What To Call Us?

"American Indian" or "Native American"

Many people are unsure how to refer to the original inhabitants of North American "American Indian" versus "Native American". Some prefer American Indian as it identifies them as Americans and Indian people.  Some prefer Native American because it describes their “original” status in this land, but many feel this comes from higher education through Native American Studies.  Still others use Indigenous, aboriginal.  Most preferably is to simply use the name of the Tribe they identify with.  A good way of not stepping on too many toes is ask people you are working with how they prefer to be described and use the terms they give you. If people within a group do not agree on a preference, try to use the one most often used within the group.  The term Indian by itself is used only in informal situations. 

Me, I am Karuk áraaraha upriver person from the villages of Katimeen and also from Butlers Flat

The Cherokee Syndrome

http://www.dailyyonder.com/cherokee-syndrome/2011/02/08/3170

Why do so many people want to claim Native American ancestry (making the Cherokee the most prolific ethnic group in the world)?

By Mary Annette Pember

via Squidoo

Paperdoll costume for an Ojibwe dancer: fold the tabs for a new identity

Although the groundhog saw his shadow hereabouts, winter continues to have a strong hold on the Ohio Valley. Folks have sort of hunkered down, waiting for the cold to break. It’s time for a little controversial discussion to get our blood heated up so I am offering up the topic of American Indian identity, a real tinderbox of emotion. 

Folks I would not consider Indian seem to love to claim American Indian ancestry. The tribe of choice is usually Cherokee and the alleged ancestor, inevitably, a great grandmother who had “coal black hair.” (I like to joke that every third person here has a Cherokee great grandmother.) 

It has gotten so that when strangers ask me if I’m Indian I am sorely tempted to answer, “Que?” and shake my head in misunderstanding. 

It doesn’t matter that I explain I’m not Cherokee, that Ojibwe speak an entirely different language and have our own unique culture and spirituality. I can’t count the number of times I have been cornered by well meaning folk who seem hell bent on telling me everything they know about Cherokee -- the universal Indians, in their minds. Breathlessly, they pour out their knowledge to me, knowledge that has usually been gleaned from history books written by non-Indians, New Age books, the Internet and similar sources. I work hard to keep a non-judgmental expression on my face because these folks are excited; they are driven and emotional, often working themselves up into tears. They’ve been to a powwow. They tell me they are, “Indian in their hearts,” and want a hug. I’ve gotten pretty good at making slick getaways from such situations, but continue to be mystified and amazed by  “The Cherokee Syndrome.”

Some people are desperate to prove their Cherokee ancestry, and in the entrepreneurial spirit of America, businesses are emerging that cater to this demand. A recent story in the Tahlequah Daily Press describes a new Cherokee DNA service.

Why do people want to claim Indian ancestry over, say, African-American ancestry? Given the history of this region that straddles the Mason-Dixon line, I imagine it’s far more likely that white folks hereabouts have African ancestry. But I guess there’s not as much cachet in claiming that a white slave owner raped your great grandma. 

Given the wide-ranging and large numbers of claims to Cherokee ancestry, this  would certainly have to be the most prolific ethnic group in the history of the world.
 

Why are people are so anxious to claim Indian ancestry? I’ve asked this of myself and many others. Dr. Venida Chenault, a member of the Prairie Band Pottawatomie who works at Haskell Indian Nations University, gave my favorite response. “Well, we are pretty cool people,” she said.

The romanticized Hollywood image of the noble savage, in tune with nature and righteously defending his people against the onslaught of greedy Europeans has fed the desire to claim connection. For most “claimers,” the bond is with a safely distant past, unaware of the contemporary state of Indian Country and its continuing struggles with the U.S. government. Jack Hitt describes this trend as “ethnic shopping” in his excellent piece in the New York Times; he observes “The Newest Indians” are simply people who don alternative identities that they find more interesting or personally comfortable. 

In the ultimate embodiment of American consumerism, one can simply purchase a new self.

There is also a sort of rural myth that American Indians get money and scholarships. A non-Indian woman I interviewed near the Rosebud Sioux reservation in South Dakota, said, “They all get checks you know.”
 
“All people who are a ¼ Indian or more receive checks from the government," Bertie told me, nodding sagely.

Dang, I missed out again!

I explained that although I am half Ojibwe I have never received any check from the federal government for being Indian. “Oh, well you Ojibwe are so much more industrious,” she said, flustered.  

A few years ago, I wrote a story about those in higher education who may be falsely claiming Indian identity.  Dr. Grayson Noley, (Choctaw), department chair of the College of Education at the University of Oklahoma said, “If you have to search for proof of your heritage, it probably isn’t there.”

I noted a couple of famous cases of professors whose heritage has been called into question including Ward Churchill and Terry Tafoya. 
University of Colorado professor Ward Churchill’s ethnicity has been questioned by the news media and many Indian leaders. The ethnic studies professor came under intense public scrutiny after he called some victims of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks “little Eichmanns.” 

The Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News did extensive research into his genealogy and concluded that his claims of Native ancestry are based on family lore and unsupported by fact. He has claimed at various times to be of Creek, Cherokee, Metis and Muscogee heritage.



An investigation by the Seattle Post Intelligencer found that Terry Tafoya, a nationally known psychologist who made his Native heritage a large part of his public persona, was neither a member of the Warm Springs Tribe of Oregon nor an enrolled member of the Taos Pueblo as he claimed. Tafoya formerly was a psychology professor at The Evergreen State College and sat on the board of the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex, Gender and Reproduction at Indiana University. The Seattle paper also reported that Tafoya admitted in a legal deposition that he never earned a doctorate from the University of Washington, credentials that helped propel his career. The newspaper report prompted a criminal investigation to determine if Tafoya had violated a Washington law banning the use of false academic credentials.

Comparing the number of American Indians reported by the U. S. Census versus reports of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, an interesting disparity emerges. 
According to the Census, which records those who self-identify as American Indians, there are 4.9 million Indians in the U. S.

The Bureau of Indian Affairs, which records the number of people who are enrolled in federally recognized tribes, reports that there are 1.9 million American Indians in the U.S.

So who is an Indian? I predict that this question will light up our message board here at the Yonder. Some say being Indian means being recognized by the tribal community as a member. Some say it means being enrolled in a tribe -- essentially the same thing since all tribes determine their own rules for enrollment. (Some tribes accept proof of descendency from those on the original rolls created when the U.S. government began taking our land, while others require proof of at least 1.4 blood quantum; there is a wide spectrum.) Some will say it means knowing your tribal language, culture, relatives and place in the universe and doing so with humility. Many would say that those who advertise themselves as “healers,” “medicine people,” “prophets” or “teachers of Indian ways, ‘’ are surely not Indian.

I know what my old Mom would say. She would say you’re not Indian unless white people have treated you like shit for being Indian.


I have my own theories about why people want to claim to be Indian. I think people are desperately looking for a sense of place and connection. As human beings, we need to have a connection to the earth, to place and ultimately to each other.  Unfortunately, the only way some folks know how to find or get something is to buy it and own it as quickly as possible. Since Indians are widely believed to have an almost magical connection with nature, why not just claim to be Indian and legitimize the claim by purchasing a DNA test? It’s silly and kind of sad. 

All in all, being Indian doesn’t really get you very much in this country. There are neither fat monthly checks nor assurances of quality healthcare, education or jobs. For me, however, being Indian has given me a roadmap for my life. My culture has helped me navigate the pitfalls of an American consumer society that judges folks on what they own and what they do for a living versus how they live and treat each other. My culture has also helped instill me with gratitude for the gift of an ordinary day of life on this magnificent earth. I think those are philosophies that anyone, Indian or not, can embrace.

By Shana Cozad

October 5, 2012

I recently had one of the worst possible scares. Ok, perhaps not THE WORST, but it felt like it at the time. My Virus came back, also known as having a detectable viral load. This meant that either one or more of my medications failed and was no longer working. The fear behind that is "what if they all failed and I'm resistant to everything?! What then? What are my options if there are none left?"

This leads to the big "D" word, not so fondly spoken of, Death.

I don't want to die. I still don't. I never did. Even amid my bluster and rage during my formative teen years I never really MEANT to say that I wish to be dead, and then my thinking was death is the so-called easy way out. Yet, with this HIV disease, death has a way of showing up as a friendly or non-friendly reminder but most importantly when you are not ready. You see, facing one's imminent demise is ONE thing when you are feeling great, healthy, sitting on a beach, sipping a Margarita. It's a WHOLE other ball of last year's chocolate when you're in the hospital and your team of Doctors thinks you're not going to make it. They shake their heads, furrow deep scowls on their faces as they examine the notes in the chart. They walk out of the room yet not out of earshot and say things such as "I don't know if she's going to pull through this one. I'd be really surprised if she did." Thanks for the encouragement, gentlemen.

So Death has a way of getting in your face. Like, "Hi!" in your face. It's awkward, to say the least. And seriously, I can't say this enough, it never comes at a time when you are fully ready. So ready or not, one must face the daunting issue.

I view death like a peopley- type-person. Not like the Grim Reaper or anything, that's just kind of whack. I view it just as a person. I imagine it like a tired and uninspired middle-aged woman who works for the IRS and deals with the "complaint-line" all day long. Death, rather "she," has a job to do and she just wants to DO IT ALREADY. That's all there is to it. She is going to come for you one day. She's even going to wear really bad ugly shoes! So that day will happen for all of us. Sure, we don't know the specifics of the how and when, but we are absolutely guaranteed it will happen. Yep, guaranteed. I have never met a person that escaped her grasp, have you? Alright then.

So I told Miss Death I was missing some forms to file first and could not go with her. She looked down her nose at me like she had heard it a thousand trillion times already. I said I was SURE my files (also known as "my bucket list") were still outstanding and that I wasn't due to "go" until those items were completed. I quickly mentioned it would also take me decades. I shut my eyes and ignored her stare. I wrangled up images in my mind of the things I still wanted to do: love my family first and foremost; learn how to cook Kobe beef; see all of Asia; learn Spanish, Japanese; swim with dolphins somewhere; fall asleep in 1,000 different beautiful places around the world; read the encyclopedia; see/meet my biological grandchildren; teach at a College; learn to weave; and learn how to stop being afraid and angry. I could add more. But I truly believe that my fears and anger really trip me up and keep me down when I could be striving to be a better me. It isn't that I want to waste my own time. I don't. I just got very used to being angry and being afraid early in life. I didn't realize there were other options till I was in my 40's. Those people who said "happiness is a choice," never made sense to me.

When I opened my eyes she was gone.

I felt overcome by sadness. I was relieved and happy at the same time. What does one miss when they are forced to give up this body of theirs? They miss love. I thought about my son. My love for him filled my chest. The tears welled in my eyes and quietly ran down my cheeks. He was the first person I loved as DEEPLY and PERMANENTLY as I ever loved. I had loved my parents, sort of, loved boyfriends, sort of, pledged my undying love to various people, sort of … but a love for MY child was/is forever unmatched. I thought about how he looked into my eyes. I thought about how I loved his hugs. I thought about the way at age 4, when he said "I love you mommy," with no hidden agendas, no secrets, no ulterior motive, he just did. He loved me. I was never sure with other people. But I was sure with him.

It is sadness that makes death feel urgently scary. I can be honest; I only wanted more of my son's love. I wasn't done loving him. I don't need a huge house, a fancy car, and I didn't even really need anything on my bucket list EXCEPT FOR the part about loving my family. I could live in a void in a dark corner of the universe somewhere and as long as I had my son I would be OK. I knew this was true as I knew the sun rises every day. It was truth. It was the essence of my being. Love made death go away.

I fought the infections. They were like mini-wars I waged in my body; complete with the sounds of clanking swords, arrows whizzing through the air, women and children running and screaming. War is as war. And one must out-think, out-strategize, out-maneuver their enemy at all costs. I took pills by the handfuls, I was doused with IV antibiotics, I was in and out of Hospitals, I ate organic clean foods, I added supplements, I added Chinese medicine, I saw Reiki workers, energy healers, Chiropractors; you name it, I added another front line attack to get my body back.

The real medicine came unexpectedly then. It can't be defined as just Native American medicine only, it's fairly Universal. I discovered there was medicine in silence. In the silence I envisioned myself as healthy, beaming with energy and smiling from ear to ear. I could leap, run, skip and do cartwheels. I envisioned my son older each time. The silence became part of my daily practice. The images eventually had sounds; I could hear my own laughter. I could hear my son's voice. It felt real. It looked real. So I decided it needed to be real. I believed in the image of Health. I believed in the image of wellness and happiness.

Slowly and surely, with each near-death infection I got through it and got better. I got to say hello to death. And then I bid her adieu.

So back to my recent scare with the return of my virus. I found myself flooded with old powerful, body-halting fears. I found myself stuck in a corner crying. I found myself watching in the rear view mirror for the image of Miss Death sitting in the back seat. I worked myself up into a tizzy. My throat became sore and my lymph nodes became massive. I had forgotten. I had forgotten what my commitment was. I had forgotten what really mattered. Somewhere in the getting better and getting busy with life, I had gotten married, had two more kids and made a career out of HIV Prevention education. Yet somehow I was not listening to my own story of survival. I had lost myself somewhere along the way.

Revisiting "square one" is annoying. In fact, it's infuriating. I was angry at myself for even feeling "powerless." I could not understand where my power went! I drove myself in circles. I over-thought. I over-felt. I over-worried and obsessed. Then, in a counseling session right on my edge of cracking, my therapist reminded me of who I used to be and who I no longer was. I had forgotten all about silence. I had forgotten about my images of a healthy me. I had forgotten about holding onto Love first and foremost. I was worrying about silly things like: how will my husband tend to the laundry if I'm gone, what will they eat because his cooking skills are limited at best, who will do homework with my girls, and who will let the dogs out to pee during the day???

My, my, my, I had turned into a domestic goddess yet lost my whole purpose. I was stunned. So I uttered the words again, "I am not ready to die." I cried and cried. I felt my heart flood again. This time I have a grown son, gorgeous and a shining star in my eyes, always. I have two beautiful healthy daughters, 11 and 9. I have a loving husband who stands beside me and loves giving me hugs. I adopted my 14-year-old pregnant niece and now have the love of her and her baby girl in my world. I have dear and loving friends all around me. I have a loving relationship with my long lost biological brother. I have tons of love!! I was overwhelmed the more I asked myself "who could possibly love me?" I even have Facebook love!! And oh, the people I love back. I LOVE my family! I love my friends! I love my HIV community! I love my Doctor. I love so much, so many; my heart is full and overflowing. Love in silence was my answer.

I can see the images again now. This time I get to be much older, gray beautiful long hair, smile wrinkles from years of laughter. I won't do cartwheels in my 60's, but I will clap and bounce for joy as I watch my grandchildren do them. Getting older is an option that refers to time spent on this planet and in your body; I intend to do it and get BETTER. So for now, I have my new meds to take. I re-test next month. I am optimistic they are doing just fine because the pain in my throat has gone, my lymph nodes are no longer swollen and I have returned to being determinedly in-love with my life.

If Miss Death had any intentions of paying me a visit today or tomorrow she would have to deal with a defiant, unruly, and vigilant "me."

Shana Cozad

Shana Cozad is a full-blooded Native American enrolled with The Kiowa Tribe of Oklahoma. She is also of Caddo, Delaware and a smidgen of French decent. Shana has been a noted, recognized public speaker, HIV/AIDS prevention educator and CTR counselor since 1994. Shana has spoken at numerous schools, universities, AIDS memorials, AIDS Walks and World AIDS Day events. Highlights includePOZ Magazine, Keynoting for the 3rd Annual Circle of Harmony Conference and (Keynote for) the Mississippi State Department of Health HIV/STD Service DIS Conference and Update. Shana's story is also among the women's voices in River Huston's book A Positive Life. Shana is currently married to a wonderful lawyer and together they are raising three children in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Terry Beckwith: Is Indian Country ready for termination?

The Cherokee Syndrome

http://www.dailyyonder.com/cherokee-syndrome/2011/02/08/3170

Why do so many people want to claim Native American ancestry (making the Cherokee the most prolific ethnic group in the world)?

By Mary Annette Pember

via Squidoo

Paperdoll costume for an Ojibwe dancer: fold the tabs for a new identity

Although the groundhog saw his shadow hereabouts, winter continues to have a strong hold on the Ohio Valley. Folks have sort of hunkered down, waiting for the cold to break. It’s time for a little controversial discussion to get our blood heated up so I am offering up the topic of American Indian identity, a real tinderbox of emotion. 

Folks I would not consider Indian seem to love to claim American Indian ancestry. The tribe of choice is usually Cherokee and the alleged ancestor, inevitably, a great grandmother who had “coal black hair.” (I like to joke that every third person here has a Cherokee great grandmother.) 

It has gotten so that when strangers ask me if I’m Indian I am sorely tempted to answer, “Que?” and shake my head in misunderstanding. 

It doesn’t matter that I explain I’m not Cherokee, that Ojibwe speak an entirely different language and have our own unique culture and spirituality. I can’t count the number of times I have been cornered by well meaning folk who seem hell bent on telling me everything they know about Cherokee -- the universal Indians, in their minds. Breathlessly, they pour out their knowledge to me, knowledge that has usually been gleaned from history books written by non-Indians, New Age books, the Internet and similar sources. I work hard to keep a non-judgmental expression on my face because these folks are excited; they are driven and emotional, often working themselves up into tears. They’ve been to a powwow. They tell me they are, “Indian in their hearts,” and want a hug. I’ve gotten pretty good at making slick getaways from such situations, but continue to be mystified and amazed by  “The Cherokee Syndrome.”

Some people are desperate to prove their Cherokee ancestry, and in the entrepreneurial spirit of America, businesses are emerging that cater to this demand. A recent story in the Tahlequah Daily Press describes a new Cherokee DNA service.

Why do people want to claim Indian ancestry over, say, African-American ancestry? Given the history of this region that straddles the Mason-Dixon line, I imagine it’s far more likely that white folks hereabouts have African ancestry. But I guess there’s not as much cachet in claiming that a white slave owner raped your great grandma. 

Given the wide-ranging and large numbers of claims to Cherokee ancestry, this  would certainly have to be the most prolific ethnic group in the history of the world.
 

via Squidoo

Hair roach, Ojibwe paperdoll

Why are people are so anxious to claim Indian ancestry? I’ve asked this of myself and many others. Dr. Venida Chenault, a member of the Prairie Band Pottawatomie who works at Haskell Indian Nations University, gave my favorite response. “Well, we are pretty cool people,” she said.

The romanticized Hollywood image of the noble savage, in tune with nature and righteously defending his people against the onslaught of greedy Europeans has fed the desire to claim connection. For most “claimers,” the bond is with a safely distant past, unaware of the contemporary state of Indian Country and its continuing struggles with the U.S. government. Jack Hitt describes this trend as “ethnic shopping” in his excellent piece in the New York Times; he observes “The Newest Indians” are simply people who don alternative identities that they find more interesting or personally comfortable. 

In the ultimate embodiment of American consumerism, one can simply purchase a new self.

There is also a sort of rural myth that American Indians get money and scholarships. A non-Indian woman I interviewed near the Rosebud Sioux reservation in South Dakota, said, “They all get checks you know.”
 
“All people who are a ¼ Indian or more receive checks from the government," Bertie told me, nodding sagely.

Dang, I missed out again!

I explained that although I am half Ojibwe I have never received any check from the federal government for being Indian. “Oh, well you Ojibwe are so much more industrious,” she said, flustered.  

A few years ago, I wrote a story about those in higher education who may be falsely claiming Indian identity.  Dr. Grayson Noley, (Choctaw), department chair of the College of Education at the University of Oklahoma said, “If you have to search for proof of your heritage, it probably isn’t there.”

I noted a couple of famous cases of professors whose heritage has been called into question including Ward Churchill and Terry Tafoya. 
University of Colorado professor Ward Churchill’s ethnicity has been questioned by the news media and many Indian leaders. The ethnic studies professor came under intense public scrutiny after he called some victims of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks “little Eichmanns.” 

The Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News did extensive research into his genealogy and concluded that his claims of Native ancestry are based on family lore and unsupported by fact. He has claimed at various times to be of Creek, Cherokee, Metis and Muscogee heritage.

via Squidoo

Choctaw girl's costume



An investigation by the Seattle Post Intelligencer found that Terry Tafoya, a nationally known psychologist who made his Native heritage a large part of his public persona, was neither a member of the Warm Springs Tribe of Oregon nor an enrolled member of the Taos Pueblo as he claimed. Tafoya formerly was a psychology professor at The Evergreen State College and sat on the board of the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex, Gender and Reproduction at Indiana University. The Seattle paper also reported that Tafoya admitted in a legal deposition that he never earned a doctorate from the University of Washington, credentials that helped propel his career. The newspaper report prompted a criminal investigation to determine if Tafoya had violated a Washington law banning the use of false academic credentials.

Comparing the number of American Indians reported by the U. S. Census versus reports of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, an interesting disparity emerges. 
According to the Census, which records those who self-identify as American Indians, there are 4.9 million Indians in the U. S.

The Bureau of Indian Affairs, which records the number of people who are enrolled in federally recognized tribes, reports that there are 1.9 million American Indians in the U.S.

So who is an Indian? I predict that this question will light up our message board here at the Yonder. Some say being Indian means being recognized by the tribal community as a member. Some say it means being enrolled in a tribe -- essentially the same thing since all tribes determine their own rules for enrollment. (Some tribes accept proof of descendency from those on the original rolls created when the U.S. government began taking our land, while others require proof of at least 1.4 blood quantum; there is a wide spectrum.) Some will say it means knowing your tribal language, culture, relatives and place in the universe and doing so with humility. Many would say that those who advertise themselves as “healers,” “medicine people,” “prophets” or “teachers of Indian ways, ‘’ are surely not Indian.

I know what my old Mom would say. She would say you’re not Indian unless white people have treated you like shit for being Indian.


via Squidoo

Iroqois headpiece

I have my own theories about why people want to claim to be Indian. I think people are desperately looking for a sense of place and connection. As human beings, we need to have a connection to the earth, to place and ultimately to each other.  Unfortunately, the only way some folks know how to find or get something is to buy it and own it as quickly as possible. Since Indians are widely believed to have an almost magical connection with nature, why not just claim to be Indian and legitimize the claim by purchasing a DNA test? It’s silly and kind of sad. 

All in all, being Indian doesn’t really get you very much in this country. There are neither fat monthly checks nor assurances of quality healthcare, education or jobs. For me, however, being Indian has given me a roadmap for my life. My culture has helped me navigate the pitfalls of an American consumer society that judges folks on what they own and what they do for a living versus how they live and treat each other. My culture has also helped instill me with gratitude for the gift of an ordinary day of life on this magnificent earth. I think those are philosophies that anyone, Indian or not, can embrace.

"This is my life.  I do not have any control over the pain and brutality of living the life of a dispossessed person.  I cannot control when that pain and brutality is going to enter into my life.  I have settled with having to deal with racism, pure and simple.  But, I was not ready to have my pain appropriated.  I am pretty possessive about my pain.  It is my pain.  I worked hard for it.  Some days it is all I have.  Some days it is the only thing I can feel.  Do not try to take that away from me too." --Patricia Monture, First Nations--Canada