This land of theirs . . .
we stole.
As I drive to places and learning the neighborhoods of central Florida, I constantly come across Native American names of counties like Osceola, Seminole, Alachua, and cities Kissimmee, Ocoee, Ocala, Chuluota, Oviedo, and water bodies like Lake Apopka, Econlockhatchee river and other landmarks. This, of course, is not new to me; I've seen this for six years on my drives to Gainesville and back, but here in the middle of this land it seems even more evident. I can't help but feel bad. I have this image in my mind, a remnant of my childhood from having read books about Native Americans, of a buffalo herd with Indians on horseback. It's a mirage sort of thing, and it sometimes superimposes upon the concrete roads, glass buildings, and suburban sprawls. It makes me sad, because even though my ancestors didn't do it, my kind did come here and took their lands.
I know a little of what that feels like, as I was born in a country that was occupied by the old Soviet Union. There too, they'd just moved in after WWII and took over everything. It's the reason why I'm here, but I'd lived there during my early teen years and it was oppressive. The Soviets are gone from my native country, but it's worse for the Native Americans because we're not going away. Sometimes I wish we could. Sometimes I wish we could return the land the way it was.