Free That Takes Ovaries! by Rivka Solomon Page B

sophisticated world of San Francisco. Not only did African and Hispanic Americans feel the sting of racism, so did native Americans. A popular sign in restaurants in the 1950s read NO DOGS, NO INDIANS.
    The “better life” the BIA had promised all of us was, in reality, life in a tough, urban ghetto. Many native people were unable to find jobs. Many endured a great deal of poverty, emotional suffering, substance abuse, and poor health because of leaving their homelands, families, and communities. They were exiles living far from their native lands. Urban Indian families banded together, built Indian centers, held picnics and powwows, and tried to form communities in the midst of large urban populations. Yet there was always and forever a persistent longing to go home.
    Many families we met there were like us. They had come to the realization that the BIA’s promises were empty. We all seemed to have reached that same terrible conclusion—the government’s relocation program was a disaster that robbed us of our vitality and sense of place.
    Although thousands of American Indians had been relocated, the relocation act’s goal of abolishing ties to tribal lands was never realized—thank goodness. Our traditional people would not abide by this federal interference. They continued grassroots efforts to unify the Cherokees and to resist the initiatives of the federal government to bring about total assimilation of the Cherokee people. A large percentage of native people who had been removed to urban areas ultimately moved back to their original homes.
    Now a single mom with kids of my own, more and more, I found my eyes, too, turning away from the sea and the setting sun. I looked to the east, where the sun begins its daily journey. That was where I had to go … back to the land of my birth,back to the soil and trees my grandfather had touched, back to the animals and birds whose calls I had memorized as a girl when we packed our things and left on a westbound train so very long ago. The circle had to be completed. It was so simple, so easy.
    I was going home.
    After the sad suicide of Felicia’s friend, and without any idea of where I would work and just enough money to get to Oklahoma, we rented a U-Haul truck, packed all our belongings, and headed across country accompanied by our dog, a guinea pig, and lunches packed by our friends. We covered some of the same territory my family had traveled across twenty years before when we had been relocated by the federal government. When we arrived at my mother’s place, I had $20 to my name, no car, no job, and few, if any, prospects. But we were happy. We stored our belongings and stayed with relatives in a house without indoor plumbing. Quite a change from Oakland! In some ways, it must have been as strange for my daughters as when I went to San Francisco as a child. The girls had had some experience getting along with few amenities … but they were not prepared for such living on a daily basis.
    At first, I had a difficult time getting a position. Whenever I went to the tribal headquarters to inquire about the various jobs being advertised, I was told that I was overqualified or, for some reason, just did not fit. Finally, I got fed up with hearing that, so I went right into the office and said, “I want to work! Whatever you have, please let me try it. I need to work!” Apparently that approach was effective. I got a low-level management job with the Cherokee Nation. At last I was home to stay.
    wilma mankiller started her job at a time when there were no female executives at the Cherokee Nation, and there had never been an elected female deputy or principal chief. Six years later
she
was elected the first female Deputy Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation–and four years after that, she was elected to be the firstfemale Principal Chief of this second-largest Native American Nation in the United States. This story contains both original material and adapted excerpts