Tracy and I are visiting the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque. We walk into a circular room with a high ceiling.
We’re greeted by a short woman with fierce brown eyes. Though she is standing right in front of us, the hostile acoustics cause her voice to sound eerily distant.
“Are you two students? You get a discounted rate.”
I open my wallet to retrieve my school ID, but it’s not there. I must have lost it in Santa Fe. I don’t have enough cash to pay the regular entrance fee.
“I don’t have an ID, but I am a student,” I say. “San Francisco State is actually giving me class credit to write a book about my Native American heritage.”
“Great, we have all Natives sign our book here.” The woman hands me a faded black binder.
I realize my mistake. While I am doing an academic project, I’m only writing about my possible Native American heritage.
Not knowing what to do, I take the pen and sign my name.
Remy Cox. Cherokee Tribe.
Tracy, my companion, doesn’t share my predicament. She’s part Cherokee, and has traced her lineage all the way back to the Treaty Party of 1819. She is a descendant of George Rising Fawn Lowrey Jr., who was one of the first to cede sacred Cherokee land to the United States. The rest of the tribe resented him for it, but George Washington didn’t. He actually awarded Rising Fawn with a medal for his negotiation efforts.
In 1839, Lowrey was elected principal chief and president of the eastern Cherokees at the Washington meeting, and eventually merged with the western divisions to form the present Cherokee Nation. There’s a famous photograph of him in the Smithsonian. He’s got tons of ear-drooping and nose-stretching piercings. Crazy.
Tracy has done her research. I pass the black binder over to her.
“Here, do you want to sign it, too?”
She shakes her head. “Umm, no, that’s okay.” I think I see her blush.
The museum attendant has heard enough. “Alright, that will be three dollars,” she says to Tracy.
“But you don’t have to pay,” the woman tells me, smiling. “Tribal members get in for free.”
From the back of the line, I hear a complaint: “Wait a minute, he gets in free?That’s not fair.”
I turn around to see a stick-thin man. The Albuquerque heat has formed dark stains under his arms, billowing like thunderheads. His bald head gives him the profile of a vulture.
The ticket lady purses her lips. “You took our land,” she spits at him. “That’s not fair.”
The scrawny dude blinks, and casually leaves the building.
I feel thick guilt sloshing in my stomach. Did I just fraudulently claim tribal membership?
I see a transparent donation box at the base of the ticket counter. I surreptitiously empty the contents of my wallet.
***
In the museum, Tracy is my guide. She’s able to tell me about everything, from the Acoma painted pottery, in black and white, to the iconic figures of the Pueblo tribes.
“This is Kokopelli,” she says, pointing to a Rastafarian-like figure. He’s painted on a pot, hunched in mid-dance, playing the flute.
“He’s the mischief maker in Pueblo folklore. Always causing trouble, getting people aroused.” Her head is tilted, examining the ancient piece of art. “He’s the symbol of fertility,” she continues, pointing to his not-so-subtle phallus, which is dangling beneath the flute.
“I’ve seen him before,” I say. “Wait, I’ve actually seen him at your house.” I’m couch-surfing with Tracy on my tour of the Southwest.
She laughs. “Yeah, in our faux-dobe house.” The tasteless gentrification of the classic New Mexican architecture is pretty funny.
But my experience in New Mexico couldn’t be more authentic, thanks to my host. “Wow, you really have done a lot of research about your heritage,” I say.
“When I first moved to New Mexico, I read every book I could about it. I think it’s fascinating.”
I feel like a fraud, compared to Tracy. If anyone deserves to claim tribal membership, it’s her.
“Why didn’t you want to sign the Native American book?”
The dull museum lights are reflected in her glasses. Behind them, her eyes are ocean blue and serious. Her blonde hair makes her look more German than anything. Her last name, Brunner, completes the Anglicization.
“I never like to talk about my ancestry with real Indians,” she says. The real sounds particularly grim.
“Why not?”
“I look like the people that killed them.”
