What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

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SHORT STORY

What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

When I was younger, I loved the stories my grandmother told me about my ancestors. Every night at exactly nine o’clock sharp, I would change into my pajamas, my chubby 5-year old fingers struggling with the buttons, and climb into bed. There I would wait, bright-eyed, until Grandmother creaked her way into my room and tucked me in with my special quilt. The quilt, passed down for generations, told the story of my Cherokee ancestors, embroidered by each owner with intricate images of our people’s stories and lives.

Grandmother would sit in her rocking chair, knitting quietly, and tell me a story about one of the many images on the quilt. As she knit, her soft, velvet voice would delight me with tales of the cunning trickster rabbit’s mischief or the Yunwi Tsunsdi’, the benevolent little dwarves who used their magic to help humans. In my dreams, I danced with the horned serpent-like Uktena and rode the Tlawuna up to the moon, my hands wrapped tightly around its feathered neck.

However, as I got older, the stories became less of the mystical creatures of Cherokee legends, and Grandmother would point her withered fingers at the gory black and red images on the quilt. Her tales evolved into stories of bloodshed and war, about how the pale-skinned foreigners exterminated our people and took over our beautiful land, stripping us of our rights. Long periods of conflict were dotted by times of temporary relief of peace, only to explode in conflict again when metal clashed on metal as my ancestors sought to defend their precious homeland from these pale-skinned invaders. In the end, the Europeans were too powerful and drove my ancestors off their own land, and claiming right to Cherokee lands that had been in our possession long before their first arrival.

The one tale I remember most vividly was the story of the Trail of Tears. When I was 12, Grandmother folded her aged hands and told me of Nu na da ul tsun y, “The Place Where They Cried”. Real tears glittered in her eyes as she spoke about how our ancestors were forced to march away from our beloved homeland into unknown lands in the West. I remember tears streaming down my own face as I closed my eyes, creating two of my own trails of tears down my cheeks. The tears increased as I closed my eyes, imagining the fear and sadness my ancestors felt when forced out of their home. Grandmother had cradled me in her warm embrace, whispering “Nigohilvi, dear granddaughter, do not cry.” I had clung to her, sobbing, racked with emotion as if I were walking the Trail of Tears myself, facing starvation, exposure, and disease everywhere I turned. “Tsi ge yu,” Grandmother had whispered, before leaving the room.

“I love you too, Elisi,” I had whispered back.

I had not understood the importance of my quilt before, but hearing Grandmother tell tale after tale of how my ancestors were oppressed led to my understanding. This quilt was a testament; a testament to my ancestor’s attempts to defend themselves from the men who called themselves “American”. The quilt was a patchwork of memories, stitched together by the blood and tears my ancestors shed for their homeland. The strong lining was made of the strength of my ancestors as they resisted European oppression and each stitch was another step backwards as the Europeans pressed them further from their lands.

That day, I became hardened. No longer was America the land of the free and equal where life and liberty were valued above all else. Everywhere I looked, I could see the faces of the descendants of those that brutally oppressed my ancestors. And even now, they are still oppressing us.  Americans now are just as guilty as the crimes of their forefathers, making it so very difficult for us to find jobs and to find a place in American society as free and equal citizens. We are treated like outsiders in our own land, despite the fact that our people lived on this land long before the Americans. Compared to hundreds of years before, only about 56,000 acres of our original homeland remains, referred to as the Cherokee Indian Reservation, in western North Carolina. The population of our people has dwindled drastically and most now live in the Indian reservations or in small scattered communities in various cities.

This land is my home. It is my native land. It is where my ancestors hunted for their food, surviving off the bare necessities and relying on nature to provide for them. But I look around today and see so many more of the descendants of those who snatched my land from my ancestors and brutally oppressed them. And even today, the oppression continues. America is not the “land of liberty”, it is the land deeply stained by bloodshed and oppression.