Do You Talk To Your Children About Intolerance?

I find the sign offensive.

“AMERICAN OWNED AND OPERATED!” it proclaims, in bold red and blue letters. It stands in a prominent location in front of the corner gas station, an obvious reaction to the new owner of the competing station across the street.

I’ve met the new owner in passing, and although we haven’t exchanged names or any other personal information, he seems to be as congenial and polite as any other gas station clerk. He always has a smile and a “Have a nice day” for every customer, which I believe is the main prerequisite for a successful business person. His skin is a bit darker than the local average, and there may be just a touch of an unidentifiable accent when he speaks. This apparently classifies him as UNAMERICAN for some folks in these parts.

The sign hits a nerve with me. I remember being about ten years old, listening to Grandma Annie telling stories about growing up in the early 1900s on an isolated island on the Canadian border. When she was 7 years old, the United States Government proclaimed there was to be a census taken of all the Indians (we didn’t get the Native American title until outsourcing to India became popular) of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe in Northern Michigan.

Her father dutifully loaded the family into the boat, and traveled up the St. Mary River to Sault Ste. Marie, where the census was to be taken by the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

The line was long for the census, going out the door and down the street and around the block. Grandma waited all day with her father, pregnant mother, and 3 siblings.

As the good American citizens of Sault Ste. Marie passed the queue, they threw garbage at the Natives, calling them “the N word”. By the time they reached the front of the line, seven‑year‑old Annie was covered in spittle and rotten tomato. They registered with the government, and returned to their island home and simple life.

Grandma always finished the story with the admonishment; “So don’t you ever tell ANYBODY that you have Indian in you!” She married a proper white man, and spent her life “passing” as white (like no one would notice her darker skin and coal black eyes–not to mention that beak of a nose!). In 1924 the United States Federal Government gave Native Americans the right to vote–and granted them Citizenship at the same time.

Being ten at the time, I missed the impact of the story, ignored her warning, and basked in the glory and envy as I immediately told all my friends of my Indian heritage. It wasn’t until decades later that the sorrow of grandma’s tale hit home.

Robin