Miss Clairol 49
She is dyeing her hair
She is not washing the dishes
She is not sweeping the floor
She is dyeing her hair
Same as she has since she was 15
She can dye her hair all she likes
It will never stop white people from making comments
“My great great grandmother was a Cherokee Princess”
“You look like a paleface to me,”
“I went to a sweat lodge once,”
“I bet I got more Indian Blood in me than you,”
Somehow White People
Always turn being Indian into a question of blood
From the BIA to the Nice White Lady New Ager
They are more obsessed with blood than a movie vampire
What does blood even mean?
That a “full blood” no matter upbringing is more fully Indian than anyone else?
Her husband is ¼ Swiss
Does that mean he has a natural inclination to yodel?
But only 6 hours a day?
Her grandmother would casually mention old people she knew as a child in the 1920’s
Who “used to be white”
Captives Mostly
And a few Army deserters
The old Comanches kept out of affection
Instead of killing or selling them
And they would never be white again if they tried
Or maybe they didn’t want to try
Either way, she is dyeing her hair
Her grandmother used to say “I don’t trust White People,”
And she would argue back
Listing white people she knew who doted on her grandmother
“Oh there are some I like,” her grandmother would say
“That doesn’t mean I trust ‘em,”
But as soon as she went to school White People let her know
She, too, was white
Until she stood
Staring in the giant mirror in the school bathroom
Looking at her own big red face and big red hair
Wondering if it might be true
Who would she be if she was White?
She knows White People and even likes some of them
But they don’t think like she thinks
They work from a different set of assumptions
Might as well live on a different planet sometimes
They are strangers to her
Even the ones she loves
Aliens
Even the white father
She didn’t meet in person until she was 5 years old
And afterwards only saw once a year at most
The cousins she sees every day don’t even know her last name
And assume it’s the same as theirs
So she is dyeing her hair
When she first started her mother would help her
Now she is covering up nearly as much grey as red
Never forgetting the time at The Indian Hospital
A little brown nurse came into her room at 2 a.m.
To tell her she didn’t deserve her name
The name for a woman so powerful men stand up
When she enters a room
Shouldn’t be hers because she was white
“I’m not white,” she said
“My great grandmother gave me that name, after her sister.”
Five minutes afterwards the doctors came screaming into her room
Taking measures she has no memory of
Except the sound of running feet and the wail of machines
Her blood pressure dropped to 32 over 48
She secretly believes she was witched
That nurse witched her
Though it might be closer to the truth to say she didn’t want to live
If she couldn’t be herself
And she couldn’t be herself if she couldn’t have her family
And what kind of White Person has a family of nothing but Comanches?
So she is not checking the mailbox for bills
She is not changing the oil in the car
She is dyeing her hair
Just herself alone in the bathroom
With a dog towel and a kitchen timer
And she wonders if it makes her more lovable to her family
The dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles she’ll share
Whatever
She has with
Who will bring her USDA commodities
When she runs low on food at the end of the month
Or watch her kids at a moment’s notice
Or sing the Adobe Walls Song at her uncle’s funeral
And make her knees buckle
She is dyeing her hair
Even though it makes no difference to anyone but herself