Dancing with my mirror

Reading Nudemuse’s latest entry in which she mentions the Fat Women of Color Carnival announcement over at Fatshionista made me think of something about myself. I started wondering whether I would be or not eligible to participate in that carnival.

You see, even though I am officially caucasian, I seem to have Native American blood in me that goes back at the very least to my maternal great-grandfather’s mother (back in those days in Quebec, Native girls who’d be raised by the religious communities or grown ones who’d marry a white man would get their culture and identity erased into a totally clean slate. Gone was their maiden name (as they’d receive a new Christian name) or the info about their tribe. As the generations pass, their racial history is completely gone; even worse, many of these tribes had oral history traditions, which can only survive if they’re transmitted from one generation to the next. Who knows how much we have lost?

Anyways, because of the way that Native women were assimilated into the French-Canadian society, we have no idea who my Native ancestor was or where she came from exactly. One thing’s for sure, though: she had very strong genes. Strong enough to be passed down at least 4 generations without being too diluded (despite the French-Canadian blood among my relatives and I). She probably was a tall and fat woman — all the men in that side of the family were tall and fat (although it’s not so obvious among my direct family, as my grandfather was a blondish skinny man with blue eyes). The genes were also strong enough that my great-grandfather as a young man could have passed for my brother. I remember watching a documentary about the Montagnais (Innu) tribe with my mom, and how we noticed that several interviewed people looked like our relatives. And a few years back, my mom had gone to a reserve with a friend who officially had her First Nations status. They went to some store and my mom received the First Nations discount, no questions asked.

I grew up pretty oblivious to the notion of native blood. In fact, I only became aware of it (and so much more so in racist form) toward the end of high school, when bullies started calling me “Agaguk” (the name of a classic Quebec literature Inuit character). In a way that traumatized me more than name-callings over my weight, as for years I had a tendency to get very defensive if anyone asked me if I were Native. I’ve since learned to relax about it (as long as the person is only asking to know, not as a way to attack me, of course, but this isn’t high school anymore so it doesn’t happen).

So, I’ve come to peace with the notion of having Native blood. And even though I spent my teenage years thinking I was ugly (I remember so well being 16-17, so convinced that I’d never, ever have a boyfriend…), I now know it’s not the case. However, I do look different from most people I know, and people tend to remember me. Of course, as a teen, that was a hard thing to deal with, as we all want to conform to the masses, not stand out.

This is what I look like:

BTW, if anyone ever wants to listen to Native American music, I can never recommend enough Robbie Robertson’s Music for the Native Americans, which he made in collaboration with musicians from various tribes from throughout North America, including Quebec’s Kashtin. It’s the kind of album that brings out the creative juices in me.