I am mixed. It’s not like it’s a secret. I am a mixed-race, mixed-blood, hybrid, mud blood, halfbreed; these things I know to be true. The thing is, I know my identity. I am accepted by my community, yet when I tell folks, especially non-Native folks, I get one of two reactions:
- “Really? But like, how much Indian are you? Like what fraction of your blood is Native?”
- They lean in really close, like they’re going to tell me a secret. They cock their head to the left and squint their eyes like they’re searching each line in my face, each pore, each chicken pox scar for some trace of their cigar shop Indian. It’s like, somewhere hidden in my features their untamed savage is hiding: maybe it’s behind my eyes, or maybe its somewhere in the space between my cheek bone and my jawline. When they’re done searching for hidden Indigenous clues, they always pull back, smile, and say, “yeah I can kind of see it! Look at your cheeks!”
It’s not the act itself that bothers me, as a light skinned, white passing, Indigenous individual, I get it. But it’s the fact that people assume that because I am mixed that I am less of an individual, that now, my parts don’t make a whole and each aspect of my identity is up for scrutiny. Automatically, I lose sovereignty over my identity and my body because I become a subject to be “made sense of.” Invasive questions about blood and family are deemed okay, because I have become the embodiment of anti-dichotomous reasonings of identity: “but how can you be more than one thing!”
I am not simply Native or White, I am both and I am neither and these aspects of myself and identity are not up for discussion. If my identity is confusing, complicated, or too difficult for you to understand, that is your issue. Try living in the body of a mixed person, when was the last time you heard someone go: “oh you’re German? but how German are you? Like a quarter right?” They say this as they lean in, searching your body for clues of an Oktober Fest beer maiden.
The thing is, our mixed identity is not up for discussion. Full stop. No matter how hard you try and search our faces for the tomahawk wielding Native peoples of your social studies textbook, you still won’t find your answers. Our identities are negotiated between ourselves and our communities, be they urban or traditional. No aspect of our mixedness negates or is evidence of our Indigenous ‘authenticity’, so stop asking if my grandmother is a “full blooded Indian.” Because the Indian you’re searching for doesn’t exist, it isn’t hidden in my DNA or in the epicanthical fold of my eyelid. That embodiment of Western propaganda of how the nation was won isn’t hidden in my body, or any Indigenous person’s body, because the Native person you imagine and want me to be isn’t a person at all: just colonial discourse applied to nameless brown faces in a John Wayne movie.