American Girl

            With Christmas nearing, I asked my daughter what she wants, and she listed loads of accessories for her lovely Mary Ellen doll. American Girl Dolls exist so upper middle class whites feel as if their daughters have minority friends, like Kaya, whose back-story is as impressive as my great-great-great Grandmas.

            My mom said they called her Grandma Hatchet. It was a much less caring time. She was a Cherokee Indian who walked the Trail of Tears; the US government has documented it. She worked as a prostitute and didn’t speak a word of English.

Or so we thought. My mom did her 23&Me, and it sent shock waves through the family to learn we don’t have any Native American in us. So Great-great-great-grandma Hatchet’s story has us all at a loss. The most probable explanation being she was a grade-A dummy, taken in by one of the most marginalized groups in America, selling her metaphorical kitty at less-than-market value.

It’s not all bad; she did get a kid out of it. A son she named King. So I guess she did know one word English. There is a slight identity loss, like now that were not 1/64^th Cherokee Indian, we have to take more personal accountability for our alcoholism.

Talking with my mom on the phone, she starts spilling the tea on my relative switching from wine to vodka to cut calories. My mom said, “That’s a bad idea because of our Indian blood.”

“Ummm, mom. I don’t think you can say that anymore.”

She made it seem like that was up for debate.

I guess taking down my massive dream catcher is up for debate too because I didn’t buy it to be ironic. My Cherokee affectation was already on questionable terms, as I wasn’t even close to qualifying for Indian casino payouts, but I just like the style so much, I’m drawn to it and willing to slightly steamroll.

A friend played Nick Cave’s “Stagger Lee” and my ears perked up when he said Bucket of Blood. “Oh, how lovely, he’s talking about my old stomping ground,” I said in an English accent because I like to do that sometimes. With the mention of Lake Tahoo, I continued in my accent, “Does he live in Northern California?” Then I offered my guest a cuppa.

It doesn’t matter where Nick Cave lives, he is doing late 1800’s Northern Nevada better than people in the late 1800’s Northern Nevada.

I went to the mall to return a hat I bought. The sales lady asked my reason for the return, and I let her know, “Temporary insanity. I realized I don’t work at The Blue Oyster in Police Academy.”

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I will be at the mall a lot over the next two months. I started a seasonal retail job because of the long teaching break and my kids being away Thanksgiving week and the week after Christmas. The best anecdote to looming mental health issues from too much isolation, the human connection, and there is no better way to participate in the physical social network, than Black Friday! In addition to avoiding the mean reds, I get an amazing store discount. Imagining all the retail benefits, well, that confirms what my genetics won’t, I’m 100% American Girl.

Nice shirt, Becky