Jean Donald - Science Laboratory Supervisor, GPC Decatur Campus

Cherokee Pride

My father was from a small town in South Georgia called Pine Mountain. It's down near Callaway Gardens, beautiful and serene. His grandparents lived in Americus, Georgia near where his aunts and uncles lived but never talked much about his grandparents. After my mother and father married, he introduced my mother to his aunts and uncles and his parents but he would never let her meet his grandparents. Mother told us kids stories about how she begged him to meet his grandparents but he would always refuse. She often wondered what was wrong with them for him to be so persistent about the issue. A few years later, Mother finally insisted on meeting his grandparents. She knew they were getting older and she did not want to miss the opportunity to meet them and finally learn why Daddy would not let her see them.

One hot August Sunday, Daddy finally agreed but he warned her to not be "shocked" by what she saw. It was a long silent drive to Americus that day. Just before arriving, he warned her once more to not be shocked and that they would leave if she felt uncomfortable. As they pulled into the driveway, there, in a swing on the front porch of his aunt and uncle's home, sat an elderly couple reading the Sunday funnies. The elderly man was lighter skinned but the woman was very dark skinned. Mother now realized why daddy was so insistent about not letting her meet them.

Daddy's grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian who could barely speak English. Her husband was translating the comics to her as she looked at the pictures and laughed. Mother was not shocked at what she saw, only fascinated. For most of the day, Mother would just listen to the old couple talking to each other. She found it strange to hear such an unusual language. My father was more in shock to see how my mother was reacting to them.

Even though it was the 1940's, most people still saw Native Americans as threats and savages. My father's family would never admit they were Native American because of the prejudice, stigma, and shame that followed them. Daddy would tell friends and family that his skin was dark because he worked outside, and he just had a good tan, but never because of his heritage. His grandmother could not venture into town because she was treated like a black person. There were places she, too, was not allowed to go, because she was a Native American. My father's grandparents could never go together into a restaurant, grocery store, or even a movie theater because of the color of her skin. His grandfather could go alone because he was lighter skinned, but he could never have the companionship of his wife in public. The posted signs of "Whites Only" were not just for keeping blacks out but also Native Americans.

Growing up, mother would tell us kids stories about our great-grandparents and how she finally was able to meet them. After constant prodding and when we were old enough to understand, daddy finally admitted that it was shame that kept him from admitting his heritage. He told us about how his grandmother and her family had to hide in the mountains during the Trail of Tears so that the soldiers would not take them from their homes and force them to walk to Indian concentration camps in Oklahoma. He spoke about how when the soldiers came close to finding out where they were hiding, they traveled to Lawrenceville, Georgia and hid in the hills until it was safe to go home. When we asked our grandmother (my father's mother) about our heritage, she would always deny that they were Native American. She would never speak of it nor allow us to speak of our heritage. Our grandmother once allowed us to look at the family Bible. The Bible was riddled with Native American lineage. After her death, the Bible disappeared. We were told it was passed along to her sister. When my siblings and I approached our great aunt about the Bible, she insisted that there was never a family Bible and they had no Native American blood. When we told her that we had seen it, she became angry and walked off. She has not communicated with us since. There is still shame in the family.

For several years after my mother had finally met my father's grandparents, they would travel to Americus often to see them. My mother was proud that she had the opportunity to know them. Unknown to my father at the time, mother, too, had Native American heritage. My mother's family also never spoke of their heritage because of the prejudice and shame, but they were not as ashamed as my father's family. Maybe, that's why she was not shocked at what she saw that hot August Sunday.