I never felt seen as a Yup'ik in Southern Indiana.
For those adults that did see me, I was doing " good for my own kind ."
Now so many years later, I find myself employed in public schools,where I was never seen.
I make eye contact & say verbal hellos with minorities so thier presence noticed. I listen to the white children tell me stories & I keep a listening presence, so they may be seen too.
I always was envious of the shiny red boots & yellow rain coat. In my head I made it just by acknowledging my ancestors were here way before any whites. It was better my clothing absorbed rain that touched me.
Sherman, my hope and prayer for you is that you live a long and fruitful life. I, too, was born with a suitcase in my hand. I've been called a zygote (a baby born to the wrong family). I personally think I was born too soon. But that is another story to tell later on. Perhaps it will be the first story I write for Substack.
As a home hospice nurse, I became accustomed to losing patients every month or so. Now, working in a hospice house for the past four years, I am used to losing patients every day, many times multiple patients. I am often asked how I am able to do this job. I always cringe at this question, normally asked in a hushed, reverent tone. I am no saint and while it is always nice to be appreciated for hard work, I feel the exaggerated accolades lessons what I do. Many life experiences have filtered and continue to reform my selfish and prideful character which have graced me with the ability to thrive in this sacred place. I receive much more than I give.
I do not always have an answer to how I can do this. However, often I have conversations with a patient or a family member that help to define why I do this. Minutes ago I had just such a conversation that may interest you.
87-year-old caucasian female, staying with us while her family finds new living arrangements for her. She has been living alone but can no longer safely do so. While bringing her medication, I sensed that she wanted to talk through something. I pulled up a chair and she began. She spoke of many things such as feeling like a broken-off piece of glacier, floating in the ocean waiting to find her home. She spoke of God and how it frustrates her that He won’t answer. I said maybe He has. She laughed and mentioned how she likes being the teacher, not the student.
She then told a story of when she taught on an Indian reservation. I stopped her through the story and questioned her. She is sharp for her age but gets confused at times. She said “Oh yes, two years I taught on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. I was replaced when Native Americans were brought in as teachers which seemed proper but it was two of the best years of my life.”
We had been talking for some time. She was becoming tired but I had one last question for her. I asked her what about those two years made it the best of her life. Her eyes flashed and pupils dilated, she straightened her crooked back a little straighter. She spoke of abject poverty and horrible living conditions. Of the broken homes and devastation. “But knowledge... the look on those precious children’s faces when a piece of their world became understandable, their face shown, they grew to 10 feet tall before my eyes, I will never forget it”.
I covered her up and thanked her for her hard work. She shrugged me off and closed her eyes, “ I just hope the teachers helped them.”
“I may know of one”, I said “and I will tell him about you.”
Having my three younger brothers walk on before me after I survived cancer?Still gives me pause. And they died from diseases, not the car wrecks or other accidents they had previously survived! Some days I feel left behind, as though my family had moved to a better place and left a note that blew away …out of reach.
Maybe she ran away to stomp her tears and her little red boots in mud puddles. I wonder if she is still alive…
My dad died at 54. I am 52. It’s fucking tragic to think of my dad realizing that he was going to leave a 28 and a 25 year old behind. Maybe that’s why I have zero children. Maybe that’s why my brother has five children.
It’s tragic to the power of infinity, to think of all the fathers of a people facing that thought.
There aren't enough years to figure out what is going on in this world, how all the stories go or whether all of it will turn out OK in the end. We each carry our torch in the race to discover only so far. There are those who burn up too harshly or fast, those that never light up at all, those that learn to manage their flame and rekindle it's light.
I know more about that last part now than i did when i was young. What we learn as we go lengthens our flight. We've glimpsed where it's all going, how good it really is and can be well enough to light up our soul torch.It has a different kind of inner light. When that happens, we carry those two torches - the outer one dimming and the one just getting glowing. We can carry only the soul one when we go.
There is no way to know how long we want to carry on one torch, none or both, or just the one.
I think we have enough time to have a hand in some parts of that, because we can do and care about our life differently than others did.
Been carrying two torches for 23 years since when I expected to be dead. Cancer 16 years ago wasn't fatal. My body, even with pain loves to be alive. It is hard to be looked at like that girl was and those stats are and try to know the because of all of it. The joy of change and not knowing does make for different statistics.
I remember sobbing when in 3rd grade I had to enter a new school, a new classroom, strange new kids. I stayed home as much as I could that year and the next and the next. In 5th grade another kid told me I had the worst attendance record in the school. This did not make me feel bad. Other than the sobbing I have no idea whether the little girl and I had anything in common.
Sherman I read the obits in my tribal newspaper faithfully. I don't live in Oklahoma where my tribe is headquartered, I don't know the people who are pictured in the obituary column. I know that i am shocked and dismayed at how many of them died young. So young. I feel lucky to have achieved a "ripe old age" by comparison to many of my tribe members and in a real odd way i feel ashamed of us. Like, "well shit what are those NDNs doing wrong to die so young?". Of course I know we aren't doing anything wrong. I know our people have BEEN wronged for generations and that is part of the reason so many of us die young. I'm lucky in a lot of ways. I (fingers crossed) don't expect to die young but who knows. I do know it won't be because I am victim to a lot of the things our people have suffered if you don't count the survivor guilt.
Beautifully done, Sherman. Yes, that is a horrible average. But it is an average, reflecting the even more horrible fact of youthful death, like your sister. I would bet that, having made it through your youth and quite a bit more, you have a good shot at many more good years. And I expect more writing! Anyway, thanks for another great micro reflection, almost poetic even if written in prose.
When I wished my dad Happy Birthday the day he turned 60, he said, "You know, son, I'm the oldest man ever in my family." It's our joke know: this past October was the 29th time he's said that to me.
We are so divided--that is what I get from reading this. And the sadness of that. I am constantly confronted with how wrong things are. How a simple skin color becomes frightening. But if we grow up together the color of our skin has no meaning whatsoever--children are color blind.
Thank you for sharing this. I hope you live much longer than the average. (I retired from a marketing/PR career and just started writing creatively at age 63, last January, and hope to have many years ahead. But who knows for whom and when the bell will toll, right? Keep on keepin' on.
I never felt seen as a Yup'ik in Southern Indiana.
For those adults that did see me, I was doing " good for my own kind ."
Now so many years later, I find myself employed in public schools,where I was never seen.
I make eye contact & say verbal hellos with minorities so thier presence noticed. I listen to the white children tell me stories & I keep a listening presence, so they may be seen too.
I always was envious of the shiny red boots & yellow rain coat. In my head I made it just by acknowledging my ancestors were here way before any whites. It was better my clothing absorbed rain that touched me.
Thank you for remembering that moment.
Well expressed and written. Loved it.
Sherman, my hope and prayer for you is that you live a long and fruitful life. I, too, was born with a suitcase in my hand. I've been called a zygote (a baby born to the wrong family). I personally think I was born too soon. But that is another story to tell later on. Perhaps it will be the first story I write for Substack.
As a home hospice nurse, I became accustomed to losing patients every month or so. Now, working in a hospice house for the past four years, I am used to losing patients every day, many times multiple patients. I am often asked how I am able to do this job. I always cringe at this question, normally asked in a hushed, reverent tone. I am no saint and while it is always nice to be appreciated for hard work, I feel the exaggerated accolades lessons what I do. Many life experiences have filtered and continue to reform my selfish and prideful character which have graced me with the ability to thrive in this sacred place. I receive much more than I give.
I do not always have an answer to how I can do this. However, often I have conversations with a patient or a family member that help to define why I do this. Minutes ago I had just such a conversation that may interest you.
87-year-old caucasian female, staying with us while her family finds new living arrangements for her. She has been living alone but can no longer safely do so. While bringing her medication, I sensed that she wanted to talk through something. I pulled up a chair and she began. She spoke of many things such as feeling like a broken-off piece of glacier, floating in the ocean waiting to find her home. She spoke of God and how it frustrates her that He won’t answer. I said maybe He has. She laughed and mentioned how she likes being the teacher, not the student.
She then told a story of when she taught on an Indian reservation. I stopped her through the story and questioned her. She is sharp for her age but gets confused at times. She said “Oh yes, two years I taught on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. I was replaced when Native Americans were brought in as teachers which seemed proper but it was two of the best years of my life.”
We had been talking for some time. She was becoming tired but I had one last question for her. I asked her what about those two years made it the best of her life. Her eyes flashed and pupils dilated, she straightened her crooked back a little straighter. She spoke of abject poverty and horrible living conditions. Of the broken homes and devastation. “But knowledge... the look on those precious children’s faces when a piece of their world became understandable, their face shown, they grew to 10 feet tall before my eyes, I will never forget it”.
I covered her up and thanked her for her hard work. She shrugged me off and closed her eyes, “ I just hope the teachers helped them.”
“I may know of one”, I said “and I will tell him about you.”
Wow 👏🏽❤️
Having my three younger brothers walk on before me after I survived cancer?Still gives me pause. And they died from diseases, not the car wrecks or other accidents they had previously survived! Some days I feel left behind, as though my family had moved to a better place and left a note that blew away …out of reach.
Maybe she ran away to stomp her tears and her little red boots in mud puddles. I wonder if she is still alive…
My dad died at 54. I am 52. It’s fucking tragic to think of my dad realizing that he was going to leave a 28 and a 25 year old behind. Maybe that’s why I have zero children. Maybe that’s why my brother has five children.
It’s tragic to the power of infinity, to think of all the fathers of a people facing that thought.
There aren't enough years to figure out what is going on in this world, how all the stories go or whether all of it will turn out OK in the end. We each carry our torch in the race to discover only so far. There are those who burn up too harshly or fast, those that never light up at all, those that learn to manage their flame and rekindle it's light.
I know more about that last part now than i did when i was young. What we learn as we go lengthens our flight. We've glimpsed where it's all going, how good it really is and can be well enough to light up our soul torch.It has a different kind of inner light. When that happens, we carry those two torches - the outer one dimming and the one just getting glowing. We can carry only the soul one when we go.
There is no way to know how long we want to carry on one torch, none or both, or just the one.
I think we have enough time to have a hand in some parts of that, because we can do and care about our life differently than others did.
Been carrying two torches for 23 years since when I expected to be dead. Cancer 16 years ago wasn't fatal. My body, even with pain loves to be alive. It is hard to be looked at like that girl was and those stats are and try to know the because of all of it. The joy of change and not knowing does make for different statistics.
You are aglow
I remember sobbing when in 3rd grade I had to enter a new school, a new classroom, strange new kids. I stayed home as much as I could that year and the next and the next. In 5th grade another kid told me I had the worst attendance record in the school. This did not make me feel bad. Other than the sobbing I have no idea whether the little girl and I had anything in common.
Sherman I read the obits in my tribal newspaper faithfully. I don't live in Oklahoma where my tribe is headquartered, I don't know the people who are pictured in the obituary column. I know that i am shocked and dismayed at how many of them died young. So young. I feel lucky to have achieved a "ripe old age" by comparison to many of my tribe members and in a real odd way i feel ashamed of us. Like, "well shit what are those NDNs doing wrong to die so young?". Of course I know we aren't doing anything wrong. I know our people have BEEN wronged for generations and that is part of the reason so many of us die young. I'm lucky in a lot of ways. I (fingers crossed) don't expect to die young but who knows. I do know it won't be because I am victim to a lot of the things our people have suffered if you don't count the survivor guilt.
Beautifully done, Sherman. Yes, that is a horrible average. But it is an average, reflecting the even more horrible fact of youthful death, like your sister. I would bet that, having made it through your youth and quite a bit more, you have a good shot at many more good years. And I expect more writing! Anyway, thanks for another great micro reflection, almost poetic even if written in prose.
What a poignant article. Thanks for sharing it with us.
When I wished my dad Happy Birthday the day he turned 60, he said, "You know, son, I'm the oldest man ever in my family." It's our joke know: this past October was the 29th time he's said that to me.
Amazing story. Great share! TY.
We are so divided--that is what I get from reading this. And the sadness of that. I am constantly confronted with how wrong things are. How a simple skin color becomes frightening. But if we grow up together the color of our skin has no meaning whatsoever--children are color blind.
Thank you for sharing this. I hope you live much longer than the average. (I retired from a marketing/PR career and just started writing creatively at age 63, last January, and hope to have many years ahead. But who knows for whom and when the bell will toll, right? Keep on keepin' on.