was ineligible for tribal enrollment. That her mother is an Indian, but that she is Not. I answered my fear with research, did the math, and sent her the forms. She is eligible. I am Not. And that’s okay. I can accept not having a certificate and ID badge that says I’m Ojibwe. I don’t need or want the government’s reparations. I just want to learn about our culture. I want to learn our language so it doesn’t die. I want to learn how to prepare maple syrup and knock rice. 

 I went to the digital library today, you know, because we’re in a global pandemic…

 I searched Ojibwe.

 And there was an illustration of a girl that looks like me.