The Indian by nature is suspicious, and although easily governed when his confidence has been obtained, it becomes almost impossible to treat with him after his suspicions have been aroused.

Report of E. F. Beale, Esq., Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the State of California

WASHINGTON CITY, D. C., May 11, 1852

Father is slow to anger. But sometimes I see it in his posture, the way it builds into his shoulder, weighs into the stubborn planting of feet. 

i. I am child sleeping in on a Saturday morning while Father goes to take out the trash. He has no identification. This is cause for him to be questioned and searched. He like many brown men in the neighborhood resembles “the description.”  I overhear him telling the story to Mother. I’m too young to understand the danger, but I sense a loss, a sort of gamble. I am learning that just living can be dangerous.

ii. At work Father’s manager calls him Pancho. This is not his name. His name is not Jorge or Jose or Carlos either, it is George. He identifies as Californian Indian and Mexican-American. He makes this clear to his boss and files a complaint. My father rarely complains about anything. He’s more of a shrug of the shoulder type of guy.

iii. One day Father finds some government form that lists him as white. His exasperation builds a small fire of anger. This denial is simple, but complete. A clumsy erasure that the government always seems to tease us with.

iv. Nekaak, hyoorone eyooshiraaw’a / My father, I will know our language. / Xaay’re rawaate’am xaa/ We are not white./ Taraaxamre xaa/ We are Indian. / Xaayre  koyaaxko a’ee’en. Xaayre koshiiy / We are not dusty bones, not ashes. /Yaawkne mohuuhuvaram; yaawkne ya’oowem/ I have your dreams; I have your stories