That’s Funny…You Don’t Look Like An Indian
I celebrated my birthday a while back, and my sister gifted me with an Ancestry.com account. For years, I have been curious about where my family roots sprouted from and who they really are. I knew about the crazy aunts and rowdy cowboys in old Fort Worth, but was interested in the other gray ghosts from the family’s past.
When the kit arrived, I spat into the tube and sent it away. A few weeks later, I received the results via email. It was not what I had expected.
I look like an Indian, and my mother looked Indian, as did my grandmother, who was an American Indian of some importance. She grew up on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma, making Buffalo hide clothing and sleeping in a tepee. She was also more than friends with the famous Chief Quanah Parker. My mother told me that Grandmother and Quanah walked in the misty moonlight by the shores of Lake Minga-Minga more than once. So who is to question that? Ancestry.com, of course. They say I am a full-bore European from bonny Scotland. Not one mention of my Native American genealogy. Furious with the outcome, I call Ancestry and give them a piece of my mind.
I ranted a bit about this and that and how wrong they are. Then, the kind lady told me that Native American heritage is almost impossible to confirm because the tribal councils refuse to comply with DNA testing and release records. She assured me I was an Indian and could go on acting like one if it pleased me. I am better now.
I am pleased to let my family and friends know that I am still related to Belle Starr, Chief Quanah Parker, Chief Grey Squirrel, and Dancing Rain Doe. Our Cherokee heritage is intact, and our war bonnets fly in the wind.
The best part is that as a kid playing cowboys and Indians, I always played Tonto and can now prove I was a real Indian. As Chief Dan George once said, “May the wings of Eagles carry you to a peaceful land full of fat game and cold beer.” Kemosabe.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 