Personal Narrative: I Am An Urban Indian

Urban Indian “Are you Spanish? Are you Mexican?” Not-so-close friends ask me. “…No,” I reply. Thinking in my head, “Really? Are people this clueless about the first people in America?” I am not one of these other brown-skinned peoples living in New Mexico. I am not a part of the majority-minority of this state. Rather, my culture, my relatives, my people are the minority of the country. I am Navajo. Since I was old enough to comprehend words and sentences, I have known that I am Navajo. While I am proud of knowing who I am and where I come from, an insecurity of feeling abnormal and different has formed. I remember being five years old, a big move to a big house and my first time experiencing Halloween. That was also the year the movie, High School Musical came out. I dressed as Gabriella complete with the red dress and even a lab coat. The year after, I had my mother make a lion costume that I absolutely loved. After these years, the photo albums show I never dressed up

Rather I am what is called an Urban Indian, an Indian who grew up in the city, in the white man’s world. I don’t practice traditions and ceremonies of the Navajo. I don’t speak the Navajo language. I have limited knowledge of the culture and history. I don’t know the Navajo Creation Story, just bits and pieces from what my dad remembers, who grew up on the reservation. Though I did not grow up on the reservation, it’s alright to be a city slicker as I have been told. It’s okay because my father “moved off the reservation to give his children a better education, a better home, a better life.” I know I have opportunities that many Navajos don’t get a chance to have and strive for. I know who I am but sometimes I don’t feel as if I do. The thought “I’m Navajo, but somehow I’m not,” sometimes running through my head. Though I don’t feel normal, stuck on the border between Navajo and American, my ancestry lets me know who I