My mother told me I had a Cherokee grandmother on my father's side. I
had decided to ask her about my father; I never had asked before. I'd
just had my first child, and just like they say adopted children find
that to be a soul-searching, parent-seeking time--I wanted to finally
know about my father. Why I'd never asked her in the previous
twenty-five years, I couldn't say. Maybe I didn't consider her a
reliable source. My Aunt Alice said she had no idea who my father was,
when I'd asked her. That if you sat on a pincushion, how would you know
which one stuck you? Nice response. My older sister thought she knew.
But her input didn't match mother's.
Cherokee? She gave
me a name: Virgil Mills, from Oklahoma, in the Army. He had wanted to
get married, but she didn't, having just come off a divorce. She didn't
say if he knew about me. He went to Panama; they lost contact.
I
never asked again. I never looked for him for another thirty years. I
thought about it, but didn't want to interfere with someone's
family--even if I may be his family, too; I didn't want to be rejected.
I
did think about the Cherokee thing. When kids I taught called me a
gringo, or honkie, cracker or haole, I would say, no, I'm Cherokee, I'm
not truly only white. Finally, it bugged me so much that they didn't
believe me, I had a DNA test about seven years ago.
Boy, was I surprised. I thought we were just Irish.
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