Eye am floating, between the realms of identity, searching for the history of my ancestors. How can Eye be lost? Shouldn’t we know ourselves by a certain age? Should we believe the opinions of friends and family, or the sacred records that have been preserved, to determine the truth of who we are and where we came from?
From birth, I was told, I had a Native American heritage from my father’s side. My mother descended from Scotland. As a wee bonnie lass, I grew up with a reddish tint to my hair and fair skin so tender I had to take care not to burn under the sun’s piercing rays. One brother and two sisters, tanned the color of a rich wood in the summer time. With long brown braids, one sister gave the impression she was an Indian Princess. I saw their skin and knew I shared their gene pool, but my skin coloring argued the point.
As I grew older and searched for records, none confirmed our Indian heritage. Oh! So because someone was ashamed, afraid, poor, couldn’t travel, could not prove birth because of no birth certificates for those that were born in their own home, didn’t write it down, that erases our origin? Our ancestors did not exist, therefore we do not either?
I cry foul! I see what others see. My pale skin and hair, but when I write stories about Native Americans, the sound of distant drums keep cadence with the beat of my heart. I see the flames of their camp fires fluttering in the wind and hear the soft murmurs, mother’s coo to their newborn babies.
Eye exist! Therefore, Eye write!