The Passed Note Issue 1 June 2016 - Page 33

There are days when I am asked my Tribal affiliation. There are days when no one asks at all; I prefer those times of solace.

There are days when I’m told that it’s unnatural for a White girl to be that color this time of year, and there are days I hear, “but you don’t look Native.”

I remember being Brown in a backyard in Detroit. I remember chasing fireflies with my siblings, my mother and father mixing ice cream in the kitchen, coalescing rock salt and cream into one homogenous mixture.

I remember being young and shirtless. I remember when my identity was not yet skin deep.

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