I spent 14 hours last week painting a southwestern mural for my mom, so i've been connecting with my people. My Native American people. To whom, according to the family tree I found yesterday, we may not actually be related. This 1/32 and 1/64 business i've heard all my life while my mom wanders around with her long hair, tanned skin, and seed beed amulets is all "unverified". We may not even be Cherokee! I could be just another Anglo-Germanic Black Irish American mutt! My daughter cannot, in good conscious, proudly tell people she's 1/128 Native American, and she will never be named "Two Biscuits" in a mysterious fire ceremony, and none of us will ever own casinos. It's just depressing. Now I can't even nod knowingly when watching Dances with Wolves.
Anyway, here's the mural. Mama begged me to do it for 10 years, and I finally gave in, possibly for the 14 hours of free childcare and 5 grilled cheese sandwiches that went into the bargain. Ignore the gooby eagle and muffin top. Or i'll come after you with a genuine bow and arrow. And not the ceremonial one hanging over my mom's kitchen table-- my compound bow.