Kevin reminded me yesterday (which was 40 days left in the countdown) that my last post here tagged “The Fiance” was on Day 80. Subtly hinting he’d like to be the topic of discussion around here? Well, careful what you ask for, mister.

I want to ask you all to ask Kevin some questions. Things you’d like to get to know about him before we get married. He may have met all of my dad’s qualifications, but has he met those of my faithful group of readers?

Comment with your question or email me at liz@misswisabus.com. He’s going to love this. Hope you do, too!

friends who always have a kind word
encouragement
blessed events
she says i began to sing long before i could talk
fresh paint
bright rooms
Saturday morning
cushy couches
pay day
babies
shiny phones

Tonight is the first installment of PBS’s latest American Experience piece—We Shall Remain. I caught a few advertisements for this a couple of weeks ago in between whatever was showing on Masterpiece Theater and my Sunday night Britcoms. I’ll admit that I’m addicted to those, but that’s not what this post is about. I’m very excited to be watching this miniseries. Kevin and I are both fans of historical pieces (Bachelor’s and a Minor in History, respectively) so we’ll be sitting down to watch this tonight while we finish up the last of our invitations.

Native history was not always of great interest to me. I had no connection, not even a small tendon of culture tethering me to the history of my ancestors. That’s right. I’m Native. On both sides and not a small portion. One side we know very little about; a large family of mixed Scotch-Irish and Choctaw blood. The other side is traceable all the way back to somewhere around the year 400 (probably further, but that’s the lowest number I remember seeing), but the Native line ends much more recently. We’re either Cherokee on that side or some smaller tribe that the Cherokees absorbed in Tennessee or Arkansas. From what I can tell, the last full-blooded Cherokee in my family was a woman named Mahala who was born in Tennessee and moved to Arkansas with her husband—an Irishman by the last name of Rawls.

This particular side of my family has been on the good and bad sides of Native peoples. My 10th-great-grandfather was Colonel John West, a man who apparently went down in history less for his military success and more because he left my grandmother to care for 5 children on her own while he shacked up with Cockacoeske, Queen of the Pamunkey tribe and cousin of Pocahontas.

As a child I remember being aware of the fact that we weren’t just plain “white.” I also knew that since we didn’t have any official documentation that we could never claim on any documents that we were Native. Completely absorbed in the culture surrounding me though, it never meant anything. Chances are if you live in Oklahoma and your family has been here more than 3 or 4 generations, you’ve got some Native blood flowing through you. That or you are racist and in denial. I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself. I could never escape the knowledge of what my ancestors were though. Being the oldest of over 25 great-grandchildren, I was one of the few of us to know our great-grandfather or “Pappy” as we all called him—Frank Walters. He was a pillar of his community, owning a portion of the oil wells peppering the pastures surrounding Pernell and one of the stores sitting alongside Highway 76 in southern Oklahoma. The way I remember him most was seeing him sitting in his chair, holding his cane near the front of the store, speaking to people as they came in, and letting me and my younger brother get something off the shelves for ourselves whenever our mom would walk us across the street to visit.

Here’s the thing though — you couldn’t look at him and deny that he was an indian. Of course back then that’s what they called it and belonging to a family who doesn’t let political correctness influence their vocabulary, that’s still the way they say it around my neck of the woods. Everyone knew and everyone accepted that we were Cherokee. Pappy knew that’s what his mama was and you couldn’t look at a man with skin as dark as his and eyes as sparkling and light and think otherwise.

It took coming to college to grasp the importance of my heritage. For me it was something that had always been there, yet never acknowledged by anyone else. Until I was in a writing class and along with two other classmates, I was considered by the professor to be a “woman of color.” Those words stopped me in my tracks. Not in a bad way, I wasn’t offended. But I was shell-shocked to be face-to-face with someone who accepted that I wasn’t just “white” even though I couldn’t prove anything. The funny thing is, this woman and I come from the same people group, only her other side is something quite different — something that makes her experience as an American the polar opposite of mine. I credit her with opening my eyes and setting me on a path to know and accept who my people were.

The road has been a long one to get us where we are now. And the interesting thing is that we aren’t much closer to knowing exactly who we came from than we were 20 years ago. We still have no papers, no cards, no name on a register in any of the towns that matter in eastern Oklahoma. We’ve never even been out to get benefits from discovering our heritage. The reason our name doesn’t reside on any of these lists is because our ancestors refused to take anything from the government. I can’t say that I blame them, considering what happened to all the people that came before them.

I’ve spoken with people who assume that I’m Native by the color of my skin in late August, only to be snubbed when they find out that I can’t claim official status with any tribe. Not that I would ever consider it close to the racism that minorities still receive today, but I’ve experienced more racist responses from Native people who will not accept or respect that I, too, hail from a people who lived here for centuries before Europeans touched the coast, than I ever imagined would happen. I understand, in a way. The desire to protect your heritage and culture when it is so deeply rooted in your day-to-day life, to cloister yourself and your people away in hopes of retaining something of what you were and making your own decisions about what you will be. I understand wanting to keep that away from someone who is “white” like me. I know very, very little about who I come from. My ignorance and interest in learning has got to be something like what Sylvia Plath described as an animal returning to the herd after having been touched by human hands. I’m the animal that was not only touched, but raised and nurtured by something foreign. And not only me, but my entire family for generations. I understand the perceived threat and would never want to offend or step on anyone’s toes.

I only wonder how much damage would come from letting me learn.

Happy Resurrection Sunday!

by dtchristner

Italian Roast again. But this bag is from Walmart, so it’s not freshly ground and man oh man can you tell the difference. It’s cheaper this way though (bags were $7 ea.–$0.98 less than the regular price) and right now I’m learning how to save and be a good steward of what the Lord has given me.

• Free reusable bag!
• I loved having a badger as a mascot in high school. And they’re cute!
• There’s nothing wrong with me wanting to wear that sign around my neck, is there?
• Oh Claire, I understand.
• Wha? is right. I can’t imagine what they are thinking. Please don’t mess up True Grit. It was the whole reason behind my love for Glen Campbell, which, for your information, was the best concert I ever attended with my Granny when we were in Branson.
• AKA, City Folk Are Nosy Busybodies Who Don’t Know Nothing

Sorry folks, they went swirling into the great abyss that is addressing 400 wedding invitations. They’re lost forever. But most of the invitations are in the mail and if you haven’t received yours yet (and you were on the save the date list) it should be there soon.

The online RSVP that I was able to install on the wedding website has turned out to be very successful and I get so excited when I receive an email alert that someone is going to be attending. So, if you’re invited, RSVP! It makes my day

Next on the list is This Very Big Weekend, where I get my hair done, hang out with Heather (matron of honor), and have my bridal portraits done. The location is a secret and I really can’t wait for everyone to see them. We’re planning on having a traditional bridal portrait displayed at the reception (on the gift table?). I need to go scout around for a huge, ridiculously ornate frame.

After all the invitations go out and the portraits are done it will be interesting to see how things go. I don’t think that I have a lot left to do after that. Well, still have to make the wish jars and finish printing the programs (which are looking outstanding).

Tonight is the final episode of ER. While I haven’t been the biggest fan of the past 6 seasons or so, every once in a while I would tune in and find myself weeping by the end. I can’t help it. I grew up on this show. It started when I was 9-years-old and entering the 4th grade and it wasn’t something I was allowed to watch back then. In fact, it might have come on after my bed time. Not that I can remember what that was in 1994. But my mom watched and I remember thinking Noah Wyle’s character was just dreamy (from the commercials).

I first started watching the show sometime later, whenever I was in junior high or high school and TNT started showing it in the mornings. One summer, that’s what mom and I would do. Wake up, have breakfast, and watch ER from 8-10 every morning. At that rate you would go through a season about every 2 weeks, so I’m sure I had almost the entire series (up to that point) covered by the time I started school in the fall.

I began watching it on Thursday nights with my mom and it was sort of “our thing.” Tuesday nights for us were Gilmore Girls (until she gave up on it) and Thursdays we’d plant ourselves in the living room and watch our doctors. I was probably most partial to seasons 4-7, but I carried it a little ways into college and tried to watch it when I could. But those rabbit ears didn’t stand a chance when Heather and I were living on the wrong side of Adams Tower at OU and my consistent viewing of the program suffered.

But here I am. It’s the end. And I know it’s just a TV show. There’s just been nothing like this one for me before. Some of you have M*A*S*H or Seinfeld or Charlie’s Angels. This one is mine. And tonight I’ll cry.

Note: Someday, years from now, if Kevin and I are ever blessed with a little boy, he’s going to need a name. And I can tell you that I decided what it would be when I was 15-years-old and watching this show. When you hear it, you’ll know. But you’re going to have to wait until there’s a little mister to find out this one

I have a lot of younger cousins. Like, 50 a lot. Of course, that’s combining a few sides of the family and including some second cousins in there (some of whom are closer to me than any of my first cousins ever were), but still. We have a huge family and here in about 65 days, my family is going to get even bigger. All the plans are in motion and stuff is really, finally, happening (the invitations will be in the mail by the beginning of next week!). Things are happening so quickly that I can barely spare the time to recount them here for you all. But all the time, my mind is racing and I am thinking about what the future is going to bring to me.

Now, taking into consideration the type of person I am (sentimental, gooey, and painfully nostalgic), June 6 is going to be a very special day. Shoot, even if I was an ice queen I’m sure my wedding day would be special. And it is, for many different reasons. But there’s one I doubt many people think about that comes in somewhere around second to my Super Ginormous Biggest Thing I’ve Ever Done (pledge my love and fidelity to someone for the rest of my days). Any guesses?

This is the biggest family reunion I’ll ever have! And my lands, do I love family reunions! I seriously tried to do this reception potluck (I’d seen it in a few bridal magazines as a trend that is catching on, especially in the south where people never turn down the chance to show up at something that requires a covered dish for admission), but I had a family member tell me it was tacky and I dropped it. You know that for good ol’ Oklahoma folk, “tacky” is code for “don’t you even think about doing that.” Seriously. I’m fairly certain that had I served this idea up in front of my dad, you all would be dining on potato casserole (topped with corn flakes), green been casserole (French’s Fried Onions!), and that marshmallow-pink-Jell-O-Cool Whip bowl of NASTY instead of croissants stuffed with soldfhsoijsldfk and meatballs sautéed in a psdieedksdy reduction sauce.

Yeah, I know. I like casseroles better myself.

Kevin’s family is flying in. Friends that I haven’t seen in years are going to be there. A few are even flying in from out of state for this. Driving miles and miles to get here. And then some are just driving down the road. If you see a cloud of dust rolling toward Duncan that evening, you know where they’re headed.

And wherever you fall in those categories, or even if you belong in one that I didn’t mention, know that after you’ve finished the last of your cake and thrown handfuls of birdseed at us—if it weren’t already the most important day of my life so far, it’d be nearly just that good. Because I get to share it all with you.