Mood: Upset .: SomethinInside :.
Listening to: .: India.Arie & Stacy Kent :.
Reading: .: The Black Panthers Speak :.
Watching: .: The Killing Fields :.
And suddenly I realize I am someone.
It is only half sudden, a slow process which has been with me since the first time I arrived on the reservation. When I first looked across the earthen ditch from Noah Einish’s house… seeing Unaam and Washaigin Natawappio… They nodded their heads at me. You look them dead in the eyes, and jerk your head up, all the while holding the gaze. Some liken it to the “male nod” that is common among distant acquaintances of the male sex down here in the states, but the feeling is distinctly different up there. And I nodded back. At that instant, a million things happened, an immediate acceptance and rejection. A sudden realization that I would become Naskapi and that at the same time I would never be truly accepted by them.
And so who am I?
I am a white boy. A son of a Polish family, a son of an Irish family, both on the bottom rungs of the white social ladder. All eight of my great-grandparents had tasted their native soil, giving up their home for the promise of a better life in America. And when they arrived here, they had done their best to melt, as was the custom, into the pot which would embrace them. By the time my parents came around, they spoke nothing of their mother tongue.
And yet I am more than that. I am Naskapi. Raised in three ways; by my parents, by the Naskapi children, and by the Naskapi elders. The children taught me to fight, by beating the snot out of me. Ridiculing me in school, dashing any dreams I had when they dashed my face into the cold gravel outside the playground. They taught me to change, to adapt everything save the very core of me; I could, if I had been able to change the appearance of my face (that’s all that matters in a land where -40 is common) I could have passed off as Montognais or Naskapi. I already had great fun in passing off as Quebecquois whenever I met someone who did not know who I was. The elders taught me how to deal with their children. Lord knows my parents didn’t know what do about that one. The elders taught me what it was like to go out in the bush and listen to the world around you. How to look across a clearing and see 15 invisible ptarmigan hiding in a bush. How to listen to the Creator and how He longs to listen to you. They taught me the corruptions that had caused the problems in their children; they brought me up as their own. And my parents? My parents taught me of God and smacked me when I chameleoned so much I lost my core set of morals, and set me back on track.
And yet I am more than that.
I have discovered I also taught myself. I read thousands of books from my parents’ library, and from the library at school. I became bent on becoming everything I could be. I became entranced with learning, with wisdom, with teaching myself about love, politics, society, philosophy, ethics, morals, scripture. I studied great works of literature. I began modeling myself after protagonists. Tom Swift. Ishmael. King David. Edmond Dantez. King Solomon. Sherlock Holmes. I studied famous people in history, and modeled myself after them. Thomas Edison. Leonardo DaVinci. Walt Disney. Copernicus. India Arie. Plato. I studied the dictators and oppressors of mankind, in hopes I could learn from them so I would not become like them. The most evil people ever have been self-appointed dictators who were geniuses. At some point or another, they had strayed from constantly improving themselves and felt they had achieved a place where they could no longer improve. The second kind of evil person would be the kinds who were placed in leadership, who are just plain morons most of the time (much like our current leaders).
So what does it make me?
A conscious white man. If you don’t know what the consciousness movement is, look it up. That’s the first step to becoming conscious anyways. Read, sucker. Wikipedia has the best definition I’ve find.
I am interested in working on myself. In revolutions. In helping the oppressed. In life, and the beauty of it. In love.
I have discovered I do not have to be a chameleon for anyone, but at the same time I can use that power to adapt myself when I see someone I admire.
I am discovering myself.
This is a significant milestone. It defines what the rest of my life will be like, and what changed will progress from there. It shapes my relationship to God. It strengthens it. It shapes the woman I will end up with. It does not change everything, but moreover gives me a better idea of who I am.
Inya and I talked tonight. I am on my last chance to work this out as a friendship. I worried too much and did not trust her to let me know if she had any of her feelings change.
I’m not out for anyone’s comfort but my own at this point. If I’m not comfortable with myself, no one else is going to be. If I don’t make attempts at knowing myself, how can I expect anyone else to care? And I need to do it for myself, NOT so I all have someone care.
I’ve flipped out of control and landed square on my own two feet. And the interesting thing is Inya thinks we can still work it out. I was surprised. I was perfectly ready to be completely cut off tonight. Bang, boom, no more friendship. But she didn’t want that. Neither did I, but I was willing to give up the gig if she felt she’d had enough.
I don’t know when the next time is I’ll talk with her. I need a break. I bet we both do. I need some time to be by myself anyways.