I'm what some might call a mutt, a mixed breed, a mud-blood.  My ethnic background is a hodge podge of nationalities.  My great grandparents moved to Canada from England, Finland and Sicily and two great grandparents were born in Canada, native Canadians, Ojibway.  In the summer months, my complexion needs very little encouragement from the sun to turn what I used to consider a gross greenish-brown color but what is actually just a fine olive tone. 

 

I inherited the brown hair, brown eyes, brown(olive) skin tone and oddly, very dark skin that always looks like it is dirty around my elbows, Altogether, a boring combination with no sparkle and then to boot, I'm short.  I do not mind the thick wavy hair but I do dislike my big paws. My brother inherited the "Finnish blue eyes" and the English dimples .  My sister was blonde for years and she got the English legs.  I got the Italian bust, which served me well for years, but at 50+ makes me look more the matriarch than I would like.

 

  I have been asked about my ethnic heritage since I was a child.  I always know the question is coming.  I can tell someone is thinking or debating asking me what nationality I am just by how they are holding their head and looking at me, as if I am a curiosity at a traveling circus.  They will brush their finger against their lips while considering how best to ask the question that allows them to compartmentalize who I am in their brain.  I find myself smirking as they lean forward. 

 

"Yes?" I will query as they start to speak.  It stops them and whatever they were going to say carefully, now comes out in a quick rush of words, "Are you an Indian?  Are you Spanish?  Are you Portuguese? Are you Chinese?  Are you Jamaican? (seriously) Are you Italian? "  I have never once been asked if I am Finnish or English.  I have been asked to present a native status card which I do not possess.  I have been asked if I was born here.  I have had some fun with my replies, especially the Jamaican one.  I rolled up my sleeves and checked my tan and replied, "Not yet but check back with me tomorrow, I should be done cooking by then."  I mean, seriously, why not have a little fun. 

 

Why do people ask this nationality question?  Some ask because they are looking at me and cannot seem to make up their mind and some ask because they are looking for a common bond through our ancestry.  Some ask so they can decide whether or not to trust me.  This is the type of person that has considered the fact that I may be native and therefore in their mind not to be trusted around their worldly possessions or in their store. 

 

I had encountered very little racism until I moved onto a native reservation in my forties. When I was a young girl, 

I had a few neighborhood kids tease me that my daddy was an Indian and ask me about reading smoke signals and if there was a tipi in my backyard but none of that really bothered me. 

 

My most shocking brush with racism happened when I was forty years old and while I was shopping with my ten year old daughters.  I was at a dollar store for crying out loud.  We had been walking through the mall and one of my daughters was carrying a bottle of water with her.  I took a sip and put it in my purse before we entered the store.  This half drank bottle of water was going to start a war.  I was in the store to pick up some kitchen items for my dad's poorly stocked kitchen drawers.  Who cooks without a ladle or a wooden spoon?  Dad did not even have a decent dry cloth.  Sheesh!  I picked up $50 worth of items and proceeded to the cashier.  I opened my purse to pull out my wallet and the cashier, a woman almost my age, looked into my purse, saw the bottle and asked me, "Did you get that off of the shelf?" 

 

At first, I was clueless.  I had no idea what she was referring to until I saw her jabbing her finger repeatedly towards the bottle in my purse.  "Did you take that", she demanded to know.  I was shocked that she had the gall to question my character and worse to embarrass me in a public place.  I started to explain that the water was from outside of the store but she had already decided that I was stealing a half-drank bottle of water and she was calling the manager.  Good!  I was happy to see the manager. 

 

I asked the kids to cover their ears and I let forth the nastiest tirade of anger and shock over the racist and mortifying treatment that I had just received from the store employee.  I was livid.  The manager did not apologize for her employee but suggested that I pay for my goods and leave.  Guess where I told them to restock their items.  I walked out of the store and for a good thirty paces I was loud enough that anyone walking towards the store got a good earful about the fools that I had just raked over the coals.

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Unfortunately, this was not the last time I was "red-flagged" in a retail store in the city.  I used to think that these stores had the most amazing customer service.  All these sales people asking me if they could help me.  I felt special.  It took me a while to realize that I was being judged not on the content of my character but on the color of my skin. 

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Once I caught on to this racial profiling I decided that I was just going to have some fun at their expense as nothing I would say could have any impact, as my 100% native cousins had informed me, in changing their policies about native profiling. 

 

I would go shopping and pick up items and place them all over the store.  I would ask for assistance from the sales people and send them on wild goose chases for items that I would then deem unnecessary.  I would fill a shopping cart with a ton of items and then walk out of the store with nothing. As soon as I felt that I was being monitored I would go full on annoying.  It was a waste of their time and a waste of mine. 

 

When we moved from Sudbury we landed in downtown Calgary.  You do not even want to know how bad natives are treated in downtown Calgary.  I have seen police literally drag a native man from the C Train just for smart mouthing them.  I saw a man yelling at a native woman for no reason other than she was standing too close to him and I have had people follow me in stores in Calgary.  British Columbia seems to be the exception so far.  I don't see many natives in the city, here, so it is tough to judge. 

 

Racism hurts everyone.  I'm a good friend to have and judging me poorly based on the color of my skin is a loss for that person, not a loss for me.  Walk a mile in my moccasins before deciding who I am.