In Search of an Authentic Indian: Notes on the Self

1. I started writing this in the aftermath of the Dolezal affair and have continued to write as the Andrea Smith story has taken off. But it’s not about them. The various ways in which race and passing, cultural appropriation and calculation have been discussed has inspired this text. But it’s more like a personal essay and a confession. I have been at various points in my life White, Latino, and Native American. That is, I have claimed—with varying degrees of certainty, archival support, and agency—three different forms of ethnocultural belonging. (I know what you’re thinking. Just wait.) This is not to say that one day I imagined I was Latino and started calling myself that for the hell of it, or that I proposed to dupe an institution into accepting me as something I knew I was not. Rather, the way in which my racial ambiguity has played out over the course of my life has been highly informed by context, by language, by desire, by the way I imagined (myself) and was imagined (by others). The question of ambiguity is crucial in all of this because it speaks to a longer history of how racialized subjects are interpellated by the textures of ethnic identification. The thing that sticks in my mind from the recent coverage of Dolezal and Smith is the way in which deception lingers unresolved as the sign of racial violence. It signifies intent and malice. But what might oppose this deception, the hypocrisy that imbues these two stories? What might an authentic approach to racial ambiguity look like?

2. My father was adopted. That is the beginning of my racial ambiguity. He was adopted in San Antonio, Texas, by a White family, who took him to East Texas, where he was raised and typically introduced as their ‘adopted son’ in a close-nit, Leave it to Beaver-esque milieu. My father’s skin tone, somewhere between warm brown and caramel (the Spanish trigueño comes to mind), his formerly jet black—and for many years salt and pepper—hair, his high cheek bones, all pointed to a non-White (or at least not entirely White) ethnic origin. And he was adopted in San Antonio, a city with a majority Latino population. So…Latino? My father was probably Latino? But we didn’t have any real documentation to back this up. Nor did his adoptive parents say very much about the process. Perhaps they preferred not to talk or even imagine their son as a racialized subject; perhaps my father preferred the same. (Transracial was not yet a thing.) Perhaps he preferred just to exist, to belong to the cultural and affective community in which he was raised. That is, after all, what he knew, that was where he felt comfortable. The comfort of that silence is important. That silence that means not having to subject yourself to the violence of being something other than White. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism.

3. I am the biological son of this father, whose dark features were never really made explicit, but certainly pointed toward ‘ethnic’, and a mother who comes from a more typical Western European background. My maternal grandfather’s surname points to French ancestry; my maternal grandmother’s maiden name points to English heritage. My mother is clearly identifiable as White. I grew up in Corpus Christi, Texas, where the population is almost evenly divided between White and Latino—mostly Mexican-American or Chicano/a of various patterns of migration and generational history. Some families have been there for centuries, while others are recent arrivals. So culturally, it bears repeating, I grew up in an ostensibly White middle-class family. My parents have decent jobs. I went to a small liberal arts college with partial scholarships. I was able to study abroad. I eventually went to graduate school and am now a professor. I left college with no student loan debt. My parents were extremely supportive. That is a lot of privilege. I must admit that for this story to make any sense.

4. But what I want to revisit here are the moments when I was misidentified as part of that family. I remember the strangeness. I remember the desire to be the thing that other people thought I was. I remember the desire to embody that which I imagined I was. But I didn’t know. I didn’t have a term for what my body meant. I remember being in the grocery store and the checker asking if I was my mother’s ‘stepson’. Stepson? Why would he say that? “No, this is my son,” she replied. His discomfort. The way his neck flinched. What is the meaning of that gesture of recoil? What sort of expectation was I failing to live up to? Being at the beach as a child and sitting next to my blond-hair blue-eyed brother, and the double takes, the inquisitive, almost condescending, “who is this little guy?” The way my skin turned darker while his burned. Playing soccer growing up: “you’re not bad so you must be ‘Latin’”. (More recently I went to play soccer in Brooklyn with a group of mostly Anglophone Caribbean men who started calling me “Spanish man” rather than actually asking my name.) A boyfriend who once admitted that his first thought when he saw me was that I was “Mayan”. A jealous ex of a different boyfriend who asked mockingly, scornfully, “Well are you Mexican or are you Indian?” and laughed. My least favorite line of questioning, “Where are you from?” “No, where are your parents from?” “No, what is your nationality (read ethnicity)?” “No, what are you?” What are you? What kind of question is that? What story do I tell? My father was adopted, and I know I’m brownish, but my brother has fairer skin than I, and my mom is White, but I take after my father, and we don’t really know… But not knowing is not the same as fabricating. Not the same as consuming or appropriating or re-colonizing. Not the same as deceiving. 294052_10150857668495578_1812226166_n 5. Eventually we decided to go through the process of opening the sealed records for my father’s adoption case. This was, not coincidentally, around the same moment when I was coming to grips with my own sexuality. My ethnic and erotic ambiguities were not far apart. We completed all the paper work, jumped through all the hoops. What did I hope to find out? What were these records going to show that memory and experience could not? What ambiguity would this resolve? They came one day in a large manila envelope, official looking, but not entirely hefty. Indian. The records list the race of my father’s mother as Indian and his father as White. So, what does this mean? What are you?

6. At this point I was already in graduate school in a Master’s program in Latin American studies. I spoke Spanish fluently. I had at times identified as Latino to other people, depending on the time I had to explain my ambiguity, my desire to be forthcoming with them, the context, the crowd. There were times when I knew I was being identified, racialized as such, and I just didn’t care enough to explain what I thought was an important and nuanced ethnic history. Maybe was exhausting. Sometimes you’re at a bar and you’re talking to someone you know you will never see again, and you just don’t have the time or the energy to go into all that. I know. I know. That is privilege, too. It’s a lot of privilege. And it’s a lot of privilege because it is not allowed the other way around.

7. But then we found out that my father’s mother was still alive. That she still lived in Oklahoma. And we called her. A few months later we were sitting in the lobby of a La Quinta Inn in Amarillo, Texas, and she walked in with one of her daughters, my aunt, my father’s half-sister. My grandmother was small, I remember thinking. Soft-spoken. She had a round gray perm. She had beautiful almond eyes. We had a different nose. We talked for about an hour about the weather, what had come of my father, about what she had done in her life. We talked about my academic successes and my brother’s professional advancement. We just talked. It was a first step. Allow me to recap: My father was born in the early 50s. His mother was Cherokee and his father was White, we found this out in the mid 2000s. She had been born on the Cherokee Nation and grew up speaking Cherokee, though she later attended the normal schools where she was forced to speak English. She told us matter-of-factly that she could only remember a few words at this point. We never reconnected with my White grandfather, though we knew that he had died years earlier. I think that says something also. My father was the product of something like a one-night stand when she was still a teenager but already working at a diner in the Oklahoma panhandle. He was in the military, she said. What are you? I thought this information would make it easier to explain myself to other people. I thought that if I could say “I’m Latino” or “I’m Indian” it would make it easier. But it didn’t. It hasn’t. The story is just longer, more “complicated”. We wanted to continue the relationship with my grandmother and to meet the rest of her family, so we made a trip to visit them in Oklahoma. It was a family reunion in the most sincere sense of that term. My parents, my brother, and I all went. And I remember feeling strange, like we were being grafted back on to their family tree. There is a scar there. Family. We talked about this with them. I met a cousin who speaks more Cherokee than the rest of the Oklahoma family. She wanted to learn and so she did. It reminded me of learning Spanish when I was young. We had barbeque and drank iced tea. My grandmother told more stories about her youth. I craved those stories. We still keep in touch with the Oklahoma relatives, in spite of my grandmother’s passing two years ago.

8. But while we were in Oklahoma we also went through the process of becoming citizens of the Cherokee Nation. First with the help of an amateur genealogist cousin (from my father’s adoptive family), and later confirming with my grandmother, who did have tribal citizenship, we were able to trace our descent to the “final rolls of the Five Civilized Tribes,” of 1907. Another archival process. We went to Tahlequah. I remember the garish gold letters on the Cherokee Capitol Building. I remember picking up my “White Card” declaring I have a ¼ blood quantum certified by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. I remember the young man at the registration office commenting that that was more than 98% of enrolled Cherokees. I don’t know if that is true. Maybe it was hyperbole. Maybe it was meant to invite me to feel more Indian. IMG_6494 But what does that mean? What “cultural connection” do I have to this tribe? What claim can I ethically make to this past, to this family, to their stories? What right do I have to say that I am Indian, even though, now, legally (legally?) I am? I have not actually lived the experience of systemic racism, though I have certainly been racially abused for not being White enough.

9. But then again, maybe I have. Were it not for the social and economic exclusion that my grandmother experienced, her forced monolingualism, her forced acculturation, were it not for the stigma attached to a mixed-raced child like my father, then maybe I would not exist. It is very likely that I would not exist. Were it not for the accumulated weight of racism and the gross neglect of Indian communities in the US, I highly doubt that I would be here to write these words. The thing is that my body has a history that began long before me. My present—all of our presents—is imbued with the past, even if we do not know that past. The past doesn’t simply dissolve because we don’t know it. But what do we do in the face of this historicity? What do we do when we want to know what we are, but we do not have the ability to say? Many of these histories exist beyond the horizon of the archive. And this is “complicated”. Archiving blood has been—and continues to be—a very “complicated” thing to do. Indeed, blood quantums have served entirely sinister purposes over the course of world history, and they continue to serve to exclude and racialize and stigmatize. Tribal citizenship is not exempt from coloniality. It seems ironic, though, that precisely what I lacked—the archival legitimacy of my racial history, what provoked my own ambiguity, indeed my own ‘passing’—is also what has served to vilify Dolezal and Smith. To be sure, they made choices. They attempted to write themselves back into a history that was never theirs. That is violent. That is hypocritical. That is disingenuous and inauthentic.

10. In the end, I am writing this to attempt to be authentic to my experience of self in the face of this unknowing but also this new knowledge. It seems to me that to deny this legacy, this heritage, however distant and bureaucratic it has been, is to participate in the erasure of the Indian populations of the Americas. It is to continue to silence that history. It is inauthentic. My choice is not to do that. So I do say now that I am Indian. But I say those words with humility. I say those words knowing that they are part of a circuitous path toward Indigeneity. I say those words knowing that I do not speak Cherokee, knowing that I do not know so much about what it means to be Cherokee. But I also say those words knowing that not having access to our oral history is an authentic Indian experience. Knowing that not being able to care for your son, giving him up for adoption, was authentic for both my grandmother and my father. Wanting to be more than an archival Indian is authentic to my own life experience. I try to tell that more complicated story. Perhaps, in the end, this essay is my way of signaling the need to be honest with these complications. Because neither personal history, nor archival evidence, nor desire completely suffice. Because the ambiguity of race is not enough to justify the willful deception that dominates the narratives of Dolezal and Smith. I do not have the ability to belong to the Cherokee Nation in the same way as someone who grew up there. I do, however, have the ability to tell this story. In fact, this story is the most authentic thing I have to honor the trajectory of my own racial history. And it is in this spirit, in this unlikely sense of self, that I continue to imagine a more historically grounded sense of belonging to a community that was never meant to be mine, but which I approach slowly, openly. Authentically.

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26 thoughts on “In Search of an Authentic Indian: Notes on the Self

  1. gogomax49

    This is the closest story I’ve heard to my own. Thank you. I may quote you in a future talk or paper. 🙂 Will let you know if it happens.

    Reply
  2. Pingback: In Search of an Authentic Indian: Notes on the Self | Grace Alvarez Sesma

  3. Pingback: Fauxcahontas: On Andrea Smith, colonialism, and “authenticity” | The Charnel-House

  4. Julianne Jaz

    I am also more than a little astonished at the parallels in my own life to yours, though I was the one given up for adoption. I would be your father’s contemporary. But my mother was also Cherokee, and it was most definitely a one-night stand with a guy in the military (Navy). I was adopted at birth, grew up believing I was white. Looked enough like my adoptive parents that it was never a question. Found out accidentally at 22 I had been adopted, and spent the years and effort, to track my biological mother down. When I found her, we did meet, and spent some brief time together, during which she told me a little of our Cherokee history (both she and my grandmother were enrolled members), but not very much. The 2nd time I visited, she got drunk, beat me up, I left, and never saw her again. She died four years later of alcoholic cirrhosis. Because my adoption was illegal (black market), while she acknowledged I was her child when I met her, and I do look like my 9 half-brothers and sisters, she died without giving me any way to establish my own membership in the Cherokee tribe, and it’s something I’ve been bereaved about on more than one occasion. I’m 62 now, and I’ve still never found a place where I felt, for myself, where I felt I *fit.* And perhaps more than anything, after 40 years of working on this puzzle, I’ve come to understand that tracking back to one’s immediate progenitors is one piece, but finding a connection, valid, authentic, and appropriate, to the larger culture one has been estranged from, through no fault of one’s one, is a much larger piece…

    I have very much resonance with your story, and am so grateful for having literally stumbled into finding it. I know that ambiguity of which you speak, and I have felt its pain, and like you, I’d like to find an authentic way to reside with it.

    Reply
    1. JMPierce Post author

      I’m so glad, Julianne, for your story as well. The questions that arise through the long history of Indian adoption are never easy, never quite resolved, and I’m not sure if there is a way to make us ‘whole’ after such a process, only that it is ‘a process’ and that we can confront it with some sense of truth and value by being more open about what it means to be in-process. Wado!

      Reply
  5. Sarah McArthur

    An excellent read. I and my ancestors were / are products of forced acculturation. The Indian Residential schools and the various forced Gov’t legislative laws which were written to force the assimilation process. It is a difficult recovery for ones sense of self. It can be done with biological support and Spiritual Ceremonies. Love your story.

    Reply
  6. debbiereese

    Reblogged this on Blogging@SJSU and commented:
    I appreciate and value what Pierce saying all that he says, here, in ths post about identity (I do not know him personally).

    Reply
  7. Pingback: In Search of an Authentic Indian: Notes on the Self | A Hidden Generation

  8. Karen Poremski

    Beautifully written, and so honest. Thank you for sharing this essay.

    A reading recommendation in case you’re interested: Diane Wilson’s Spirit Car, about uncovering the stories & histories of her Dakota ancestors (whose past had been hidden from her). (I hope I’m remembering it right; it’s been a few years since I read it… 🙂 )

    Reply
  9. Pingback: July 7th readings  | diasporic netty weirdity

  10. Michael Carrasco

    This is a wonderfully thought provoking essay about issues that parallel my own experience. It really dissolves many of the vexing racial/ethnic/cultural categories from which we as a society can’t seem to escape and that have haunted and propelled my life in no small part. Thank you.

    Reply
  11. Lisa Alvarez

    My experience is/was different (of course) but yours resonates in ways that helps me further understand mine – especially this:. “…the way in which my racial ambiguity has played out over the course of my life has been highly informed by context, by language, by desire, by the way I imagined (myself) and was imagined (by others). The question of ambiguity is crucial in all of this because it speaks to a longer history of how racialized subjects are interpellated by the textures of ethnic identification…. What might an authentic approach to racial ambiguity look like?…What I want to revisit here are the moments when I was misidentified as part of that family. I remember the strangeness. I remember the desire to be the thing that other people thought I was. I remember the desire to embody that which I imagined I was. But I didn’t know. I didn’t have a term for what my body meant…The thing is that my body has a history that began long before me. My present—all of our presents—is imbued with the past, even if we do not know that past. The past doesn’t simply dissolve because we don’t know it. But what do we do in the face of this historicity? What do we do when we want to know what we are, but we do not have the ability to say?”

    Many thanks.

    Reply
  12. Beth Laraway miner

    I thoroughly enjoyed reading about your journey. I too have struggled with this as my mother who is 1/2 French 1/2 German and my father who is 1/2 Odawa and 1/2 Hoppa valley Indian. I’m actually the lightest skinned of my family. I have two daughters one is dark one is very light. This happened to one of my sisters and a brother ( having a very white child) I jokingly always said I looked like the neigh i kid that sat in on the family photos but I’m reality it was painful and although I have my fathers features I spent most of my life wondering if I was really his. I am listed as northern Native American on my social security card but not on my birth certificate. After my fathers death I did some hunting I found my grandmother on a census just for Indians they were not allowed on the census for whites and blacks I took this to an Indian agency and am waiting for my card. 56 years old this was a long time coming. I appreciate you for sharing your story. Thank you. Beth Laraway Miner

    Reply
  13. Canek

    Thank you for writing this. This stowmey reminds me own and it makes me optimistic that I will begin to meet other Natives I can relate my story with. Identity politics are uhard to navigate as a Native and this story helps me with my own identity.

    Reply
  14. T

    Great job… when I introduced myself… I always do it against many folks who claim that they are from the deer clan and bitterwater clans, etc… I state that my culture was spiritually raped and culturally castrated and that I had to assume my colonizer’s last name. Therefore I don’t know who my ancestors are…. but I know what I feel…. and that I know longer want to perpetuate their legacy…

    Reply
  15. Daniel Elsrode

    Thank you for the excellent read Mr. Pierce, it touched me in ways that very few could understand. I am 47 years old and found out 3 years ago that I was adopted at birth (black market adoption) . My parents that raised me were both white, blonde haired blue eyed Germans, they divorced when I was 3. Both families were from mid Missouri, so needless to say I stuck out like a sore thumb, as I, like you, tend to get very dark in the summer. Of course as I got older the more questions I had about how I looked, so my adoptive Mother decided to tell me the story that my father was Mexican and that she had an affair with him while they were separated, she was all too willing to tell me that he was not my father but left out the part about me not being hers, biologically that is. So moving ahead about 20 years, she passed away and swore my older sisters( adopted) to secrecy. Her family urged them to tell me but they kept the secret and life went on. Moving ahead about another 20 years and 2 divorces later, I met a woman whose grandparents were full blood Creek and Ottawa Indian and fully embraced her heritage. Upon meeting her Grandfather for the first time, he told her that I was American Indian and I was lying if I said different, and if I couldn’t be proud of my heritage then she should stop dating me. Fortunately for both of us she didn’t take his advice. So here I am in Tulsa Ok. at my first Pow Wow and this man probably 70-80 years old came up to me and we started talking and he asked from which tribe I was from, I explained that I was German/Mexican, he smiled and nodded and proceeded to introduce to his wife and family, at the end of our conversation he politely touched both side of my face, with a tear in his eye and said ” you don’t even know who you are do you? You will my boy, you will”. I’ll never forget him or his words to me that day. I spoke to my wife about it that evening and she told me more about what her grandparents told her, obviously I had a lot of inner turmoil after this. So we felt it was time for a DNA test, what a surprise, 52% Spanish, 39% American Indian, with small segments of East Asian and North African. My American Indian DNA is speculated to be from New Mexico and West Texas. So of course I start making phone calls and one of my adoptive Aunts tells me the whole truth about the adoption. So we decide to see if we could find my birth Mother through DNA, as it was a black market adoption we had 0 to go on. With my wife’s determination and they help of many cousins we found through DNA, it took us about 2 years to find her. I have 3 half sisters and they all knew about me, so off we go to Denver to meet my Mother and sisters, then to Wyoming to meet some family there. My many Uncles and Aunts did not know but my Grandmother did and they didn’t even question that I was there nephew. A couple of weeks after the Denver trip, off to Amarillo Tx we go to meet Nana and my family there. I was told a story by me Aunt, she called me the lost sheep, because every Christmas Nana would end the prayer by asking the he bring the lost sheep home, I looked her as I was crying like a baby and said “Nana I’m home!!”

    Reply
    1. JMPierce Post author

      Wow. Daniel, That is such a moving story. And exactly why we need to have these conversations about adoption, its legacy, and what happens to misidentified individuals. Thank you!

      Reply
  16. xuxmexa

    Great article!! I can relate, in a way. The US has me listed as 1/4 Chitimacha, but I also have English, Irish, French, German & Choctaw heritage. I’ve definitely been asked the ever-annoying question, “What are you?”…….First off, I’m simply me, that’s who, but it’s always great fun to reply “Human, what are you?” Thank you for writing & sharing this. Blessings & health to you & your loved ones.

    Reply
  17. ZzTish

    Wonderful article and comments. My dad is also adopted. I’m not completely sure as of yet who we are because so far I haven’t been able to find my great grandmothers parents. You have given me hope. Thank you Mr. Pierce!

    Reply

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