Last straw this time, seriously, no wonder it is so difficult to get anything done. Wanda thought to herself. Trying to be an actor is difficult, but when you’re a minority it’s even more difficult. And you really shouldn’t even be called a minority, because everyone claims some sort of minority so they can get a leg up. I am a hippocrite, Wanda thought, as she had her daily conversation with herself. It was barely afternoon, about the time the rest of the world is beginning to work and Wanda was wrapping up her 8 hour day. That’s what I get for being a morning person. Here I am an actual indian, by this I mean an actual federally registered indian, recognized by the federal government, and all I want to do is be indian on Film or in TV, yet I can’t. And now I understand why.
It’s not that no one knows we exist, it’s that no one can find us. I’m sure there are a few casting agents who are in the know, but their in the know is very limited, I’m sure their folder of indians is bigger than the same one or two they always offer up to the world. I hate being indian. It sucks. I hate the fact that people only want to be indian when it is convenient for them, when being indian can do something for them. Such as the latte-skinned beauty who claims to be Cherokee, because there’s a good part on the breakdowns, or the parents who are just looking for money for their child’s education. When I was in college, my sorority sister and I were out doing our weekly grocery shopping, I had to go with her, because I didn’t have a car, and she told me she had a quick stop to make. How funny that she had to do this with me in the car. I know she had been past this very location several times in the past week, but here I was in the parking lot at the tribal council, while she ran in so she could pick up her paperwork so she could get papers. Her papers consisted of registration information, so she could enroll in the tribe. I’d known her for years, yet all of a sudden she wanted to be indian. Why? Because she needed money for school. Sure, you’re saying, maybe she was just trying to connect with her relatives Wanda, you’re being a little hard on her aren’t you? No, no, no, actually I’m not, because she flat out told me that’s the only reason she was doing all this work to register. She sat there and told me this TO MY FACE. I sat there in shock, speechless, my mind was processing her words. .
what choke med? was it the system or was it her, did i feel angry, did i feel she was conning me or them, it was my first, know how she used me, and at what moment did i feel this, cultrual robbery, get away car.
This was my first encounter with this. My friend by the way was a tall blond girl, blue eyes and skin that burned the moment she stepped outside.
I quit! Here’s my card back. You can have it. I want out of this “club”. That’s what it feels like most days. You’re either in or you’re out. You have to be popular to get any notice, otherwise you’re part of the unpopular crowd, always wanting a crumb of attention, notice and recognition from one of the cheerleaders or jocks.
can i quit? have i tried to quit? what would happen if i did quit and is it literally possible, would i lose somehting of me? is your card for life or do you have to keep registering. are there popular inidan and how are they different? is it the same social stuff, what is the heirarchy that makes them popular, what are the geek indians like.
There is no honor left in the world. The world has become all about me. No, not me per se, but me. I was just little when I wanted to become an actor. I sat watching the Kids of Degrassi Street, imagining that on one of my trips to Toronto, we would be driving around in Cabbage Town and Riverdale and I would run into Wheels and Caitlin.
I have to turn my card in. I don’t deserve it. (why don’t I?) I don’t understand why my frybread turn out as hard little hockey pucks. I stand in the long frybread line, where a short older white-ish woman, who is always at these events and loves to flaunts her being indian and knowing a lot, how does she flaunt it? how much does it annoy me and how do i react to it? stands behind me telling an even older white grandma looking who just jumped in line in front about frybread and how good they make it at other places and what it’s purpose is in life. what is the purpose of life of frybread? look at the gender conditioning, do native women need to be good homemakers? is that what she expect from herself, does that mean she’s not a good indian or woman? What does my frybread taste like and has she gotten advice? Is it hard to make? has she given up making it? what does it taste like when its good? tell the story about my making frybread for the DDG luncheaon and how I made everyone eat even though they knew it was aweful? associations of the original memory of frybread.
(We hate to be different, we need to fit in)