We don't always look NDN. but somehow those cheekbones and a generous heart always come through. We live in the cities and towns and rural areas, in areas our ancestors lost 300 years ago. Just to survive we hid, sometimes a white or black family took us in or we ended up marrying them, just so we wouldn't be scalped or strung up. "Only good indian is a dead indian" they would say. We put the relics of our ancestors in boxes and hid them in basements. We learned to "fit in", `cause racism is a bitch.

As the years went on, the 60's and 70's came. Suddenly everyone wanted to know about us. The boxes came out of the basement. Great grandmothers moccasins, beatifully decorated. Her shawl which she loved most of all. These things suddenly became interesting and people wanted to know more. By the 80's, we were asked back into the tribe and on her 90th birthday my grandmother got her status card. The past which was hidden to survive, was now a badge of honor.

There are millions of these stories, not all lead back to a tribe still existing. They were disbanded for safety sake they said. So many still have that box in the basement, many have nothing. The Genocide they tried, did not get all of us. We are still here, as the lawyer in Boston, or the Construction crew member, or the postman.