I Am CHICKasaw. .

Creature Comforts Pg. 108-109 -

I live the American dream with the soul of an Indian. They call me one and one thirty eighth degree Chickasaw although I've never encountered any part of my dilution. Only one person in my entire life has said that they recognized my face. He said he couldn't quite place it in all the white that I have going on but there was something familiar about me, nonetheless. He spent two days staring at me, not caring about his intrusion at all. Sometimes he'd tell me to smile just to observe the tendency my skin has to reveal a bone structure that's off the beaten path. Then, on the third day, he was quite pleased with his revelation, "I see it now!" He shouted with much enthusiasm, "You're Indian!" How did he know? Most people don't dig so deep. He said it was my cheekbones that gave me away because he paints Indian faces, mostly beautiful Indian women and although my beauty pales, underneath it's there, according to him. Underneath, everything's there but my life is torn by the flesh that I reside. It's inconceivable to be pure. I've been a White American for way too long. My shackles are incorporated with self inflicted needs and pay stubs, fusing my limbs and putting disgusting food on my plate, crappy, greasy and unnatural food at that. Feed a person like that for too long and she's bound to crack. Frozen, stoned like staring into Medusa's eyes and having it be the last thing you ever do. I'm scared to try, that's all. I'm too tired to cry and sometimes I think about death in a friendly way. . . I have suffered the same fate as my people, just in a typical, white bred sort of way. My home has been raided, ripped apart and my heart has been stolen from me. Afterwards, I'm shunned into the far corners of this existence and remarked to about how lucky I am to have what I have at all. Maybe so. . . but do not step foot onto my trade land or you will be cut by the broken glass embedded in this rich soil. My soul's the only natural ground that I have left, the only resource that I can commune with for the rest of these rootless days. I am harmonious and free with the hours, hoping that it lasts forever. I am diluted but not gone. I have suffered but did no wrong and so I live in the burial grounds of my thoughts. Faith is my alibi and great love is my return. My biggest fear is that when I go, my home will be ripped apart again because you have none of your own. That's why conquering mine makes you feel strong, makes you think that you belong in the presence of my love, my creation, my power and my beliefs. Everyday I wish you well, but I know that you will never hear it. Your acceptance is so small because you'll never admit to your own faults. Never apologize for your greed and never sacrifice to make things right by me. I wish I could forget your phony smiles laced with pathological ridicules. How desperately you cling to what's not your own and when I turn my back, I expect a good stabbing to take place because you think it rids you of contempt. But you kill yourself when you're killing me. You spoil your home when you seek other means to tolerate it. I'm done fighting to keep what nobody can. So, it's time to stand down and let you destroy yourselves first. The damage you've done will continue to live in your sad, cold heart even after I'm gone. But I will go on, forever. It is in my blood. It's what's meant to be. You just can't see it anymore.