This series examines various microaggressions through prose, exploring what those feel like in the moment, from the inside out. This piece is dedicated those who have ever been told that they were not raised in the “right” place. Pictured: Hatcher Pass
I tell you where I was raised.
I see the look of discount in the
inflection of how your body receives the news.
The… “Oh.”
The light that was just snuffed out, I see it, as I’ve seen it,
100 times over,
that look that tells me you’ve caught yourself wasting your time,
investing your time in me,
it’s my fault,
I should have told you sooner, earlier,
head you off before your questions gained steam,
that I am not really Native,
I am not a Real Eskimo.
I tell you where I was raised, and I
I see in your eyes I’m penalized for not living
a life that none in my generation have known,
for not having been born in
1921 or 1899 or even 1940, for not
being my Aapa or Ataata or Aaka or Aana,
for the food my parents worked so hard for,
for it is not good enough for you,
the moose my dad caught every year,
the fish he filled our freezers with,
downloading knowledge of a good life,
the best way my parents knew how.
The vegetable garden that was 30 x 30,
not as a hobby but knowing the returns a
seed packet can yield for 99 cents.
Every 7th year we let it lie fallow.
That I can offer up to you, the very best of my family,
the most precious parts of being a Kellie,
I’ll offer it to you, open in my palm,
innocence; sharing; like the first cut of broccoli,
and watch it brown beneath your stare, because I know –
Eskimos aren’t supposed to know vegetables.
I tell you where I was raised and I’ve lost you.
I fight the urge to pull out the qualifiers,
to show you exactly how I am Iñupiaq before
the time you have placed on my identity runs out.
“But my mom told me stories, too!”
“We used some Iñupiaq in the home!”
“I grew up dancing and eating caribou and whale!”
To keep you invested one minute more,
to show you the things I do know about my people,
how my identity cannot be inauthentic when I was raised
by some of the most authentic people I have ever known,
who taught me, almost wordlessly, the ways of being
a real human being.
I tell you where I was raised and you ask me
if I at least spent summers up North,
intimating I should feel blessed by you gracing me
with your attempt to meet me halfway,
to give you something you can take with you,
and I tell you, “No.”
You linger on still, as if I can be salvaged,
as if my story still has some hope,
and I tell you the whole truth:
“I never went up North before I was 21.”
I gather from the deflated silence
I’m running out of chances for your approval
of the whole of my self,
everything that I amount to,
everything that I will ever be.
You’ll tell me who I am,
you’ll give me a good report back,
if only I just work with you a little bit,
if only I just give you something,
not knowing tickets are $1200 round trip,
almost half my family’s income during those
years I spent in Wasilla, ages 3-19,
the only ones that seem to count.
$1200 round trip from the place
my parents were just being parents
hoping the purchase of a house bought
a better chance
at keeping me safe.
I would tell you more about where I was raised,
but you’re speaking to the next person now,
someone who fits your idea of “Native” better than I,
before I can tell you of the expanse of
love from my Aaka and Aapa,
how we learned what generosity was from my Aaka and my mom
and what it means to forgive,
how my dad taught me integrity cannot be bought,
to protect our character and value wholeness above all,
of our people’s worldview that was instilled
by my mentor, who I call Uncle,
who brought me up North,
connected me to my family, where I found
how I fit, how their values were
my values, how culture can transcend geography,
that you can put a whole state
between us and yet we are the same.
You leave before I can tell you
that to doubt, is to insult
every person who has raised me,
and the elders who have raised them,
the very elders you wish I was like, ironically.
You leave before I tell you
the words I was told by all
the first time I went to Wainwright, at 22,
“Welcome home,”
“Welcome home,”
“Welcome home.”
When I tell you where I was raised,
you’ll leave before hearing something you never thought:
the whole of my family knows exactly who I am:
the granddaughter of Eva;
the daughter of Aggie.
There is no question there.
Why is there always a question,
with you?
“Where I Was Raised” by Cordelia Kellie
