those
who did not at least had a culture and a language in common.
This is no longer as true as it once was, for many Native people now live
in cities, with only tenuous ties to a reserve or a nation. Many no longer speak their
Native language, a gift of colonialism, and the question of identity has become as much
a personal matter as it is a matter of blood. N. Scott Momaday has suggested that being
Native is an idea that an individual has of themselves. Momaday, who is Kiowa, is not
suggesting that anyone who wants to can imagine themselves to be Indian. He is simply
acknowledging that language and narrow definitions of culture are not the only ways
identity can be constructed. Yet, in the absence of visual confirmation, these
âtouchstonesâ â race, culture, language, blood â still form a
kind of authenticity test, a racial-reality game that contemporary Native people are
forced to play. And here are some of the questions.
Were you born on a reserve? Small, rural towns with high Native
populations will do. Cities will not.
Do you speak your Native language? Not a few phrases here and there.
Fluency is the key. No fluency, no Indian.
Do you participate in your tribeâs ceremonies? Being a singer or a
dancer is a plus, but not absolutely required.
Are you a full-blood?
Are you a status Indian?
Are you enrolled?
You may suspect me of hyperbole, but many of these were questions that I
was asked by a selection committee when I applied for a Ford Foundation Grant for
American Indians in order to complete my Ph.D. Iâve told this story a number of
times at various events, and each time Iâve told it, one or two non-Natives have
come up to me afterwards and apologized for the stereotypical attitudes of a few
misguided Whites. But the truth of the matter is that the selection committee was
composed entirely of Native people. And the joke, if there is one, is that most of the
committee couldnât pass this test, either, for these questions were not designed
to measure academic potential or to ensure diversity, they were designed to exclude. For
the real value of authenticity is in the rarity of a thing.
Of course, outside grant selection committees and possibly guards at the
new and improved U.S. border crossings, not many people ask these questions. They
donât have to. Theyâre content simply looking at you. If you donât
look Indian, you arenât. If you donât look White, youâre not.
As I pulled out of the McDonaldâs parking lot, I began thinking
about my dilemma in earnest. Edward Sheriff Curtis had been successful in raising money
and getting his photographs in print because he was fulfilling a national fantasy, and
because he documented the only antiquity that North America would ever have. Indians
might not have been Greeks or Romans or Egyptians, but Indians were all the continent
had to offer to a society thatrelished the past. I could not
photograph that particular antiquity, not because it had vanished, but because it had
changed.
When I came up with my bright idea for a photographic expedition, I sat
down with a number of granting agencies to see if there was any chance of getting some
financial support for the project. Several of them thought the idea had merit, but they
werenât sure why I wanted to do it.
Which Indians did I have in mind, they wanted to know. How would I find
these Indians? How would taking photographs of Native artists benefit Native people?
Had J. P. Morgan asked that question of Edward Curtis, Curtis probably
would have told him that such photographs were necessary because the Indian was dying,
and if he hesitated, the Noble Red Man would be gone and that part of Americaâs
antiquity would be lost forever. Curtis might have even thrown up John Audubon and
Audubonâs great endeavour to paint the birds of North America, many of whom
who did not at least had a culture and a language in common.
This is no longer as true as it once was, for many Native people now live
in cities, with only tenuous ties to a reserve or a nation. Many no longer speak their
Native language, a gift of colonialism, and the question of identity has become as much
a personal matter as it is a matter of blood. N. Scott Momaday has suggested that being
Native is an idea that an individual has of themselves. Momaday, who is Kiowa, is not
suggesting that anyone who wants to can imagine themselves to be Indian. He is simply
acknowledging that language and narrow definitions of culture are not the only ways
identity can be constructed. Yet, in the absence of visual confirmation, these
âtouchstonesâ â race, culture, language, blood â still form a
kind of authenticity test, a racial-reality game that contemporary Native people are
forced to play. And here are some of the questions.
Were you born on a reserve? Small, rural towns with high Native
populations will do. Cities will not.
Do you speak your Native language? Not a few phrases here and there.
Fluency is the key. No fluency, no Indian.
Do you participate in your tribeâs ceremonies? Being a singer or a
dancer is a plus, but not absolutely required.
Are you a full-blood?
Are you a status Indian?
Are you enrolled?
You may suspect me of hyperbole, but many of these were questions that I
was asked by a selection committee when I applied for a Ford Foundation Grant for
American Indians in order to complete my Ph.D. Iâve told this story a number of
times at various events, and each time Iâve told it, one or two non-Natives have
come up to me afterwards and apologized for the stereotypical attitudes of a few
misguided Whites. But the truth of the matter is that the selection committee was
composed entirely of Native people. And the joke, if there is one, is that most of the
committee couldnât pass this test, either, for these questions were not designed
to measure academic potential or to ensure diversity, they were designed to exclude. For
the real value of authenticity is in the rarity of a thing.
Of course, outside grant selection committees and possibly guards at the
new and improved U.S. border crossings, not many people ask these questions. They
donât have to. Theyâre content simply looking at you. If you donât
look Indian, you arenât. If you donât look White, youâre not.
As I pulled out of the McDonaldâs parking lot, I began thinking
about my dilemma in earnest. Edward Sheriff Curtis had been successful in raising money
and getting his photographs in print because he was fulfilling a national fantasy, and
because he documented the only antiquity that North America would ever have. Indians
might not have been Greeks or Romans or Egyptians, but Indians were all the continent
had to offer to a society thatrelished the past. I could not
photograph that particular antiquity, not because it had vanished, but because it had
changed.
When I came up with my bright idea for a photographic expedition, I sat
down with a number of granting agencies to see if there was any chance of getting some
financial support for the project. Several of them thought the idea had merit, but they
werenât sure why I wanted to do it.
Which Indians did I have in mind, they wanted to know. How would I find
these Indians? How would taking photographs of Native artists benefit Native people?
Had J. P. Morgan asked that question of Edward Curtis, Curtis probably
would have told him that such photographs were necessary because the Indian was dying,
and if he hesitated, the Noble Red Man would be gone and that part of Americaâs
antiquity would be lost forever. Curtis might have even thrown up John Audubon and
Audubonâs great endeavour to paint the birds of North America, many of whom
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