“We are so incredibly lucky,” my grandma said to me when I was 10. We were sitting in her Honda Odyssey, waiting for the school bus to pick me up on an especially cold winter morning.

In the early morning of what I assumed would be an insignificant moment of my life, her gratitude for our unique lives made a lasting imprint on me.

My grandma has tan skin, and for as long as I can remember, she’s dyed her hair pitch-black and kept it in a long single braid. All my grandma’s children have dark eyes and tan skin. Yet, when they had kids of their own, we were all born with pale skin, green or blue eyes, and most deceivingly, bright blonde hair. My cousins and I all share these features, so we call ourselves the “indigenous blondes.” Did we look Native? No. Were we raised Native? Yes.

At the end of our long driveway, my grandma and I sat trying to talk over the classical radio station she always had playing a little too loud. The bus wouldn’t come for a few more minutes, but I sat in the front seat, backpack on, ready to go. I remember the inside of the car was warm with the heater blasting and the sun shining through the windshield. Our driveway sat at the bottom of our neighbor’s sloped field. The sun was just coming out over the hill. It reflected off the frosted grass and glared into the car with blinding brightness.

I grew up on 64 acres of forested land near Vancouver, Washington. My grandma raised her kids there, and when they had kids, they raised us there too. We were a close-knit family with three generations living on the property together. We valued our heritage as a Native American family, and that kept us close. Growing up this way, I thought my childhood experience was the universal one.

At 10 years old, I didn’t comprehend what my grandma was saying as we waited for the school bus.

As I grew older, I often revisited this memory. Each time I did, I understood more of what she was saying. We knew who we were and what we valued. We were tribal members of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, but my grandma created a tribe of our own on those 64 acres.

Oral tradition is a common practice in Native communities. Sharing stories is what keeps the identity alive in my family and many others. Colonial practices of assimilation tried to exterminate Native heritage in a lot of families and was fairly successful. I heard stories of my great-grandmother, Dora, hiding her heritage as a Native woman because she had been taught to do so. Luckily, the regrettable practice of hiding Native identity has died off, but so have many people who identify as Native.

Kamiah holds up her tribe member identification card showing her previously blonde hair. Photo by Kelly Pearce.

My cousins and I are the last generation of my family who are federally recognized as Native people. It’s a sad realization to know the colonial wish to exterminate Native communities has been a success. But this has also encouraged me to hold on tighter to this identity than ever before. However, every time I feel secure in my identity as a Native person, I get a reminder that I don’t look the part.

“No way, you have blonde hair.”

“You don’t look Native.”

Or the most irritating and common question, “how much are you?”

Responding to questions like these can be awkward to navigate, and I feel like I can only answer with a submissive response. Asking me, how Native I am makes what my family has taught me feel invalid.

Repeatedly being asked “what is your percentage” knocks down my confidence as a Native person. I feel I should just resort to calling myself white and hide my Native heritage.

Asking Native people their blood quantum is a long practice of the federal government’s efforts to limit Native citizenship and identity.

The blood quantum question is a reminder of the government’s illusive hold on Native communities. It is a reminder of the history of Native communities as a minority fighting for their sovereign rights and culture. It is a reminder that my identity is questionable in your eyes. I don’t need your validation in my identity, but asking how much Native blood I have doesn’t support a minority group’s fight for their identity. Nonetheless, as a Native person who gets asked this a lot, my best advice to you is, do not ask this. It may seem inconsequential to many, but it has a lasting impact.

I’m trying to speak up for a community that has lost its indigenous voice. I look like a white person. I look like your average “white girl.” But this “white girl” exterior also gives me the advantage to speak up for a silenced community. And I will use every last bit of it.

Next time I tell you about my Native ancestry, don’t ask me about my blood quantum or non-Native looking features. Ask me about my tribe. Ask me how my journey identifying as a Native person has been. Ask me about the Native issues we have seen in the media over the last couple of years, and ask me how you can help this neglected minority.

Thanks to my grandma, my identity is ingrained in my family and in me. Many other Native communities know who they are as well. It’s others who don’t know who we are, but don’t worry, my grandma and I are here to tell you.