This commentary is by Duane E. Sherwood, a retired nurse and former technical writer. He lives in Winooski and participates in various Abenaki cultural activities. Before moving to Vermont in 2012, he lived in Alaska and was a member of an intertribal Native American powwow drum.
Drawn to a culture not my own.
I’ve been looking for Indians all my life.
Red beard, light-colored skin, no denying
My English and Swedish ancestry.
I’m looking for Real Indians.
The ones who marveled at the tall ships
Arriving in the bay, before European speech
Had ever been heard in Indian ears.
The ones never touched by European disease,
Never hurt by alcohol, never sterilized by force,
Never sent to boarding schools or spat upon.
Real Indians — hard to find these days.
And there begins a debate that never ends,
The argument that nobody will ever win,
And that everyone will always lose:
Who are the Real Indians now?
My Menominee brother illustrates like this:
Turning to an imaginary friend, he says,
“I’m more Indian than you.” Then he laughs.
When Indians fight each other, only the oppressors win.
My brother’s invitation brought me to ceremony
And into the company of my Indian friends.
By their example, they taught me
What it means to be a human being:
Listen quietly, respectfully, and without judging.
Respect elders, respect warriors, respect women.
Respect those who give more to the community
Than they take. Respect the land and water.
Express thanks, in prayer, for the blessings of life.
Be open to the teachings in the natural world.
Share the food, and the work.
Let deeds, silence, and laughter do your talking.
Those are just a few of the things they taught.
A Native woman once told me,
“You’re more Indian than a lot of these guys.”
Indian is an adjective.
An adjective modifies a noun.
My Indian friends have modified me.
I’m still English and Swedish,
And a little more human.
Some angry Indians came to town.
Their words had only the dark fire of anger.
“You’re not real Indians, you’re pretendians.”
Their dark fire is troubling.
Out of respect, I listen with an open heart.
I see a point of view where one could call me pretendian.
Their righteous indignation tugs at my compassion.
I take it in, and doubt myself, doubt my path, doubt it all.
For one pathetic second, I even started to doubt my friends.
I know I’m not an Indian, and have never claimed to be.
But then who is? Are my friends Indian enough?
And who gets to make the call?
Blood quantum is government paperwork.
Tribal enrollment isn’t a lock.
High cheekbones and dark skin are not proof.
And everyone’s been colonized.
It is not for me to judge
Who is a real Indian, and who is not.
I can only walk a path with heart.
On this matter my path is silence.
But one thing I’ve come to understand:
Spirit doesn’t care about skin color.
Or enrollment cards, or AncestryDNA.
Like a gift, it’s what’s inside that counts.
Spirit will help all who try to answer the medicine questions:
Who are you? What do you desire?
My Indian friends taught me this.
I guess that’s Indian enough.
Maybe she is Indian enough
Who teaches authentic traditional crafts.
Maybe he is Indian enough who sings traditional songs
And knows the meaning of the words.
And maybe those who are steeped in Indigenous knowledge,
And those who know the content of ceremony
As well as its form. And those who see all life
As a web of relationships, or listen to trees.
And those seek the wisdom of elders, or learn the language.
And those who tend a three-sisters garden.
And those who can pray with tobacco.
And those who defend the water, land, and justice.
The Indians call it the good, red road.
Anyone who sets their face and heart
In that direction gets my respect.
My heart knows who you are.
All my relations.
