Where Do I Belong?

I've asked myself this question for most of my life.

I present as white: blue eyes, blond hair, and fair skin. The earliest knowledge I have of my Cherokee heritage wasn't taught in school or by my Cherokee relatives. It was taught to me by my mother, a woman of entirely European ancestry.

I remember sitting at our kitchen table when I was about nine or ten years old, working on a history assignment. The lesson must have been about one of the American Indian Wars or another chapter celebrating the westward colonization expansion of America. As we talked about what I was learning, my mother suddenly stopped what she was doing in the kitchen.

She walked over, pulled out the chair across from me, folded her hands tightly on the table, and looked me directly in the eyes. I remember thinking I was in trouble. Instead, she quietly said, "You must always remember that you are Cherokee through your daddy, your MawMaw, and her family." The seriousness in her voice settled deep into my soul.

Then she began telling me a different history than the one I was reading in my textbook. She spoke of broken treaties, forced removal, disease, and the suffering inflicted upon the Indigenous peoples of this continent, including my Cherokee ancestors. She wanted me to know where I came from, and she wanted me never to be ashamed of it.

Yet she also taught us to honor our European ancestors, who built railroads, operated telegraph lines, and served their country in America's wars. In our family, both histories mattered. That was where my conflict began.

The next day at school, I proudly told my classmates, "I'm Cherokee."

They laughed.

"If you're Cherokee, I'm Superman," one boy said. Others joined in.

After that, I rarely mentioned my Cherokee heritage for many years.

When I moved to Oklahoma in 1979, I naively believed I would finally feel accepted. Instead, I quickly learned that belonging is far more complicated than geography.

Only later did I understand that the Cherokee Nation had only recently reestablished its constitutional government after decades of federal interference. Many Cherokee citizens had spent generations preserving the language, culture, traditions, and sovereignty of the Nation while enduring prejudice because of their appearance or identity. Compared to what they and their families had experienced, the teasing I endured as a child seemed insignificant.

As a fair-skinned Cherokee who had grown up far from Oklahoma and knew little of my own people's history, I understood why some viewed me with skepticism. Their experiences were different from mine, and their caution came from generations of hardship and resilience. For years I wrestled with a question that seemed impossible to answer. Where does my greatest loyalty belong? To my European ancestors? Or to my Cherokee ancestors?

Whenever I asked my mother, her answer never changed.

"The Cherokees."

Today, I realize the question was never really about choosing one heritage over the other. I cannot change the blood that runs through my veins, nor would I want to. My European ancestors are part of my story. So are my Cherokee ancestors. One gave me my appearance. The other gave me a tribe, whose history I continue to study, whose Nation I am proud to belong to, and whose future I hope to help strengthen in whatever small ways I can.

Perhaps belonging isn't determined by what we look like. Perhaps it is determined by what we choose to remember, what we choose to learn, and what we choose to honor. For me, that journey continues every day.