I'm actually European in origin, and my background includes Scottish, English, German and Irish. These are the groups that I know of, though my grandmother was an orphan partially raised in a convent. One side of my family has been here since the Revolutionary War, so I'm sure we've had many contacts with the American Indian. The Scottish side of my family escaped persecution from the English around 1600 or so, so I'm very American and probably very mixed in genealogy.
When I was about twelve years old I met the most wonderful friend. She was very popular and I didn't think she would talk to me. I was wrong and I met her entire family which consisted of Dad and Mom, and a sister. Her mother was Irish and Choctaw (branch of the Cherokee). Myself and my friend would stay together for days, and her sister was often included in our activities. We rode the horses they owned, we travelled the grass-covered hills, and we played games around the kitchen table. Her mom was so fun to be with, as she didn't try to act young but she was very young at heart. She liked to go with us on all of our activities such as bowling, horse shows, and shopping.
My friend's sister was a champion horse back rider. She rode in gymkhana contests, which are western contests, as opposed to English riders' games such as hurdle jumping. In gymkhana, we saw games such as running around three barrels at top speed, and horsemanship with western saddles and bridles. We traveled many places to see these contests. Two of the most interesting places we visited were Pine Valley, in the mountains above San Diego, and Santa Barbara. At Pine Valley we slept outside in sleeping bags in the cold night, while my friend's parents slept in a small trailer they brought with them. In Santa Barbara, my friend's sister won awards for all of Southern California. She was a great horse woman.
My friend and I also rode all the time. Mostly we just roamed the hills. I rode "Snippo", an old gelding, and my friend rode "Cindy", an ex-rodeo horse. Cindy didn't like to be touched anywhere around her flanks and she bucked me off many times. She liked Carol better but she crow-hopped with both of us, jumping up and down on all four legs. She was a beautiful palomino. My friend's sister had a young, expensive quarter horse she used in horse shows. That horse was high-spirited and was only ridden by my friend's sister.
One time we rode out to the hills, abouty 1/2 mile from my friend's home and decided to take the bridles off of the horses. We were riding bareback, without a saddle so we just released the horses from their head gear. What an idea! We even gave them a little swat on the behind not imagining that they would take off for who knows where. We had to slowly find our way back home and face the awful task of telling my friend's father. We told them they got away and he wasn't very mad. But he knew we had taken the bridles off. He found them in the yards of the neighbors who lived above the hills where we often roamed. I've never been so relieved in all my life.
My friend and I attended junior high and high school together. She had a few boyfriends and spent much of her time with them. One was a local Indian boy and they would go dancing at Bostonia Ballroom, where all the cowboys would go. They were great dancers and to this day, my friend is a professional hula dancer. We performed together in choir, a talent show, marching corps and modern dance clnb. She is a natural dancer with light feet and a precise rhythm, while I mostly liked acting and performing. We often planned roller skating routines and skits to perform for friends. Her mother was also a great seamstress and made my clothes as well as my friend's. I was made to feel a part of her family and she treated me like a daughter. This friend and I still communicate and we're both in our late 60's.
Fast forward now to my thirties when I was job searching. I had gone through a divorce and was using my teaching credential to obtain a position either in California or in a nearby state. I heard about jobs on the Indian Reservation, and I applied. After a short wait I was accepted and I hopped in my little volkswagen and took off for the Navajo Indian Reservation. I had to leave my two year old son behind with my ex-husband with hopes of visiting on a regular basis. The trip there was exciting and adventurous. I traveled through the California semi-arid landscape, and through the Arizona desert. I drove through Monument Valley where I saw the strange and haunting rock formations that permeated the landscape.
Living on the Navajo Reservation was culture shock and then some. I moved into a small, wooden frame house, a duplex, with no furniture in it. I did have a mattress and a phone, which I used on a regular basis. But about that phone: I had to learn how to dial it, and how to reach the reservation receptionist. I did learn. Furniture was to be bought by yours truly, so I had to go into Flagstaff to shop. It felt really good to have a regular salary. I liked the students: they had beautiful long black hair and stayed to themselves at first. They were very well-behaved. I think they lived in dormitories, but I didn't visit their homes.
My friends were teachers, several at the elementary school. I made good friends with one and went to a carnival with her. She had a baby with her that might have been Navajo, I just can't remember. This was in about 1977. The women wore long pleated skirts, with velour or silk over-blouses. Most of them wore long beads. They were always very sweet and kind to me. We all ate a good hearty meal at the high school at noon time. This was most helpful because I didn't cook much. I acquired furniture, a bureau, two mattresses and a rocking chair. I brought my record player with me and played my folk songs pretty loudly, but no one complained.
I hiked around the desert and climbed a small hill which was totally sandy. My feet slipped and slipped, but I made it. One day I passed a ranch where about six dogs ran out from the porch as if they were going to attack me. I held my hands out, palms up, a gesture I had learned as a child to use if a dog looked as if it were going to attack. The dogs ran at me to a certain point, then stopped dead in their tracks, snarling and barking all the while. Probably someone from the house had called them, but I was in too much of a panic to hear anything. I was very scared but this didn't keep me from hiking.
I had left a boyfriend, a man somewhat younger than myself, and my son back in San Diego. I decided to go home for Christmas, when it was snowing in the monument desert. I hopped in my little volkswagen, with no heater, and headed for Flagstaff which is about 30 miles (I think) away from the Indian Reservation. Flagstaff is located on the sacred mountain of the Navajo and it was interesting to read their childrens' books about their folklore surrounding this place. My good friend and I also visited the Indian burial grounds which had been, unfortunately plundered for their relics. Even so, we saw the way the ground was dug and terraced, some as long ago as two thousand years, I'm sure.
I took the trip at Christmas and my teacher friends teased me that I probably would not last in my teaching position for more than a couple of months. They had concluded I was one of the short-timers because I was so lonely and wanted to go home when I had been on the reservation only two months. I missed my son terribly, he had stayed with my ex-husband. Driving through the snow with no heater was terrible and I tried to cover myself with blankets as best I could. When I arrived in Flagstaff, the mountain was covered in thick snow. It's a beautiful resort town but It looked like the end of the earth to me. I'm from southern California where the terrain and climate qualify for semi-arrid status.
I flew on a small commuter plane to Phoenix where I continued the flight to San Diego. Christmas was wonderful, and it was a blessing to see my family and boyfriend. When I returned to Phoenix, I hopped the commuter plane again, and this time there was a snowstorm. The plane swayed from side to side probably about a foot in each direction. I couldn't see anything out of the windows and I thought we would go down. No one else seemed concerned, and, sure enough, we arrived at the Holy Mountain, Flagstaff. Surely, God carried me there. I met my boyfriend there and we drove back to the reservation.
Actually, it was my decision to leave the reservation that brought my boyfriend to my assistance. I called in my resignation knowing an Indian lady would take my place, as she was next in line for the job. We piled all my belongings, mostly clothes, into the volkswagen and left the reservation. I left behind my few pieces of furniture, including my book collection, in the house, hoping the Indians could use them. I know they were probably grateful one of their tribe had the job, I hope, and that they had some interesting textbooks for their library or for whomever occupied the dwelling after I left.
Since that time, I had a friend in a teaching program who was training for a counseling position on a reservation near San Diego. She had the name of Wilda Spotted Eagle, and if she reads this, I hope she contacts me. She had beautiful long black hair and wore colorful beads. She was very intelligent and I'm sure she went on to become a counselor. We palled around and I met her children she was raising while attending higher education. She was not judgmental of me about anything and was a great friend.
Gerry also became my friend, as I got into homecare for the elderly and disabled. She was part Florida Indian, probably Seminole or one of the smaller tribes. You couldn't find a better friend than she was. She insisted on cooking for me when I visited her after I had left the homecare job. She made complete meals with the best beans you ever ate. Though she was partially in a wheelchair, she also arranged to show me her best video's. She was always there for me. We were friends for about fifteen years. I lost track of her but I hope she is okay. She was a very faithful and generous friend.
Finally, I met my current room mate in the oddest of circumstances. She was at a Social Services office arranging her mother's healthcare when we started talking about literature, as we waited. She is a poet and quoted some of her poems. At that time I was writing articles, so we had much to share. Janet is part Cherokee and Blackfoot Indian. Her folks are from the backwoods of Indiana, where she often visited when she was a child. She has told me that her relatives survived by accepting and intermarrying with the Europeans.
We have been friends for about twenty years. She shares many stories about her homeland. The Blackfoot tribe were great traders and ruled the northern Mississippi rivers. If a boat wanted to pass, they had to trade with the Blackfoots, according to Janet. Janet looks much like the pictures of Blackfoots I have seen. Most of the Indians I meet here in San Diego are Cherokee as that tribe, a large and dominant one, was forced to march from the Appalachians to Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears. Some Indians died along the way. The land they found was far inferior to their home territory. A friend whom I helped do homecare told me that her mother marched on that trail and met a rancher somewhere in the midwest. They married and had a family.
Janet does beautiful artwork to accompany her poems. She has a natural sense of color that probably comes from her Indian culture. She is able to mix contrasting colors in shapes that enhance her pictures. She is also an intensely practical person who doesn't get anxious over the little things in everyday life. She is very spiritual and is the most generous friend I've ever had. When my neighbor had an estate sale, she picked up a number of antique pieces for me: a hutch, two chairs, a foot rest, linen and clothes. Now that we've become room mates, the hutch has been moved to her house: what goes around comes around. Maybe this is the life circle the Indians often drew in the ground.
I've had nothing but good experiences with my American Indian friends. And best of all, my grand children have some blackfoot Indian in them as my sister-in-law had a Blackfoot great-grandmother. My room mate and my grandson look just a little bit alike, with the same color and shape eyes. I tell her that he's part of her tribe. We have many Cherokee-mixed people in San Diego, as we are located close to Oklahoma. And, of course, we have a majority of people in San Diego mixed with the more southern tribes of Azteca, Tolteca, and Mayan. These are the Mexicans in our population. It is always amazing to me how much they have in common with the American Indian. By the way, it is my understanding that a "mestizo" is a mix of Spanish and American Indian. I have met some of them too.
I'd better research my ancestry; my grandmother was from Phoenix when there was almost nothing there. But the Navajo and Apache Indians had already inhabited that territory before the white man came. Wouldn't it be a surprise to find just a touch of American Indian in my background.
