God Made Me Who I am, And I am no other.

Taqseblue

God made me who I am, and I am no other. He looked down from heaven, upon this wide expanse of time. He found my father and mother and gave orders for my birth. "It is now time for Taqseblue to begin her journey on Mother Earth down below. Get things in order, get ready to go."

The time was now set, I thought I was the only one, but later I would find that He had others He beget. I was one among many children that would grow and learn. Make mistakes and then yearn for peace from above, and that true and pure love.

A baby girl was the news to my parents that one-day, 1966 the 10th of May. My skin was light brown, my eyes black as night. My hair was the same, my parents to blame.

My mother she loved me, my father did too. But with so many children it's a wonder I knew. Brothers and Sisters were always around, loving and pleasing, taunting and teasing. I had a total of 14 siblings when all orders were made from heaven above, and I now understand they were from Jesus with Love.

My grandparents were there to guide and protect. They taught us love and they taught us respect. I remember the songs my grandfather would sing, playing his fiddle stomping his foot, "And she wore a big red rose" is how the song goes. Beating his drum, painted with the clouds and the sun, never minding the tare in the hide the sound still would transcend. He was not old, only 93 when he passed. Still growing in wisdom, stature, laying claim to God's kingdom. A role of a Chief was the title that he carried, his death would bring sadness, sorrow and grief. But in the memory of one little Indian girl lives a wise and handsome man, tall and physique, towering over my grandmother who was beautiful and petite.

"Betty" we called her. Though "Grand-Mother" she was, never complaining just showing us love. Peanutbutter cookies I smell, blackberry pie too. Gingerbread cake and purple canned prunes. Dixie cup popsicles, hot chocolate and homemade rootbeer too and all of those other goodies only she could do. She would take us to town, riding on the big bus, holding our hands never making a fuss. Playing cards was a favorite pastime. Learning our prayers was a "flash" every time, as she would put each word carefully on a piece of paper and have us memorize them in order. Making sure we all knew "Our Father".

Dad was a big man to me, tall and lean with muscles to beam. He loved us I know it surely always showed. A working man he was, up before dawn and home before dusk. Making sure we had a good roll of duck tape on hand for shoes, and our Indian van. Rides on weekends to distant far off places (at least it seem far to a child in a car). Off to the mountains, a drive to the ocean, a day at the river. A stop at the drive-in for burgers and fries, was always good fun at least in our eyes. Pow-wows were many for us. My dad liked the sound of the drum and the feeling of comradery. The smell of buckskin, feathers and sweetgrass. The jingle of bells and high pitched voices, wailing the songs of times past. He lived in a world that look down on his race, and he longed to be proud of his Indian face.

Mom was her name, Mother is more fitting. Never did I know anyone with so much to give. Her style and her looks were as beautiful as heaven above. Running her fingers through my hair as I cuddled at her feet, memories tell me that we were meant to meet. Her guidance and her love were often misunderstood, I am sure she felt too many times unappreciated, if I were her I know I would. In our best interest she made her choices. She spoke up for her children, and gave us strong voices. "Be proud of who you are, you are an Indian, don't let anyone think less of you." "You are beautiful, my sweety heart, heart, heart." Many battles she fought on our behalf to get us respect in the schools. She would not play by their hypocritical rules. I saw her cry tears over each one of us too, always believing that God was in control, and He was not through.

The world was not as kindly as those I was placed with. It tried to conform me and make me another. I grew ashamed of my looks, my dark skin and my eyes. Not to mention the bad vision I had acquired before age five. The teasing I endured would put a scare on my soul. Barbie was "in", all blond and fair skinned. Nothing like a little red Indian

As I grew I could tell that my color was not favored, and I began to hate the person that looked at me from the other side of the mirror. My people were poor and were hurting, hungry and crying. For justice to prevail, would come many of their wails. The world did not see us that way. To it we were lowly, sinful and dirty, crying for "nothing" is was they called it. "Indian givers" was the catchy phrase. "Give us your land and take it back". When all the while we knew we had never owned any land. Only God owns the land.

I was told that our native language was almost extinct, if it wasn't for Grandpa recording his songs and his words. To record "our" Indian history was his task, we all knew and didn't ask. We were told there was a time when they didn't want us to speak our language, it was primitive and evil and caused much upheaval. But the truth was they were scared of our Indian ways, they didn't understand- still some don't today.

I tried to fit in any way that I could, but unhappiness found me I guess I knew it always would.. Being an Indian, the world around me told me I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Go to school, learn what you can. So began my striving to be like the white man. I even tried to bleach my hair to look like that beautiful blond that every one thought was so fond. But it didn't work, I couldn't fool anyone not even myself. I intentionally began to hang my head low, to hide the ugliness I did not wish to show.

Many years past with me always searching. Looking for happiness, looking for purpose. Hiding my "Indian" deep down inside, almost forgetting she was there all the time. Many tears were shed in private, behind doors for no one to see-why was I here, why was I me?

Destiny brought us together, this white man and me. One day we got married not understanding it all, we just knew we belonged together and we knew this was love. Not everyone agreed on our union that was clear, but Betty believed in our marriage and did not jeer. She spoke only wisdom in truth to my soul. "Believe in your husband, he will only become what you believe him to be” Words I still cherish that have proved tried and true.

One day God spoke from heaven and sang a new song, her name would be "Brienne" our own daughter to love. Her beauty was bright, I knew from above. God said "This is good, let's send them a son". Another new song would sing in his birth. To Taqseblue and Brian, from Jesus with love. Brandon was followed by two brothers as well, we would call one Brennin, and the other one Briley.

Their beauty was obvious, two worlds now were mixed, I knew right away this must be God fixed. How could such wonder come from two totally different worlds? was the question I would ask. Only God could accomplish such a marvelous task.

I had yet to accept the person I was, from the time I was born I cried out to myself. In me I found no answer, yet not pleasing to see. So I looked to the world around me and in this place I could not find a purpose for me. One day I got fed up with hate and false love and I cried out to God in heaven above. All I was taught as a child came back, my memory was flooded with words of wisdom and love. I watched my examples of self survival played out in the lives of those I held dearest. Grandpa, Betty, Mom and Dad. The struggles they lived with and the mercy they found when they looked to the heavens and bowed their knees to the ground. The strength they found was from Jesus, His "love".

One day God spoke and said "It is time for Taqseblue to begin her purpose on Mother Earth down below. Get things in order get ready to go!" I heard the soft still voice of Love speak to my soul. "You are Indian, I made you it's time to let go, of sadness and anger, hatred and shame. I made your race and I gave you your name. You opened your heart to my Son that is clear, but now you must accept the role you have here."

He opened my eyes to the truth of His ways. Never showing disrespect to my ancestors Indian ways. Some things were not perfect but He understood, that is why He sent Jesus His Son here with love. His mercy and grace flooded my soul as tears brought out that little Indian girl. In Him I found peace with myself and my race, never again would I feel such lowly digrace

He picked me up, wiped away my tears. Gave me hope and a purpose for living on Mother Earth. "Do not call unclean, what I have made clean. And do not call ugly what I have made beautiful, grasp on to your roots your heritage as well. And know that I love every little Indian boy and girl. Your dark skin was a pleasure to see with my eyes, and your hair I saw fitting to compliment your eyes. The skills and artistry that I placed in your genes, were perfect for living the life that was fitting. In you and your ancestors I placed a keen sensitivity to life all around, in hopes that some day that gift would resound. The heavens rejoiced with every new creation I made, Your race was my choice I picked your shade.

So hold your head high you little Indian girl, its time to dance and it's time to whirl. Put on your Indian dress, put that feather in your hair. Lace up your moccasins it’s time to share. Do not hold back, let what I made shine through and teach your little children the truth of this too. Come worship me in spirit, come worship me in truth and I will always come through, for I made you and your ancestors too."

God made me who I am and I am no other. I am a daughter, I am a wife, and yes I am a proud Indian mother!