Are spaghetti eaters all Italian?
August 19, 2007 at 8:01 am (EDT)
Some people have told me that I am an “Indian,” while others maintain that I am an “American Indian” or a “Native American.” I laugh in the faces of people who want to tell me such things.
On my blog, I made a post that I am injun — not American Indian, not Native American, nor am I any other politically correct term people or the government want to apply to my people.
When it comes to ensuring people know exactly what I am, I just say injun. If I use the real name for my people, my tribe, my nation, no one but a handful of people in the U.S., and most likely, the world, would even know what I am talking about. Okay, maybe two handfuls, as some of the tribal elders know — and care.
Sometimes, though, there are the hard-headed clods who say, “What’s injun?” So I explain I am Aniyunwiya. In American, it means, “principal people.”
When they have trouble with that, they ask, “Where’s that? What country’s that in?” I explain my ancestors were here before the White people invaded. Maybe for Thanksgiving, I will share some thoughts with others.
I sometimes go on to explain my ancestors saved the White people, kept their hides alive, and in return, well, let’s just say if the World Court had the case, there would be a very bad label applied to the practices that have been visited upon my people.
That usually leaves people really confused. When I say, “I am what you call Cherokee,” people’s eyes light up, and they generally say something like, “Oh, why didn’t you say so in the first place? So you’re an Indian, huh? When did your family come over from India?” They say ignorance is bliss. Well, it may be bliss, but it’s at this point in a conversation that I have a tendency to want to show them some of my ancestors’ wildly cool tricks for dealing with people.
No, I am not, nor are any of my “Indian” ancestors from India. I can’t help it some dead White guy, well, some dead Italian guy, I guess, is more exact, got lost, thought he was in India, and instead of checking, just slapped a label on our backs, and called us Indians. Even when he realized he screwed up, he still called us “Indians,” a title so many want to continue applying to my people today.
Why didn’t I simply tell them I am “Cherokee” instead of dragging things out? That’s simple, and a no-brainer. Here’s your American History lesson for the day.
The word “Cherokee” is a Creek (another “Indian” nation) word. In American, it means, “People of a different speech.” That was a logical name for my people — for use by the Creek. We were another people, another nation, and yes, we spoke a different language. Us injuns, if you listen to the rhetoric of the U.S. government back in the time leading up to the removal of the many nations, leading to relocation on “reservations,” and many promises attached to that relocation (none of which have been kept), we are pretty dumb. In fact, we are pretty simple peoples, all lacking in skills essential to civilized societies and nations. Yep, we was dumb, as I like to really emphasize. (Improper English used for emphasis only.)
To “demonstrate” how ignorant the “Cherokee” were, Sequoyah, a mixed blood of the Paint Clan, sat down, and in 12 years, created the syllabary for Tsalagi that remains in use today. He would have had the task accomplished sooner, but you see, he took time off to be a soldier in the War of 1812.
When Sequoyah set out on his task, according to biographies, he explained to people:
“It is said that in ancient times, when writing first began, a man named Moses made marks on a stone. I can agree with you by what name to call those marks and that will be writing and can be understood.”
He felt a need to explain what he was doing because of the incessant ridicule from loved ones and friends alike, as well as accusations by many that he was insane, and, at times, practicing witchcraft. Sequoyah was simply guilty of being obsessed with his works creating the Tsalagi language. Most languages, if you look, take much longer to “create,” to get the alphabet, and everything else together. Having created the syllabary in 12 years, is, as far as I can tell from my research, an all-time record.
Within several months of Sequoyah’s unveiling of his invention, a substantial number of people in the Cherokee Nation reportedly were able to read and write in their own language. Many mixed bloods were already able to read and write in English, but the syllabary made it possible for virtually everyone in the Cherokee Nation, young and old, to master our language in a relatively short period of time.
In 1827, the Cherokee council appropriated funding for the establishment of a national newspaper. Early the following year, the hand press and syllabary characters in type were shipped by water from Boston and transported overland the last two hundred miles by wagon to the capital of the Cherokee Nation, New Echota.
The inaugural issue of the newspaper, Tsa la gi Tsu lehisanunhi or Cherokee Phoenix, printed in parallel columns in Cherokee and English appeared on February 21, 1828. It was the first newspaper published in the United States that was by and for an American Indian population — in its own language even!
It’s funny, but in 1814, US Army General Andrew Jackson, after the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, in Alabama, said to the Aniyunwiya (Cherokee) chief, Junaluska, that “As long as the sun shines and the grass grows, there shall be friendship between us, and the feet of the Cherokee shall be toward the East.”
About 16 years later, after being elected president of the United States, Jackson evidently suffered from senile dementia. He was instrumental in forcibly removing all “indians” from their homes east of the Mississippi — to what was then perceived useless, vast, barren waste lands west of the Mississippi. You know, they didn’t want to “give” anything that could be useful to the Powers-that-Be one day, so the “indians” were put on lands with little to no value.
The arguments given against the “Cherokee,” as well as Sequoyah’s syllabary, was that “anyone” can mimic intelligence. I wonder who the Powers-that-Be (then, and now) sitting in Washington, D.C. mimic, because there’s little-to-no intelligence in the American government, but there is much mimicry, much of which is very evident.
Remember, though, it all started with the Mayflower.
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A d v e r t i s e m e n t
6 Responses to “Are spaghetti eaters all Italian?”
Joanne September 6th, 2007 at 5:49 pm #
Unfortunately the sorrow and deceit continues to this day. Our history books are filled with stories of the Holocaust and the Japanese camps during WWII, and supposed “restitution” has been given to them, but not much of the plight of the “original” americans ever made it into our own history books aside from portraying the stereotype of a savage beast….and their situation has never gotten better. The could never pay “restitution” anyway….how do you repair the past satisfactorily? Who knows what wonderful gifts for humanity or timely inventions may have been given to us from some “Injun” that never had a chance…that is the saddest part. Not to mention what we could have learned from such a culture…if only we would have looked… All prejudice is based in fear. Fear of anything different. What a pity… This spaghetti eater is ashamed…
Dave J. (Scoop0901) September 6th, 2007 at 7:58 pm #
I agree, Joanne, the deceit and sorrow continue, but even worse, is the fact that the U.S. Government continues scheming ways to steal money and land from the “federally-recognized” tribes.
According to the “laws” of the U.S., you are only injun “if you can prove it. While my daughter was in high school, there was a mix up on her academic record. They had her listed with a wrong birth date, as well as wrong race. Both were easy for me to resolve. First, her birth date was on her official birth certificate, as well as her state I.D. card. Her race, it was on her birth certificate.
The woman in the office told my daughter: “In order to ‘correct your race’ (she used quote marks in the air when speaking to my daughter), you need to prove you’re an American Indian by some kind of card.” The woman didn’t even know “what kind” of card. I do: the roll card.
My daughter came home, telling me, “I have to get some kind of card for the school to prove I am not {race}! They said I have to prove I am Cherokee!” I laughed, telling her to calm down, as everything can be “proven” very easily, quickly, and, if needed, with my baseball bat.
I called the school, spoke with the woman who said this to my daughter. She told me the same thing. This is where things became hilarious. I asked, “You had my daughter listed as {race} on her academic record yesterday, but changed it to white while she was standing there, correct?” The woman said, “Yes, that’s right. She’s white and I can prove that.”
The first thought through my mind was, “How the hell can you prove my daughter is “white,” lady?” Since I knew that would cause the conversation to come to an abrupt end, I saved that for my “final” question, and proceeded with my normal line of questioning.
I next asked her, “How do you want her to ‘prove’ to you, as you say, that she is Cherokee?”
The woman began telling me there “is some kind of card she has to carry to prove she is a Native person.” I laughed. “Are you talking about the roll card for the Nation?”
“Oh, no, sir. Not a U.S. I.D. card,” she said, becoming flustered with me. “If you were a Native, like you’re saying and pretending to be, you would know, much better than me, what card it is.”
Okay, then. Yes, I was — to put it mildly — ticked off. “Pretending to be?” “A Native?” “No a U.S. I.D. card?”
New line of questioning was in order.
“You just said, “Not a U.S. I.D. card, correct?” The woman says, “That’s right. It has to be a card she is supposed to carry to prove she is a Native American.”
I ask, “Are you, then, my dear lady, asking about the roll card for the Nation? Now, before you say another word and grossly illustrate your ignorance even more than you’ve done already, listen to me. Roll cards are issued by a Nation. A nation, in this instance, is a Native American Nation, not “native American” with a little “n”, but rather with a “big n”, meaning the Cherokee Nation, the Lakota Nation, the Shawnee Nation, the Hopi Nation, among others. Is that what you’re talking about?”
She is silent for about 20 seconds. I’m patient. I also love the sound of silence, especially when someone is flustered and hopes I say something to spare them further embarassment. Finally, she says, “Sir, I do not appreciate being insulted by anyone. If you’re go –”
I had to stop her right there. “Ma’am, I did not insult you. I stated a clear and evident fact, if, by chance, you’re talking about the remark I made of your intellect. Now, do us both a favor and address the topic at hand. Any personal indifferences can be resolved by you, the principal, and your Creator after this call is finished.”
“Well!” Then there was a dialtone. I guess she didn’t like bluntness. After all I tried to teach her, the woman had the audacity to hang up.
The conversation above is pretty much right on the money. I have this horrible habit of making explicit notes during conversations that I feel may be needed for future reference. In this case, since it went right to the heart of my daughter’s identity, yes, it was something that warranted very detailed notes. They are saved in both my paper-based Franklin Planner, as well as my electronic planner, Time and Chaos.
Being me, I called back, made sure I got the same woman back on the phone, and calmly said, “Ma’am, we were disconnected somehow, so I must apologize. I don’t want to appear as though I am rude or some uneducated savage, despite how we were described in the Declaration of Independence, so please don’t hold that dropped call against me.” Oh, I love such sarcastic statements.
She began saying that she didn’t wish to continue the conversation when I jumped in. Again.
“Here’s what I can do to help you resolve this matter, ma’am. From the sound of your voice, you sound black, but speaking with my daughter last evening, I know you to be white. Are you white?” She stammered over her words for a moment, I suppose of my statement that she sounded “black” on the phone. It certainly got her attention!
“Well, yes. Yes. Yes, I am white. What’s that matter to you?”, she asked.
“To me, ma’am, it doesn’t matter. But see, you made a rush-to-judgement call on my daughter, assuming — we both understand the true meaning of assume, I suppose — that when you assume, you make an ass of you and me — and I didn’t want to assume you were black simply because you sounded black.”
She turned the tables on me, saying, “How do I sound black?”
“Well, you have this Southernish-mixed up kind of twang in your voice, I guess you could call it,” I said.
“I have no idea what that means, but no, no, no, I am not black! I am white and it is very apparent, thank you.”
Okay, I found the feathers to ruffle on her.
“Well, since you’re not black, although you sounded black to me, and you’re telling me you’re white, can you prove that to me, please? I mean, am I supposed to take your word you’re white? Your daddy may have been black. Maybe your granny had sex with one of the hired hands, or, perhaps your great-great granny got it on in the barn with one of the slaves she had. So, just to set my mind truly at ease, and to help resolve this matter about your race, could you, no, would you please prove to me you’re truly white, as you say?”
Whoa! I didn’t expect her to have spunk. She comes back at me, seething, saying, “No one in my family has ever had sex with a black person.”
Mind you, she was in the main office of a high school here in Philadelphia. There were at least two black women who worked in the office, one all day, the other worked in the main office, but did some of her work in an office a few doors down the hallway. I could just imagine what the other six people — including the black woman who was in the office all day — were thinking of this woman’s comments, as they were not spoken in hushed tones.
She continued, saying, “I do not have to prove to you or anyone else that I am white or that anyone else in my family is white. Now, sir, are we done?”
I laughed for a brief second, then said, “So you’re telling me that you’re white, even though I presumed you were black. You’re telling me you don’t have to prove to me or anyone else you or anyone else in your family is white. In the same breath, howver, you’re telling my daughter she must prove to you that she is Cherokee. Is that right?”
“Well, um … well. Yes. She has to prove she is Native American.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t know where you come from,” I said. “Let me give you a quick history lesson. There’s no such thing as ‘Native American’ as a race. That’s a term conjured up by some probably now-dead white dude in Washington, D.C., who was looking for a term to use to tie all the Nations together. I am Cherokee. You say you’re American, well, I am Cherokee. I live in America; my ancestors were here long before the White man showed up. If you want proof, I can produce it, but if I come in to display that proof, you will have proof, for me, that you’re really white and not black. What you’re telling me is that since my daughter, in your eyes, ‘looked white,’ you reclassified her academic record — without proof — to reflect she is white. If she looked black, for instance to you, and her academic record said she was white, you would change it to reflect she is black, I am willing to bet. Here, though, you’re demonstrating, first, your arrogance, second, your racist nature, third, your naivety and lack of understanding, fourth, your total ignorance of official documents necessary to ‘prove,’ as you opt to classify it, and, for your sake, I shall stop myself at that point. So, do I need to stop by with my roll card to prove to you, or are you going to look at her transcripts going back to kindergarten, all of which reflect that she’s Cherokee, and correct your records?”
This poor woman was flustered beyond words. She placed the phone done, went to someone’s office, cried loud enough I could hear her and part of the conversation, and came back a few minutes later. At that point I said, “I will be there in less than 10 minutes. Have your proof ready that you’re white.”
When I arrived, let’s just say it wasn’t the warmest reception I’ve had in a school office. Big surprise, huh? I walked in, said, “Let me speak with the principal since you’re of obvious little use and intellect.” I was told the typical gatekeeper line: “Here’s out of the building for the day.”
It’s bad to lie. It’s worse to lie to me. It’s horrible to lie to someone who knows the principal on a one-to-one basis. Just as soon as she utter those words, the principal walked out of his office, looked over, smiled, and waved to me. I smiled back, waved him over, and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but this lady, lacking intellect and a basic understanding of history and of her job, it seems, tells me she cannot prove she’s white, yet wants me to believe that.” He laughed as I continued. “She then told me that I need to prove to her that my daughter is Cherokee, but not before telling me on the phone that I am only ‘pretending’ to be Cherokee, and that ‘if’ we were, we would know we have to carry this with us. Now, aside from her racist and discriminatory attitude, which part of her comment is legit?”
The principal looked at me, looked at the woman, opened my daughter’s academic record printout, showing information going back to kindergarten, which showed she was Cherokee, and that it wasn’t until she entered the high school, that the race mysteriously changed. He said, “The proof is here in the record, and I am sorry for the secretary. I will deal with her because this is total inappropriate.”
After his statement, in front of the woman, I said, “By the way, here’s your proof.”
Yes, prejudice is alive and well. It isn’t only against blacks, people from Spanish-speaking countries, illegals, and Muslims. It’s very much alive and well against the very people the land which forms the United States was stolen from over the past 515 years. Come Columbus Day 2007, instead of “celebrating” Columbus’ “discovery” of the New World, instead, consider what Columbus and those who came after him, have done.
Wa-do. (That’s “thank you” in Tsalagi (aka Cherokee).)
Joanne September 6th, 2007 at 10:17 pm #
Gv-li-e-li-ga, o-gi-na-li! ;)
Dave J. (Scoop0901) September 7th, 2007 at 11:28 am #
Scoop0901’s note: For others, that means, basically, You’re welcome, my friend.
An Italian gal (I am guessing from your comment above, “This spaghetti eater is ashamed…”) going out of her way to copy-and-paste Tsalagi? (In English, Tsalagi means Cherokee.) Okay, that’s cool, I guess. I appreciate the time you had to take to find that.
paintedpony7 September 7th, 2007 at 8:31 pm #
Soooooo, in other words… ALL spaghetti eaters ARE Italian? rofl ;)
Dave J. (Scoop0901) September 9th, 2007 at 7:32 am #
No idea, Pony. I never said that. Remember, though, the Chinese came up with the noodles; some now-dead explorer took them back to Italy and they were “adopted.” Today, though, they seem to be a “cultural food” for Italians. Chef Boyardee, though, made it an American thing. :)