In public, grandfather always told us to tell the truth. But deep in the forest he told us otherwise. The truth of our heritage was whispered in shamed silence, our  looming extinction burned into our brains should we ever reveal this truth. Hidden deep within our veins, a lie we even told to ourselves. And grew to believe. Both sides for 3 generations interbreeding to dilute out all physical trace.
Grandfather reminded us that in public we’re white, only white,  British, Scottish, or Irish. Whatever you want to tell them, but never anything else. Generations of knowledge rushed into walks in the forest, then erased from the day to day. Grandfather told us his mother did the same,  afraid of her husband’s reaction to teaching his children this “nonesense”. “Civilizing” her to live in the white world, so that she was acceptable in “good” company. Destroying all signs of her legacy.
Grandfather would cry if he heard this poem, fear rising in his tears. The label indigenous,  his legacy a stain he wants so desperately erased from our future. A legacy he worked so hard to erase so that we could have a chance. A legacy he told us would leave us feckless and isolated. That unless we hide it, “they” would come to get us, eventually. This ever lurking “they” who always wanted to quantify and register our existence so they could more easily verify their slaughter.
And so most my life I was white, not just the shell, but deep into my core. Struggling to find an identity within a community that terrified me. That I was sure would find out my fraud and exclude me, extinguish me. Ashamed to explore the side of me I felt most connected to.
So I didn’t.
But now I feel that Grandfather’s biggest lie to us was that we have to hide. It was only for our protection. A loving chance that certainly privileged my existence. But Grandfather and Great-Grandmother gave us the best truth they could give us, hushed away in the trust of the trees. They didn’t believe that they should just assimilate. They wanted us to know the truth and passed it on to us so we could find who we are.
In my thirties, still unsure of my exact heritage, a reconnection with elders simplified my existence. The names Grandfather never uttered in their natural tongue in my presence now on the tip of my tongue. My recollections from Grandfather and all my other kin, were easily identifiable to their listened ears. They invited me into their knowledge and gave me a sacred gift to recieve more. And I weeped a great sigh of relief in the comfort of their loving arms and gave my prayer to the sacred fire.  I had finally found my way home.