Pocahontas

OK, so the results are official. I've been hearing all my life (for many moons, pun intended) that my maternal side has Indian blood running through our veins, which, of course, is a sign of high cheek bones, though I had sense enough to know that's so vague, and I never thought to call myself a minority to get government and scholarship benefits. My interests in those days were getting a black bucket purse instead of my navy one. Remember those wonderful leather bags that, in those days were all leather and cost about $3? They closed on top with one flap that folded over the other one with a snap and smell of leather? OMG, heaven. But I was the only one who had a dark navy, and everyone else had black. I survived because everyone else liked my navy one, and it was the only one in school.

Did I have aspirations to make something of my life and go to an Ivy League school? Well, my mom went to school to see my Algebra I teacher. I was never doing homework and handed in tests with a lot of blank spaces. Teacher: "Nancy's quite bright, but all she does in my class is sit in the back of this room and 'rat' her hair. I've never seen hair that high." Sharon Roling Howard and I were really 'into' hair (a couple other stories about hair), among other stupid things. So that answer is no, there were no aspirations of anything I wanted for a better life. Another good clue to my parents: Uh, let's just say that my dad was a wise man when I told him I'd like to have a VW Beetle. He told me he'd like for me to have one too so maybe I should get a well-paying job after school and weekends to pay for the car and insurance. Hmmm... I decided to continue borrowing the family truckster. It was a dandy. They actually made 'stripped-down' models in those days. There were no white walls on the tires (popular in those days), no radio (we screamed our own music out the crank windows and laughed. This stripped Chevy '58 blue station wagon had no power, brakes or steering, and that big-ass end on 6 cylinders. We'd pull up to a stop light (yes, we did have electric street signals) on the main drag, and if it was a carful of out-of-town boys here to check out 'strange,' I'd crank the window down on cold nights, lean out, real cool-like, raise my eyebrows a couple of times, and say in a sexy voice (probably a croak), "You wanna run 'em?" We'd just sit there and watch them peel rubber and laugh at 'em later on the same street. We were terrible turds. It was my aspiration. I don't make excuses.

Back to my Indian heritage, though. My maternal grandmother, Maude (who was married to Claude---you can't make this stuff up) remembered her grandfather was married to an Indian, and she was referred to as the Squaw, which, in those days, was common. Of course NOW, it's considered a racial slur, but my mom, in her innocence, said they didn't have to worry about 'crap like that.' And the word 'crap' is about as strong as her language gets. My great, great, grandfather and his Indian bride raised a family, and would be my great, great grandmother. I wish I knew more about her, her tribe, etc. It makes me emotional, and the tears well up.

I find this whole Pocahontas thing with Elizabeth Warren taking advantage of a fake heritage just loathsome. Her only payback is one that I'd pay to witness.

Picture the White House in hustle bustle form (is there any other condition?) and people coming and going in the halls. Trumpage and Pocahiney cross paths, and he stops dead in his tracks in front of her, puts up his flat hand, and says "How."😂