How Did This Come to Pass?
o/` "When blood sees blood
Of its own
It sings to see itself again
It sings to hear the voice it's known
It sings to recognize the face
"One body split and passed along the line
>From the shoulder to the hip
I know these bones as being mine
And the curving of the lip" o/`
---- "Blood Sings" performed by Suzanne Vega
There's probably only one other person here who understands this sort of struggle.
Most of my life, people have remarked on my unusual physical characteristics: the dentists notice the shovel shaped incisors, the doctors want to know why my feet are broader and more deeply arched than other patients', and nearly everyone comments on the odd shade of red in my hair or its strangely coarse texture. The face is a little too broad across the cheeks and a little to narrow at the chin to be accounted for with my Viking ancestry, the eyes are an odd admixture of dark forest green and amber which fades into sea blue as my family members age. I'm obese by Western medical standards but, for the most part, strangely healthy: no heart problems, no strokes, no diabetes.
If they can't figure me out, how am I supposed to figure me out?
I've been running down genealogical leads for over a decade now, trying to prove a family story handed down orally which indicates Native ancestry.
Now, at last, I may have that proof.
My grandmother's obituary listed her correct date of birth and the town and state in which she was born: Shidler, Oklahoma. It was a small town back then and it's even smaller today (population 520 compared to 10,000 at the height of the oil boom). She was born there only five years after the town was founded. More interesting (to me, at least) is the fact that Shidler was and is in the Osage Nation. Land practices being what they were and given the number of families cheated out of their allotments and mineral rights, that doesn't guarantee that she was Osage...but it does up the odds significantly when you consider that, in a town that small, a significant amount of the population residing in Shidler today remains Osage.
I finally pulled up the Osage Nation web site out of sheer curiosity. It's not a tribe I knew much about. I discovered that they were a large people, with some of their male warriors topping six feet, and that they remain a large people. Looking at the faces on those pages was like looking at the faces of relatives I didn't know I had. The eyes, the odd skin coloring, the strange red hair --- all accounted for, if my grandmother was in fact Osage. They had a few photographs of their elders and the resemblance to my grandmother (and my sister, for that matter) was just amazing.
I don't know what I'll do with this new information. I would suppose a trip to Shidler, at least, is in order. They might have extant records which would help me further track the family's movements across this country. I would also suppose that I ought to visit the Osage Nation, taking the photographs of my family with me and as much of the data as I can gather, and talk to someone. They're one of the few tribes which seems to have kept excellent records.
I wish I knew more but there doesn't seem to be much out there on the 'net about Shidler or the Osage.
The photos tell the story:
The last photograph I took of my grandmother, when she was visiting in 2003.
My mother, on the same visit.
My little sister, taken after the funeral in November 2007 as we were all sitting down for dinner at a friend's house.
Me, on the same visit in the same place.
A photograph of the remaining family (even though by then no one was talking to anyone else because of estate disputes). The man on the end is only related to us by marriage. He's married to the blond woman, Penny, who is my deceased Aunt Harrie's daughter. Next to her is my Aunt Becky, my grandmother's youngest sister and the only one still living.
Now take a look at the features of those pictured on the Osage Nation website. In particular, take a look at the dance photos in the museum gallery.
It's not that I want to join the trend of cultural appropriation and be able to shout that I have Native blood nor am I looking for a 'nobler' heritage. I don't care about blood quorum or obtaining tribal recognition and rights. It's just that if that is my heritage, I want it back. I want to know who and what I am and not wonder about all the things that pull at me so strongly with no logical explanation. I want to make my peace with the missing pieces and make myself whole with the knowledge, one way or the other.
ETA: My grandmother had one of these. I clearly remember seeing it hanging in her closet and once in a while, if I begged hard enough, she would get it out so I could look at it more closely. I can't honestly think of many reasons why a white woman would have one of these. She wasn't a collector of Native artifacts and neither was my grandfather. In fact, I remember her telling me that she wore it, but not to what occasion.
Of its own
It sings to see itself again
It sings to hear the voice it's known
It sings to recognize the face
"One body split and passed along the line
>From the shoulder to the hip
I know these bones as being mine
And the curving of the lip" o/`
---- "Blood Sings" performed by Suzanne Vega
There's probably only one other person here who understands this sort of struggle.
Most of my life, people have remarked on my unusual physical characteristics: the dentists notice the shovel shaped incisors, the doctors want to know why my feet are broader and more deeply arched than other patients', and nearly everyone comments on the odd shade of red in my hair or its strangely coarse texture. The face is a little too broad across the cheeks and a little to narrow at the chin to be accounted for with my Viking ancestry, the eyes are an odd admixture of dark forest green and amber which fades into sea blue as my family members age. I'm obese by Western medical standards but, for the most part, strangely healthy: no heart problems, no strokes, no diabetes.
If they can't figure me out, how am I supposed to figure me out?
I've been running down genealogical leads for over a decade now, trying to prove a family story handed down orally which indicates Native ancestry.
Now, at last, I may have that proof.
My grandmother's obituary listed her correct date of birth and the town and state in which she was born: Shidler, Oklahoma. It was a small town back then and it's even smaller today (population 520 compared to 10,000 at the height of the oil boom). She was born there only five years after the town was founded. More interesting (to me, at least) is the fact that Shidler was and is in the Osage Nation. Land practices being what they were and given the number of families cheated out of their allotments and mineral rights, that doesn't guarantee that she was Osage...but it does up the odds significantly when you consider that, in a town that small, a significant amount of the population residing in Shidler today remains Osage.
I finally pulled up the Osage Nation web site out of sheer curiosity. It's not a tribe I knew much about. I discovered that they were a large people, with some of their male warriors topping six feet, and that they remain a large people. Looking at the faces on those pages was like looking at the faces of relatives I didn't know I had. The eyes, the odd skin coloring, the strange red hair --- all accounted for, if my grandmother was in fact Osage. They had a few photographs of their elders and the resemblance to my grandmother (and my sister, for that matter) was just amazing.
I don't know what I'll do with this new information. I would suppose a trip to Shidler, at least, is in order. They might have extant records which would help me further track the family's movements across this country. I would also suppose that I ought to visit the Osage Nation, taking the photographs of my family with me and as much of the data as I can gather, and talk to someone. They're one of the few tribes which seems to have kept excellent records.
I wish I knew more but there doesn't seem to be much out there on the 'net about Shidler or the Osage.
The photos tell the story:
The last photograph I took of my grandmother, when she was visiting in 2003.
My mother, on the same visit.
My little sister, taken after the funeral in November 2007 as we were all sitting down for dinner at a friend's house.
Me, on the same visit in the same place.
A photograph of the remaining family (even though by then no one was talking to anyone else because of estate disputes). The man on the end is only related to us by marriage. He's married to the blond woman, Penny, who is my deceased Aunt Harrie's daughter. Next to her is my Aunt Becky, my grandmother's youngest sister and the only one still living.
Now take a look at the features of those pictured on the Osage Nation website. In particular, take a look at the dance photos in the museum gallery.
It's not that I want to join the trend of cultural appropriation and be able to shout that I have Native blood nor am I looking for a 'nobler' heritage. I don't care about blood quorum or obtaining tribal recognition and rights. It's just that if that is my heritage, I want it back. I want to know who and what I am and not wonder about all the things that pull at me so strongly with no logical explanation. I want to make my peace with the missing pieces and make myself whole with the knowledge, one way or the other.
ETA: My grandmother had one of these. I clearly remember seeing it hanging in her closet and once in a while, if I begged hard enough, she would get it out so I could look at it more closely. I can't honestly think of many reasons why a white woman would have one of these. She wasn't a collector of Native artifacts and neither was my grandfather. In fact, I remember her telling me that she wore it, but not to what occasion.