He Came In and Said I Am A Mixed Blood

There was an old man that came into my office. He stood there and said
he was looking for records about his
own family. He stood there, tall and slender, he told
me he was 67. His eyes were blue, but his skin color
was not white. He said he was born not too far from here and that his
mother was an Indian woman, but he did not look like a bull blood. He
looked sort of Indian but then he said he was not a full blood. His
hair was white, and when he spoke his eyes did not move but just
looked straight
at me.

I'm looking for allotment records from the 1890's he
told me, do you know where they could be. I am
interested in those that go way back to the creation of the
reservation.


Before 1861?


Yes, he said. I am not sure he said but I think it is around that
time.


Tell me a little what you are looking for, if you know something maybe
it will help me know what you are looking for if you don't mind me
asking, I said to him.


Go ahead, I would like to know, it will give me an idea of where to
look. I am not sure if I can help you, so please tell me a little
about yourself. I don't know you so go ahead and tell me about your
family.


He stared at me and said, I don't know if I should. He
looked at me suspiciously.


It is up to you, I will help me see if I might know where your records
are. I think you might be a descendant
looking for genealogy, and you are if you don't mind me saying
probably a Mixed Blood, a term used by the government to classify
terminated Indians from this reservation.


He sat down and started to talk, and he related a little about
himself, his family history, about how he came to be, and his early
memories. He spoke about an old bridge crossing on the old road
through the reservation up North a little ways, an old allotment. As
he spoke the names were on old records I had seen, I remembered an old
map with the place, a bridge that crossed a stream. I had seen it on
maps and with him talking it came to life.


He spoke about how his family had to live with either his mother's
folks or his father's folks, on what was called the old Daniels'
place. His father's folks were mixed blood,
his grandfather having crossed the plains with family, a
brother and settled this land when it was homesteaded. He spoke of an
Indian family that lived nearby, since this was Indian land, they had
a young girl, this was to his grandmother. Them two got together, he
said his grandfather was called Old man Taylor. He said the land was
called 5 quarter land, that means a homestead cost $1.25 an acre, and
the family who settled it had to come with 25 cents
per acre a year for five years to pay off the land.
They had to prove up on it. I know the land he talked
about, and the names were familiar to me.


He talked about an old bridge that crossed Deep Creek,
and walking with his mother, and his grandmother. How
he remembered when he was small he slipped and fell into the
irrigation ditch, and how they fished him out and made him strip down
to nothing and he walked home that way. When he got home, his clothes
were hung on the saw horses to dry and he played until they dried and
then got dressed. He told
me about each of these people and they came to the place called
Daniel's ranch.


How spoke about old Man Taylor had married his grandmother, a full
blooded Indian and how his mother was born and later how he was born
into the world. They lived out in the sticks but moved into what could
be called a settlement named Alterra where the school was. He did not
know what poor was or what a Mixed Blood was either. When he went to
school he learned these words.


He sat there for a minute, and I spoke about how he was called names
in school because he was a Mixed Blood. I could see in his eyes the
little boy, who had not gotten over the hurt he felt that day. He
quietly told me that his own cousins did not want to know him. He said
he could not
understand this, but learned it was because he was part Indian.


He went home and remembered looking at his mother to see what was
wrong with her. She washed his face and told him he was a special boy,
that he could be anything he wanted to be. I sat there and this old
man was that boy crossing the bridge whose mother fished him out of
the water.


All those good times are gone now, he was terminated as an Indian in
1961 under a government plan to assimilate Indians. He is not White,
he said they don't want him. The Indians don't want me either, and so
sat there and listened to him talk until he could talk no more.


In that brief moment I walked a little bit with him and could see it
all just as he spoke it. He said he would come back and see me, then
got up and left.


I did not realize it but the day was half gone and I missed my lunch.
I can still see him sitting across from me and his eyes travelling
through me to a different time and place when all that mattered was
just getting home, holding his mother's hand and a father who worked
hauling wood. One of our children now grown looking for his family.
Sme one came into me and asked how is the work going on this one
project, are the reports going to be ready by five. Well you can see
didn't get it done so I guess not, and to tell you the truth I don't
feel to bad about it..... rustywire