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During my first week of college one student asked me, “you’re Native? I thought we killed all the Natives.” I took a deep breath, kindly told him he was wrong, and walked away. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to be around Native people, to talk about the many awkward situations I faced with someone who understood me. I was alone, and for four years this has been my reality.
I was bashful, intimidated by the world. I was the child who held tightly to my mother’s hand, refusing to take a step on my own. At every powwow, I stood alongside my mother, secretly hopping to the beat of the drums, quickly stopping whenever she looked down at me. The dancers were so beautiful, and so peaceful. I wondered what that felt like. One morning my mother came into my room holding a purple dress with butterflies on it. I guess I wasn’t as sly as I thought I was.
