All credit for this work goes to the author, who wishes to remain anonymous.
They say you're from a tribe that's extinct—
"All of those tribes out there are fake," they say.
Arrows of mockery pierce your spirit,
Mostly from those of your own kind.
Determined to tear your soul asunder,
To take away your very identity,
To smother your fire, to eternally put it to sleep.
But who are you, deep down inside?
Your ancestors, their tribal identities once robbed,
No longer PeeDee,
No longer Natchez,
All of it erased in the government's eyes.
Reduced to mere "Settlement Indians",
Eventually to "free people of color," yet never truly free.
Tell me, who are you at your core?
Don't tell me about the card in your pocket,
Nor your numbers on a roll,
Neither the "strong, resilient, Indigenous" shirt you wear,
Nor the beadwork you so proudly don, though it shines bright.
You are the grandson of swamps, creeks and rivers,
That of Bull, Goodland, and Rocky Swamp's loving, hidden embrace,
The blood that courses through your veins,
Akin to the deep waters of the Pee Dee and Edisto.
Never be ashamed to proclaim it loud.
You are the grandson of those who survived—
Those who "hid in plain sight," as some say,
You are the descendant of those they wanted gone.
Like whispers carried in the wind,
Your ancestors held onto what they could,
Illegal to be their true selves,
Yet their spirits, ever unyielding.
Embrace your resilient identity, let your spirit rise,
For you are who you have always been, their legacy alive.