by Asia Taylor
Asia Dineh Taylor. My first name Asia was given to me by my mother after hearing the name from a movie. My middle name was given to me by my father, its spelled differently but holds the same meaning and pronunciation as Diné which means “the people” or “children of the holy people”; it holds deep meaning to the Navajo people.
My mom was Hispanic who had family origins from Costilla, NM. My grandparents spoke fluent Spanish, and my mom’s brothers and sister could understand little. My mom was the youngest of the five, but my grandparents got tired of trying to teach everyone Spanish, so my mom can speak and understand almost little to no Spanish. My father had a complicated upbringing. He was adopted by my grandma Taylor, my great-grandmother, after he was dropped off at the chapel by my grandmother. My dad grew up on the reservation with my aunts and uncle even though he was their half-brother, they treated him no different. My parents met in high school and my mom got pregnant with my older brother after they graduated and married shortly after. It wasn’t a happy marriage as my father barely helped my mom with my brother and ruled the house with an iron fist. After 18 years of marriage, my mom found out she was pregnant with my dad’s baby which was me, and later found out that so was another woman at the same time. The other baby and I were born on the same day near the same time. When my father was given the choice of whose birth to attend, it was not mine.
I have kept my father at arm’s length and only visited him because it was required by law, I was glad I did not have to live with him, but I felt sorry for my half-sister who did.
I was close with my grandma Taylor growing up, but she passed away when I was around 8 but I hold onto the few memories I have of her. She took care of me and my mother whenever we needed help and resented my father for what he did. She would gift my mom with personalized Navajo jewelry and rugs that my mom treasures dearly.
Grandma Taylor was a small hunched over Native American woman with silver hair, black and turquoise dresses accompanied with a black cane, her English was strung together with Navajo, and with story-telling hand motions. The Navajo language was beautiful, I just wish I could understand it. Learning more about her and how she helped my mother made me gain more love for her and the woman she was, and I gained an interest in learning where I came from and who I am, not through my father but through my grandma Taylor.
In elementary school there were these things called “Native American clubs” where they would call out native kids from class and we would meet to do something with a white lady who was, I guess, in charge of managing the students but only took the job because it was the only one open. Sometimes we just colored, other times they told us when there would be a powwow, or they would just give us a brightly colored flyer and tell us to give it to our parents, or sometimes they gave us something to sign. Did we know what it was? Of course not. On one occasion at a meeting as the white lady said “to get it touch with your native side” we used pottery tools to carve into bars of soap and she told us to carve out “your spirit animal similar to totems.” As a kid who was just glad to spend time out of class, I totally knew what a spirit animal was, heck yea I loved watching Brother Bear because I thought since I’m Native American I could turn into an animal and talk to them like in Pocahontas, you know like hello and wingapo random pigeon.
I carved a wonky looking upright bear with the dove logo still visible while other students napped or carved the soap into poop and detailed phallic shapes. I understand in middle school how demeaning and embarrassing this was, but I also had a white lady giving me the illusion of what it meant to be Native American. In middle school there was only one meeting and apparently that was it, the group didn’t exist anymore.
Highschool came and the first month of freshman year during one of my classes the phone rang, my teacher called me over and told me to head over to a specific room. I got worried and asked what for and was I in trouble? She just shrugged her shoulders and said they didn’t tell her. I start heading to the room and notice, the hallways have a high ratio of lost native students until it hit me; either they’re going to exterminate us, or they have those Native American meetings. Luckily, it was the second. I started to follow a group of upperclassmen who looked like they knew where they were going and ran into a friend of mine named Shalana; we clung onto each other on our way to the classroom. When we arrived, it was a small room just slightly bigger than a Janitor’s closet with few tables and chairs as some students had to stand. At most I would say there were maybe 15 students in the room, Shalana and I sat next to each other and talked with some acquaintances as a Native American lady quieted the room down and introduced herself to us as Ms. Jose. Ms. Jose handed out a paper and told us, “These are just some quick basic questions I’d like you to fill out”. The first question was “what tribe are you from?” Navajo. I skimmed over the rest of the paper. This looked more like a test to me as these questions were foreign. Question two “What clans are you from and for?” Clans? Like rival gangs? From and for? For what? I look up from my paper and scan the room everyone else is scribbling away with ease. I nudged Shalana and whispered, “what does this mean?”
She responds not taking her eyes away from her paper “oh, you know, like how you introduce yourself to people and such.”
Introduce myself? Slightly confused I responded “no, I mean the clans bit”
Shalana chuckles, “You know, how you introduce yourself based on which clans you are from and for based on you mom and dad.”
I, in fact, did not know. I felt like I was bugging her with my questions, so I write N/A and skip to the next question. “How much Indian blood do you have?” Have? I guess half? I bother Shalana again “so um Indian blood, I would have half right since my mom is Hispanic and my dad is native?” We start to converse back and forth
“Well, yeah, but what does it say on your CDIB?”
“My what?” I respond confused
“Your blood card?” Shalana is starting to show a look of concern as she looks up from her paper.
Now slightly embarrassed I say in response to her look “I don’t know what that is, and I doubt I have it. Why would we even need that?”
Ms. Jose grabs out attention as the meeting is coming to an end, so I quickly scribbled N/A and turn it in sheepishly. I am mortified by not knowing these “basic” questions, I was in a room with people who were whiter than me and had less Indian blood than me, but they have lived through the culture and grew up around it. I was no Spaniard, but I was also no Indian either. Was I a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Or worse a shapeshifter?
After class I return home and ask my mom if I have an Indian blood card and what it is. She lets me know that I don’t have one and that she only knows that it is used to measure how many benefits you can get from the tribe based on the amount of Indian blood you have. My brother has one and I can only get it by heading to the reservation with my dad’s birth certificate. To me this process of blood sounded very familiar, and I did not like the familiarity. I learned where this familiarity came from, the “one-drop rule”.
During this time there was a lot of talk around Native American land, pipelines, police brutality, Canadian Catholic churches, and the term “cultural appropriation”. I wondered am I even allowed to have an opinion on this issue? Am I buffer between two groups? If I am, does that make me more inclined to have an opinion? Am I speaking for a group that I am not really a part of? Is having these rugs and kachina dolls as decor cultural appropriation? I wanted to know more.
Shortly after, the Native American club had a field trip to go to UNM and listen to speakers about college as well as get lots of free stuff. Our second location was to the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center, I learned more about Indian culture, and it was fun but the art I saw was Apache, Zuni, Jemez, Cherokee, but no Navajo. I tried sticking to Shalana during the trip but she was catching up with another friend who had family that were friends so they seen each other often so I decided to stay close to Ms. Jose. During lunch we all talked about growing up and funny things in everyone’s culture, it seemed no matter what tribe you came from, everyone could relate to each other in one way or another. I didn’t relate to anything, I’ve never eaten frybread, never dressed in regalia, danced, never visited the rez, never hunted or eaten deer. And this was just the surface. I spent some time asking Ms. Jose questions like a foreigner, I feel bad for her because I can imagine it was like telling a bird what a bird is. But some questions she couldn’t answer for me.
It’s been a few years and this issue has always been in the back of my mind until not too long ago, my aunt on my dad’s side, Dorlinda, suddenly passed away, I met her when I was younger, but I have foggy memories of her. Though I was hesitant I decided to attend the funeral with my dad and rode with him to Farmington. I was nervous in meeting family as I haven’t seen them in years. We went to the reception; I walked behind my dad and his family as I thought they wouldn’t be thrilled to see me as I hardly visit, they may not even remember me. As soon as I enter the reception, I hear my dad announcing his presence and saying hello where I stare at the ground too embarrassed and shy to look up, but I am greeted with a rough bear bug by my auntie Sarah. I look up and I recognize these people. My dad’s brothers and sisters start to surround us as my uncle Jay exclaims with a smile on his “well look who it is! How you’ve been kiddo? How’s your mom?”
I laugh and tell him she’s doing well. More familiar faces start to show and some new ones too whom I’ve always just assumed were cousins of mine as there seems to be more every time. I was hugging people left and right, some people I knew, others I pretend to know, and some I had to introduce myself to. We ate frybread and laughed at joke and went to the service, where many people cried and laughed telling stories of auntie Dorinda’s life. I was learning of her life on the reservation, her first time riding a horse, her love for her family. I realized I was learning about my culture through my auntie Dorinda right here, right now. After the service we went to go eat again and I realized, I am learning about my culture right now, I am laughing and joking with my family, digesting the native humor, there were matching black shirts that spelt “I am Navajo” that the adults got to wear I thought that was a cool shirt and wanted one but I didn’t know how to ask and thought they only made a few so I never asked. Although I was pushed off to the side by my dad, I didn’t care I was there for my family and they made sure of it. They did everything to make me feel like I was part of the family. When I got home, I had news to tell my mom, I was asking who this person was, telling her how this person was, letting her in on the family drama, telling her I got my cousins Anfernee’s Snapchat. She was excited to hear how my auntie Sarah was doing and started to connect with her on Facebook again. A few months passed and I am still in contact with some family, I haven’t got my blood card yet, but I still plan on it, although I did get a Christmas gift from my uncle Jay. A black shirt that reads “I am Navajo”.
Leonardo Magazine 