I whined and wined with a friend this week, and for several hours stewed over the situation—mentally vindicating myself of any wrong doing. Even though I had done nothing wrong and my angst was fully warranted, I couldn't shake the situation. I felt like there would never be closure and I would always hold a grudge against them for their actions. If it had been 30 years earlier I would offered to share a little Cherokee pride with them. 

 

"It doesn't have to be that way," a little voice says. "Who said that?" Ok, time for my Ipod. Somewhere between Bruno Mars and Anna Nalick it bled through again. "It doesn't have to be like that, maybe you can forgive them."  "What? Forgive them?"  I dismissed the "Voice" all morning, but it kept turning back up like a Palmetto bug, freaking me out each time.

 

Forgive? I relished the thought with the level of exuberance akin to eating a plate of fried chicken feet. I finally did what I do. Sitting down to the keyboard, I typed out what I thought would be a good start at being nice. I vented—l let them know exactly how I felt. After reading it over I realized it didn't sound very nice. But I felt better. As the day wore on, I would creep back to WordPad, replacing one word for another. By the time I edited myself out of the situation and entered the author and creator, it became easier to do. And by the end of the day the visions of their scalps swinging from my totem pole had disappeared.

 

Clarity replaced the angst. It doesn't even matter if I made a point anymore, actually none at all.  What does matter is that I was an available appendix, a pawn so to say, submissive to the powers of a creator who could change a nasty situation into something for a kingdom, if I allowed it.

 

For now, the little Cherokee Indian in my veins is quieted.

 

One of my favorite stories about "the little Indian In me" came from a discussion with my granddaughter about our heritage.  One weekend, when my granddaughter was seven, we watched the Disney classic Pocahontas. Discussing the movie while driving her home afterward, I told her that Pocahontas was real. She replied, "I didn't think Indians still lived." Being a small part Cherokee, I told her, "We have a little Indian in us."  She was quite thoughtful for the rest of the ride home.

 

Two days later my phone rang. I picked it up and my daughter asked, "Mom, what did you tell Abby about Indians?" "Why?" I asked in return.  She told me that my grandbaby had had a "red letter day" at school, meaning a note was pinned to her sweater asking for her mother to call the teacher. When my daughter called, the teacher explained that Abby had talked excessively in class. When asked what was going on with her that day, Abby had replied. "I don't know, it must be that little Indian in me."