A couple of days ago, I was having an arduous day at work.  I was in the back doing inventory, when I heard one of my fellow employee’s call me to the front.  I went to him and asked what the problem was, and he said, “Two more fuckin’ Mexican’s just came in – you help them”.

I work with a bunch of xenophobes.  I do not like the fact that a large percentage of Mexican’s do come into this country illegally, but I’m not going to hold it against them.  They are just trying to provide for their families.  It’s far easier to say that an entire group of people are bad, rather than to realise that there is good and bad in all of us.  No one, certainly no ethnicity, is pure or without sin.  Some of us are more educated than others but that certainly does not make us perfect.

Researching my own family history has taught me more about myself than anything else.  I became humbled, as I went through the records and realising what my ancestors had to overcome.  Most were either running away from oppression or starvation.  Still, others were ran off their land that they had resided on for a millennia.

All of this being said, I do not treat others like third class citizens because of where they were born.  So, I approached the man and woman discovering that they were not Mexican’s at all. 

“O si yo (hello)”  I said whilst smiling and approaching the couple.

The man adorning a tan leather jacket and denims, smiled, as he leaned in whispering to the lady wearing a black dress and an enormous smile.  She was short with jet black hair draping across her back and dark mystical eyes.  He was tall and hefty having similar long jet black hair and dark mystical eyes.

“How did you know?”  He asked whilst smiling and laughing.

“The Screech Owl pendant was a dead giveaway”, I answered, as I leaned in to shake their hands.

“You’re Cherokee?”  The man asked with earnest intrigue and disbelief.

“My grandfather was half Cherokee”, I replied.

“Well, you’d never know it with the freckles and light hair”, he said whilst laughing.

“You might say I’m a bit watered down…There’s more Irish in the bucket of paint than anything else”, I laughingly replied.

“No way, my great-grandfather was Irish”, he yelled whilst patting me on the back.

We continued talking about the Cherokee Nation and our grandfathers.  We also discussed our fiery tempers and which group of our ancestors we could blame for that.  It was good to reminisce about all things Cherokee and mother earth.  Native American’s are thrown to the wayside far too often.  I’m still waiting for a Native American President!

When I finished talking with them, I walked to the back to finish inventory.  The lad walked to the back, and asked, “What did the Mexican’s want?”.

“They were not Mexican’s, my brother, they are Cherokee, Native Americans.”

He smirked, and said, “Same difference”.

I jumped up from my kneeling position, looked him up and down, and walked away.  I felt like decking him right then and there, but that wouldn’t solve anything.  Nor would it be worth my time to explain it because you can’t educate those that don’t want to be educated.

I am very proud of my ancestry and am not ashamed of being from the Southern United States. 

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