That's all we need, more half-breeds in the world," a caustic man muttered to my father after hearing about the forthcoming birth of my oldest sister. My father has related acerbic diatribes like this to me throughout my life, not to engender a sense of martyrdom or victimization, but rather to reinforce in his children the fact that our heritage and identities were of consequence and not to be taken for granted or with indifference.
I remember my father coming home from work one day when I was nine. With righteous indignation, he delivered a brief discourse I know was a product of some comment he'd heard that day. "You have nothing to be ashamed about; you should be proud of who you are, of where you have come from. Your ancestors were strong on both sides." He referred to my own mother's strong Navajo roots as well as to his ancestry and mine. His mother was of Mormon pioneer stock, primarily of Western European descent, and his father was a Jewish cosmopolitan born in South Africa and raised in Buenos Aires before immigrating to the U.S. My experiences have taught me that stinging sentiments motivating such defensiveness from my father emanate not only from "white folks"; in fact, the man who made the aforementioned comment was a fullblooded member of my own tribe.
This multicultural world in which we live is both a blessing and a curse to me. How are we to delineate race and culture in a world growing increasingly integrated each day, and where do I fit in? This is the quandary of more than 6.8 million Americans who now self-identify as "multiracial."
Recently, I was able to attend the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian during the fall equinox, in September 2004. The museum is the latest edition to the national museums. Its celebration presented me with an opportunity that invited introspection into my own culture, identity, and experience. The Smithsonian was going native - and right next door to the U.S. Capitol, at that.
Standing in the slow-moving procession of 20,000 indigenous peoples, their tribes presented in alphabetical order, I walk somewhere in the center between the "M's" and the "O's." However, many of my tribe prefer to be called "Diné" rather than Navajo. We are marching to commemorate the inaugural festivities for the NMAI, and conversations are alive around me. Cell phones connect procession members to the "rez," the cities, and the suburbs. Friends and family at the other end of the "line" hear of their kins' monumental walk with other indigenous peoples from around the Americas, North and South.
One conversation, a sort of self-implication, burns my ears. "Yeah, there's Indians everywhere, real ones and fake ones, too," a guy says with a grin. Clearly, this man is what he would proudly call a "rez Indian." He would position the "urban Indian" opposite, seeing himself as inherently more authentic. His remark, though amusing, stings me a bit, as I am much fairer than the characteristic version of a Navajo woman. My freckles and prominent chin and nose are reminiscent of my father's contribution. No, I do not appear phenotypically Navajo, nor do I fluently speak my mother's tongue. She frequently corrects my basic Navajo and looks at me in puzzlement despite my best efforts to recall basic commands. And, perhaps quintessentially, I was not raised on the reservation, except for a portion of my summers and winters each year.
That's not to say that being "half " doesn't have its advantages. When Navajo friends (or, better yet, my mother) chastise me for the violation of a taboo, I can always fall back on the defense, "Hey, now, I'm half," with a grin. Full-blooded Navajo friends much more removed from the reservation have no such defense when confronted with expectations, fair or not. Appearance, language, and residence play a huge part in identity within all cultures. At times, I feel as if I make a better Latina than Navajo, as I have moved more fluidly in Latin cultures of South America in my travels, work, and studies. My mother has comforted me when I have confessed doubts of my identity, saying, "You are Navajo, you are Tsédeeshghéézhníí (Gap in the Rock Clan)."
In Washington, D.C., I enter the first floor of the impressive limestone museum building, evocative of an erosion-worn towering southwest canyon wall. A man is sharing the canoe-building process of his home in the Hawaiian Islands with an elderly couple. And I am reminded of the native Hawaiian high-school students I work with each fall at a science and culture camp at my alma mater, Oregon State University.
I enter another exhibit on the third floor and am greeted by a wall of assorted colorful faces highlighted against bright backgrounds. Though it may appear as a cross-section of colorful America, each face had a name and tribal affiliation to the side. Clearly, many are not full-blooded Natives, and I can easily see my own face up there, one story among many.
Further along the third floor I come across an encased diablada headdress from Bolivia. I am reminded of my Carnival visit to Oruro, a western Bolivian town in the altiplano, when I was on break from my sustainable-forestry internship in the eastern Bolivian plains. I remember running through the streets from daring youths equipped with water balloons, cans of sprayable foam, and serious gumption.
In my mind, I return to the historic mining city of Potosí, Bolivia. I enter the deep cavern of a silver mine while on a tour and see a figure of El Tio, dressed as the diablada. I hear the laugh of my good-natured guide after I've made the mistake of calling a miner my mashi, or my "very good friend," a title that apparently includes connotations that I in no way wished to project.
Visiting a young Chilean woman promoting Mapuche crafts during the NMAI festivities, I remember the Mapuche museum in Temuco, Chile. The weavings there remind me of my tribe's weaving history. The image of my own unfinished rug comes to mind, suspended in my loom - and in time - at my father's house in the Rocky Mountains.
Walking out of the museum at closing time with a flood of native and nonnative visitors, I spot a petite young Ecuadorian woman ahead of me. I ask politely if she is from Otavalo. She replies, "No, Salasaca," a community I have never visited, but of which I am aware. She tells me that there are visitors here from Otavalo, and she introduces me to her brother. I recount my school year in Ecuador and remember warmly Rosita and her guaguita (baby girl), graciously taking me along on visits to record the knowledge of the elders in north central Ecuador. I also meet another brother who is doing doctorate work in the U.S. He informs me that he has spoken with Otavalo friends visiting the NMAI. They said they thought they saw a girl named Rachael, who had done some thesis research in their community a few years before. And I am suddenly astonished at how small the world is indeed becoming.
I am not only a conglomeration of my ancestors' past, but a continuation of that past through my experiences. The NMAI sought to describe and represent native peoples not only through the presentation of the meaningful artifacts that tell of past and present, but through including, in a significant way, the stories and accomplishments that attest to a living people.
As the NMAI goes about properly defining and representing cultures, I wonder about my own identity. Just as the NMAI is a representation of and by native peoples, so must I claim my own identity rather than allow others to define it for me based on stereotypes or preconceived notions.
I have become increasingly aware of how my cultural and spiritual identities are linked. This linking may be in part a quest for wholeness and meaning, especially when cultural influences have an impact upon my direction in life. The melding of these two identities fulfills a part of me.
I often lean on my spiritual identity when I stumble and yield to other voices. It is these voices, real or imagined, that would attempt to render my cultural identity inauthentic, thereby invalidating an intrinsic portion of my existence. At times like this I have leaned on my spiritual identity to steer my doubting mind in a direction that assures the reality of the identity that can never be rendered invalid.
My spiritual identity connects me to all those around me, to everything that is around me. While we may not share genetics and heritage, we do share a common spiritual lineage. This can never be invalidated though it is often ignored in the way we treat each other and ourselves. It is this identity that clears my mind, strengthens me, and helps me realize, own, and love that which I am: a whole being made by my Creator; Navajo, Jewish, Mormon pioneer, and divine.
When my mother hears anthropologists claim that Navajos are a polytheistic people, based on their interpretation of Navajo teachings and figures such as the Diyiin Diné'é, or the Holy People, she often says, "We are not polytheistic; we believe in a supreme being. The holy people in our stories are not gods. They are people, messengers. We are all holy people."
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Rachel Novak, a graduate from Oregon State University in Environmental Science, served with Americorps as a Watershed Education and Outreach Specialist in Sweet Home, Oregon. With a strong interest in water resources, she has also worked with water and conservation issues in the highlands of Ecuador, Bolivia, and in her Navajo Nation home, where she now resides in Arizona. During this past year she has worked in with the Anasazi Foundation in a Wilderness Therapy program for young people, and will be attending graduate school at the University of Arizona in the Master of Science program with an emphasis in Geo-Sciences beginning this fall.
