Big news, y’all. Big!
In the recent weeks I was informed that I am 1/16th Cherokee indian.
I’ll let that soak in for a minute.
You’re probably thinking the same thing I did initially. Duh! Look at you! Blonde hair. Fair skin. Ginger son. It all makes perfect sense.
I have a lot of questions and a lot of lost time to make up for. For starters, where’s my land? Do I own a casino? Can I legally smoke peyote? And lastly, why am I just now finding out about this?
The answer to the last question falls squarely at the feet of my sweet mother. She apparently just never thought to mention it. I will refrain from pressing this any further considering I am still waiting on her to tell me how babies are made.
That issue pales in comparison (pun intended) to the Native American struggle that has been heaved upon my shoulders at the worst possible time of the year. I’m not going to lie. Columbus Day was hard for me this year. Why in the Hezekial do we dedicate the same number of days (okay, day) to Christopher Columbus that we also dedicate to real heroes like United States Veterans and Martin Luther King, Jr?
Seriously.
If anything, Christopher Columbus should be known for being the first man to get lost and refuse to ask for directions only to land in the wrong place and be like, “Nailed it! I made it here in record time, too because I wouldn’t stop and let anyone go to the bathroom. Now, stop staring at my panty hose and give me all your gold and spices.”
What a douche.
So keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I host Thanksgiving dinner this year because I’ll be wearing the Native American struggle. I’ll be wearing it hard.
Stiyu. (translation: Until we meet again)
Sincerely,
Ayita Doya (translation: First Beaver to Dance)
**Please bear with me as I learn my native language, adjust to my new Cherokee Indian name and stay tuned for my first experience being racially profiled.
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