my husband has a favorite television program that he watches every night on netflix. "hell on wheels," a story of how the trans-continental railroad came into being...albeit highly dramatized. the camp that travels with the railroad is actually called hell on wheels. nice name for a town, huh?
well, i watched a few episodes with him and it's a very well done show, i'll give him that. but today it just got to me. they show these conflicts with the cheyenne tribe in the nebraska territory. i could watch a few episodes of it, and then i just couldn't keep it bottled up any longer. i've been denied all my life.
you see, my grandmother is native american. ojibwa, as far as we know. but i wasn't told that (but you could see it in my grandmother, so why my parents thought they could fool us by telling us she was "black irish" is beyond me) until i was an adult. i was denied my heritage until i was an adult. i was denied the right to know my grandmother, who she really was, until i was grown. and by then it was too late, she died long before i learned my true heritage at age 22.
so this is how i explain the pain i feel when i see movies that depict "indians" as savages. i have a hole in my soul. i don't know who i truly am. i don't feel "grounded." i feel like i'm walking with my feet 1/2 an inch above the ground. and that's because i don't know my true self. i've always been a searcher. i've searched for what was going to make me complete. i've always thought that it was religion, though nothing seems to fit. the closest fit is Islam, but my friends and family are mortified by that revelation. i'm turning into a heathen. i'm turning into a savage. well, guess what folks, i've always been, if you believe hollywood's depiction of indians.
actually, columbus, (don't get me started on him) didn't name us "indians." he called us, "en dios" or "in God." meaning people in God. native people, living of the earth, making their way peacefully, until they had to defend what they had. but according to the US government, during the great migration, we were all savage heathens, that needed to be brought to God through christianity, or we'd all end up perishing and burning in hell. never mind that each tribe has their own religion, that worships the earth, ensures stewardship of the planet and of each other, THIS WAS PROGRESS. and we bloody redskins were standing in the way. the land didn't belong to anyone. the land was of itself. but the government had to lay claim to it, so our ancestors were all pushed on to reservations, in the crappiest lands this country had to offer. but the railroad got build, the indian languages are mostly forgotten, except for a few individuals that are fighting to bring back native languages, thank you for your efforts. the country is a melting pot. so many people claim native heritage. i have a large portion of my heritage as native, but i don't know anything about it.
i really didn't get to know my grandmother, and what i do remember about her was when she was sick before she died. but i've always known we had a special connection. and i know that she's still with me, and SHE is the reason i need to know. i don't know my mother's family at all. i never will. i know a select aunt here or there, but i don't know where anyone is. i don't know how many uncles i still have alive, if any. i know one uncle died when he was just a child. i know of four aunts, my mother is in touch with two of her sisters, i believe. i know of two uncles, one is dead, the other i have no idea. if he isn't, it's probably a miracle that he isn't. i know that alcoholism runs deep in my mother's family, and that her home life wasn't always a happy one. i remember my grandparents house didn't have central heat or indoor plumbing. it wasn't a fun visit when we went to see them, especially during the winter. wood stoves and an outhouse were not creature comforts we "city kids" (a town of 1200, compared to their town of 250 or so) were used to. they had a small farm, in a very small town. i'd help my grandfather collect eggs from the chickens. i can remember picking currants and strawberries in the garden. i can remember my grandfather trying to get me to eat a peanut butter sandwich, but i didn't like peanut butter as a child. i can remember him making oxtail soup, which just kind of grossed me out. i can remember there being a bedroom upstairs, with dolls on a bed, but we were told not to play with them or touch them. i always wondered what the story was behind that, but never had the nerve to ask. what fun is that for a kid?
but most of all, i remember my grandmother's irises. she grew beautiful flowers. whenever i see them, i think of her. and the hole gets a little bigger.
i know we shouldn't wish for things we will never get. we need to live in the moment. but i just wish i had more time with my grandmother. i wish i could have known more about her, her heritage, her life. and not what was dreamt up for us to believe. and i know she's still with me. she's always with me. that's the connection we have. i've heard her in my head telling me it's going to be alright more times than i can imagine. i cannot recall her voice, but when i hear it in my head, i know who it is. she didn't have a special nickname for me or anything, but i can feel her touch on my head, shoulder, just letting me know. and then i know it's okay. it's okay to let go and cry because i have done all i can. and she's reminding me to live in the here and now. i think that's part of the ojibwa spirit that i want so badly to understand.
so i'm grateful for what little time i had my grandmother. she was a force to be reckoned with, from what i have heard. i have always wished for more, but she's here. she's always here. i just hope it will all be okay and i can find that piece of me that's missing. and i can find that peace in me that is missing.
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