In trying to catch up, I forgot to write about some experiences I have had with native Americans here, or white peoples attitudes about them. We are reading so much in the news and on social media about black peoples continuing struggles with racism (and rightfully so), but this week has been about another group of people’s struggles.

First, at the water park I was nursing my 16 month old in the changing room (I’m not especially modest, but nursing in a bathing suit is more than I, personally, like to expose). There was a young woman feeding a baby in with me. Here is how our conversation went:

Me: “How old is your baby?”

Her: “2 months.”

M: “Is he your first?”

H: “No.”

M: “How many kids do you have?”

H: “4”

M: “Oh, I have 6.”

H: “Did you breastfeed all of them?”

M: (taken a little aback at the sudden turn of the conversation) “yes…)

H: “I should have tried harder. I should try again.”

M: “I’m sure you are doing a great job.” (Pause) “Do you live around here?”

H: “Yes, (somewhere, I can’t remember, doesn’t mean anything to me).”

M: “We are visiting my sister in law in Hardin, we are from California.”

H: “Do you like it there?”

M: (not understanding) “Hardin? I don’t know, I guess, we are just visiting.” (Pause) “Do you like where you live?” 

H: “No!” 

M: “Where would you like to live?” 

H: “I don’t know.” (Pause) “Denver! I want to live in Denver!”

M: “You should do that. You should make a plan, and do it.”

H: (tearing up) “Hardly anyone gets off the reservation.” 

M: “I hope you will. I hope that for you.” 

I have a hard time coveying the depth of feeling in this short exchange. Her shame, her expectation of being judged, and her despair at the plight of her own life. My heart ache for her, my helplessness, and the sting of my own white privilege. I wanted to encourage her. I wanted to tell her she could do anything she set her mind to. But that seemed so blatantly false. That would be my answer to my children. My white children. I don’t know what it is like to be her. I don’t know what it is like to be a part of a group economically depressed and socially and culturally oppressed for hundreds of years. I felt such a deep pain for this young woman, this human being in front of me.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. We are on our way to the park. A kid we are with warns my kids not to go in the tunnel “because the natives pee in it.” His mother quickly corrects him. People pee in it. They happen to be Native American. She explains to me that this stereotyping is a problem because the population is majority Native American, so it is always more likely that it is a Native American who has done something wrong. I understand what she is saying, but it doesn’t ring true to me. It is overt racism to me. And if the native Americans are breaking laws more often, why is that? Higher rates of crime, teenage pregnancy, high school drop out, substance abuse. These are the plagues of the culturally oppressed. Why do they self-destruct at such alarming rates? Does it stem from a deep set feeling of unworthiness to succeed? Is it their own way of rebelling against white societal norms? Is it generations of depression? I don’t know the answer, and I certainly don’t have solutions. But there were Native American children in the park that day who heard that white kid speaking. Young, impressionable minds, who are constantly receiving these messages about who they are. Racism and cultural oppression are alive and well in the USA.