“Chug”
“Squaw”
“Red Skin”
“Half Breed”
In my 38 years, I've heard them all. For some reason, I never corrected them. I would just laugh while cringing on the inside, even when it came from loved ones. Yes, loved ones. They figured they could joke around with me and use these terms, I told myself it was cute that my very Caucasian spouse called me his “little wagon burner”. I never stood up for myself, heck maybe I agreed with them... I was after all, your proverbial half breed. I was someone who balanced precariously on the tightrope that was my genetic make-up. I wasn’t Indian enough and I wasn’t European enough. I was a mix of a bit of many things but an incomplete anything. My Indigenous, Scottish, Russian and Norwegian-self bobbed around in the ocean of DNA wondering where on earth I fit.
I was born in a small town in the Okanagan, Vernon BC to be exact. I'm the daughter of a Nak’azdli woman of the Lusilyoo Clan from Fort St. James BC and a Russian Norwegian man from what I affectionately call Farmstrong BC. I grew up bouncing around from town to town, house to house (or sometimes motels) as mom never stayed in one place long. She and my aunts had been taken during the sixties scoop and I don’t think she had ever been to our reserve let alone learned to put down any long-term roots. While she doesn’t talk about it often, I’d imagine being ripped from your family and tossed into the so-called child welfare system wasn't easy. I know it wasn’t. My life is a direct result of what happened to these children taken against their families will. The abuse my mother suffered at the hands of these good religious folks has shaped the person I am and gave me a life I never asked for.
Though the stories are riddled with misinformation, anger and a lifetime of trauma brain mixed with years of poor coping techniques, I know her childhood and rife with struggle and a lack of love.
I would imagine some of what my mom went through is what led her to become pregnant at 17 by a logger slash farmers son.
Fast forward 30 plus years and here I am, a grown woman. I've made it this far but I've never felt that I belong anywhere. Even now, all these years later I struggle with who I am and don’t come across friends easily. I am still that painfully shy little girl who fell asleep on the swings at lunch. Yes, I fell asleep on the swings. You see, no one would play with me so I’d sleep on the swings at lunch hour and once in a while the principal would play with me. My heart still breaks for that little 5-year-old girl.
From the time I was that youngster until now I knew I wasn’t for everyone. I never fit in with the (Native) children because I had no clue who my family was let alone any cultural teachings and I never fit with the (Caucasian) children either as I wasn’t quite white enough either. This pattern of confusion has lasted well into adulthood and it's made me both love and despise my roots. Sometimes I would dye my hair blonde and wear blue or green contacts, often I’d chop it all off. It was a never-ending mission of trying to look like one of my sides but not like both. I didn’t feel like I could be both, like it was a choice I had to make so I could commit to one fully.
Anytime times were tough, which was a lot of the time, I’d cut my hair. When I didn’t like myself, again most of the time, I’d cut my hair. When something awful happened (what I now know as in instinct), told me to cut my hair. But year after year I launched into a silent protest of my heritage and went so far as to stop brushing my hair regularly. I'd watch it get tangle after tangle, listen to comment after comment and just stare in the mirror thinking “I hate you”. It took years of reflection to realize that I didn’t feel worthy of it. Why should I grow it? I'm not full blooded. Maybe Natives would think I was an imposter or poser. Maybe my European side would think I was neglecting them. Where? I thought, where do I fit?
Over the years there were small moments where I felt I had a place. One of those places was in our aboriginal class in high school which many shamefully referred to as chug club. While most figured it was just a way for us to get away with things or to have extra help, it was actually the first time we embraced our culture. Most of us were in care or like myself, didn’t know our biological Indigenous families. We finally had a chance to learn about the secret parts of ourselves. Our support worker had a way of lighting a fire in your heart and if I'm being honest, under your ass as well. She was no nonsense but all love. She made us all curious and eager to learn and loved each once of us with no strings attached. This was never more evident than when she came to my wedding years later as I married one of the men who had been a boy in this class. I have no doubts that if it wasn’t for her or this group of kids, many of us wouldn’t be here. The teachings I had during that time held me through nearly two decades more of triumphs, losses and despair. Though I ignored them for a long time, my passion for my people finally reignited. I am once again beading, I crank pow wow music, I smudge daily and I started brushing my hair which now cascades down my back. Recently I was brushing it and staring in the mirror and for the first time I felt pride. I was so moved that I had to write about it.
Our hair is our Spirit.
Our hair is sacred.
I never wanted long hair,
I've cut it all my life...
When I was angry, heartbroken and grieving,
I cut it.
I spent years trying to grow it
Years resisting hacking at it in my bathroom with tears rolling down my face.
This is the longest my hair has been,
The longest it's been long.
I think my Spirit is finally going to be ok.
I still have a way to go, I'm still finding it hard to ignore the shame I have felt my entire life. I find it hard to be happy, to like who I am and most days it takes the strength of the Creator to keep going but I'm getting there. I realized that I can embrace both sides of the family and not hurt feelings. I can be okay that I know my dad's side but am still learning my mom's...can we say cousins much? I also realized that I'm not alone in this struggle. Whether it's my siblings, extended family, friends or strangers, we are all navigating the same sea. We may have different vessels, be it an ocean liner or canoe but the voyage is the same. We are all trying to figure out who we are.
I think I finally know who I am.....
I'm a little bit borscht and a little bit Bannock and together, that’s pretty good.
©️ Chrissy Sanjenko Moore
October 15, 2021