I’m not a good Indian. I’m not a good Christian. I’m not a good woman.
I’m just me.
I’m an enrolled member of the Oglala Sioux Tribe. My mother is white, and my dad’s mom was white, and we have been mixed blood since right before Wounded Knee happened. I’m not even sure how many of my dad’s kids are enrolled.
Many conservative (bet you didn’t know there was such a thing, huh) Lakota (and I don’t mean Republican) don’t think that you ARE Lakota unless all your bloodlines are traced through the men. Damn. I guess the fact one of my Lakota ancestors was shot at the Little Big Horn doesn’t count for anything. I’m not a ‘real’ Indian, if you’re looking for one, and I’m sure as hell not the last of anything. Sorry, Chase.
I love Jesus and there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thinking about that. But, I’m also not a good Christian. Man, for this I have so many reasons that I can’t even begin to delineate them all. I’m not married to the man I sleep (and live) with. I cuss. Often. I get angry. I would rather play in dirt than sit in a pew. I can’t stand most other Christians. I can’t remember the last time I sat down with my Bible.
I love being a woman. But I’m not a good woman. I don’t love my man more than anything else. I love my children, but with my focus on work, I probably won’t win any mother of the year awards. I’m not a good daughter, and I’m sure I’m a terrible sister. I’m a recovering woman hater. I get angry. I’m not forever nurturing, pot of soup on the stove, never challenge a man sort of woman.
So, I’m sorry to dissapoint so many of you. Recently had the pleasure of a run in with Madville Times, a blog I enjoy until its readers piss me off. Just a reminder that a lot of men out there want the Indians, Christians and women quiet, meek and subservient, so they can figure out what is best for everyone.
Have fun with that.
PS I’m also rather poor. Lowest middle class for sure and that’s only because I don’t live alone and homes with working dads do definitely fare better than single-mom households. However, all my ‘solidarity with the poor’ peeps would be sad to know that I’m a terrible poor person. I hate being poor. I think about money a lot. Sure, I’m not going to make it by selling out the triple-bottom-line I believe in, but I’m not going to lie any more that money isn’t important. Someone has to bring home the organic produce or local market fare, or at least own some dirt to grow this shit in, and NONE of that happens without money.