Jamilee Gerzon He can tell what tribe a man belongs to by looking at his face. I can’t. Then there’s the past. It’s not that we don’t talk about it, it’s just that it’s not here anymore. We’re not there. I do feel guilty for what the whites did to the natives. We took lives and land and language. We? Me? The next morning, Halloween, I take a bath in the other room. My yoga teacher’s instructions seem to have followed me here: Exhale, empty yourself completely. In bed: Arch through your upper spine, breathe through your entire front body. Driving circles: Return to mountain, feel how strong your mountain has become. When I wake up: Remember this place of peace whenever your life is stressful or hectic. Another opportunity for honesty. I don’t know when I first wanted to be native or if I ever did but this Halloween I’m a Native American Princess. I got the Pocahottie dress at a Halloween store before we left home. He suggested the costume himself and Detroit seemed like the right place to wear it. It’s only a costume when it’s in the bag and it’s only a costume when I put it on. But he smiles when I come out of the bathroom in it and I curtsy and twirl. Is this where I cross the line? I take the costume too far. I wear my best Navajo jewelry—a silver cuff bracelet studded with turquoise, molded turquoise feather earrings, a necklace of turquoise rocks. Am I native if I wear my weight in turquoise? I had him make the purse so it’s Indian authentic, leather strips and super glue and fringy at the edges. I’m someone else but he’s someone else too. He paints his face to match Shaggy’s clown paint, white with thick black designs around the eyes and mouth. He always paints his face for concerts. We take pictures of ourselves in costume and look at them right away. Laughing at the woman in the picture helps me forget that she’s me. As a joke my mom sent out my birth announcements with a picture of an Indian baby on a cradleboard. She reminded me of the native baby I’d been when she found out we were dating. Mom has a collection of Indian babydolls with moccasins, broad round cheeks and excessive black hair. I was still bald at one year old. On Halloween my braids are frizzy and golden brown. My knees blare white above my boots. I’m the wrong proportions, wide hips and narrow chest. I’m in costume but I’m still the same. Not that I Crab Orchard Review
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