So, after finding her biological mother, Marcia found out some details about her biological father. In the course of events, after Marcia was concieved the man went back home to his small town and got married a few months later, just about the time Marcia’s biological mother discovered she was pregnant. She did try to tell the man she was in a family way by calling his house. “Is Mr. X home?” “No.” “Who is this?” “I’m his wife.” What a shock. Marcia, plucky fetus that she was, hung in there.
So now, fifty years later, Marcia wrote a very polite letter to the man, in which she summarized the pertinent details of her conception and enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope he could use to send back her photo.
Soon he called and they had a good conversation. His wife is lovely and he seems to be loosening up.
But, these details are inconsequential.
Marcia is one eighth Cherokee.
A Jewish. Native. American. According to both the Mormons and this Missouri group, she is twice linked back to the Lost Tribes of Israel. She has been oppressed on Europe AND in America. She is prone to drinking problems AND lactose intolerence.
The women at work had a lovely lunch making up Native American names for her. (I think “Farts in cube” was one of them.) Is she a Jewndian? Or a Native Israeli? I had not been having a productive week at work, and I was not happy and smiling until that lunch. Then, to make things better, that afternoon Marcia got promoted. (Big Chief Marcia.)
These past few days I’ve been able to make references to Indian wrestling, scalping, and Kimosabee, but I haven’t even started yet. There’s still Manhattan, wampum, peace pipes, maize, and using all the parts of the buffalo even the brisket. Plus, “How” is a question, so I could say “How” in a heavy Yiddish accent (“How?” she shrugged).* Oh wait! I’ll have to tell her tomorrow she’s limping, and ask if she has a wounded knee.
*I know Native Americans never said “How.” I have to tread lightly on the Jewish issues, I can’t be sensitive to two ethniciites at a time.
9 responses to “Marcia’s Story, Part Two: Now With Even More Hyperbole”
My mom’s family is from Wyoming. As a result we made many trips from Indiana to Wyoming when I was growing up. Always we would stop in South Dakota in the Black Hills and get new cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and a turquoise ring for us kids. I recall being about 5 or so and going into a shop. Inside was a bona fide Indian in full regalia including a sweeping floor length headdress. I stood solemnly in front of him and raised my right hand saying, “How”. He responded with, “Hello”. Turns out he was a college student making summer money.
Everything I knew about Indians I learned from watching The Lone Ranger.
I cringe in retrospect.
As politically incorrect as we are in my office, Native Americans are the one taboo subject. We’ll tell poop stories, NSFW stories, make fun of weddings, funerals, you name it. Maybe it’s because we’re the Feds and we’re afraid they’ll take our land back?
Zayrina – Well, you were five. Amy in StL – Yes, the Feds should only make fun of rich white men.
Ellen, yes you can.
Oops. Strike that. I misread that last statement as “I can’t be INsensitive to two ethnicities at the same time.” To which, of course, I responded.
Oh, and again… nice hyperbole.
Marcia – what hyperbole? Where? I said one-eighth. One-half, that would be hyperbole.
Sensitivity is your middle name.
Hattie – Ha! So not true.