By Rachel L Cushman
It was 19 years ago, today when Neal McCaleb, the Assistant Director of Indian Affairs, reversed our federal recognition. I remember it like it only happened a couple days ago. The pain of something like that never really dulls, especially when the injustice remains.
I was fifteen years old and an apprentice to the Northwest Region’s Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) fisheries biologist. As I was getting ready for work, I heard my mom gasp. I ran out of my room to see what was wrong. I saw her trembling, holding the Oregonian. Her eyes flashed from pain to rage and back. She cursed. I had no idea why she was swearing.
I was hesitant to ask her about what she had read in the paper. She covered her face with her hand and began to sob. I crept over, put my hand on her shoulder, and asked what had happened. She turned and looked at me. What came out of her mouth next was a punch in the gut. “The fucking Bush Administration stripped us of our rights. We are no longer a recognized tribe.” My head started swimming. My heart started racing. My body started shaking. Tears ran down my face.
“Why?” I asked.
My mom stood up with her coffee cup in hand. She walked over to the kitchen sink and threw the semi-full cup inside. The cup smashed into many pieces and the contents splattered the wall, window and countertop. Anguish burst from her, “I don’t know why! I am so tired of this. I am tired of this fight. It’s bullshit.” Tears began running down her face as well. There we were, the both of us – standing in the middle of the kitchen, crying. I reached over and hugged her. She hugged me back. I didn’t ask any more questions.
“I have to go to work.” I spoke. The cheap business suit I was wearing from Goodwill felt like it was suffocating me. It was a rule at the BIA. I had to dress professional.
“They don’t deserve you,” she responded.
The trip to work was a blur. I got on the city bus in a state of shock. I rode, numbed to the world around me. All I could think about was the cup shattering. That’s how I felt. I felt shattered into a million pieces. I blinked my eyes and my bus had arrived across the street from my work. “Lloyd Center,” the bus driver announced. I stood up and grabbed my bag. My body felt heavy. Walking to the Bonneville Power Administration Building, I pulled my clearance badge from my pocket and stared at it. A tear rolled down my cheek. I didn’t want to go into the office with all the Natives there and feel less than them. That’s how I felt eighteen months prior to this. I was always made to feel less than. I wiped the tear from my face, walked through the door and flashed my clearance badge to the security officers. I felt like I was holding my breath. I probably was. It was like one of those dreams where you are on stage and naked. I felt exposed.
Once in the office a person told me that they were sorry that I wasn’t an Indian anymore. They thought they were being funny, but for me it was a twisting of the knife. I purposely blocked out the rest of the day, but that morning, it will haunt me forever.
I ask my fellow Chinook people to recall. Where were you and what were you doing when the 2002 decision was made? Please send your story to communications@chinooknation.org to be shared on our blog and in our newsletters.
