There are days when I am asked my Tribal affiliation. There are days when no one asks at all; I prefer those times of solace.
There are days when I’m told that it’s unnatural for a White girl to be that color this time of year, and there are days I hear, “but you don’t look Native.”
I remember being Brown in a backyard in Detroit. I remember chasing fireflies with my siblings, my mother and father mixing ice cream in the kitchen, coalescing rock salt and cream into one homogenous mixture.
I remember being young and shirtless. I remember when my identity was not yet skin deep.
33