Monday, February 25, 2008
Don't Call Me Maiden
(Blasting the Romanticism)
What I mean by romanticism doesn’t involve the romance between an Indian man and woman, because quiet honestly the most romantic you get from a guy is when he’s staring at you and you think he is having a “moment” and he says “What happened to your moustache?” Or maybe it’s when you tell your guy “Please crack that window BEFORE you come out of the bathroom.”
So I was googling the term “Native American T Shirts” and all these images popped up of what people like to think we look like.
First off they called us women “Native Maidens.” With my four kids, it’s more like Maid. All the pictures had these women with long hair blowing in the wind, off the shoulder buckskin dresses, knee high moccasins, and a wolf by their sides. One was sitting by a flowing river with a wolf and an eagle flying overhead as she put good thoughts into the dream catcher she was making.
I am sorry to burst anyone’s bubble who doesn’t live on a rez or never been to one but that is so not right. I mean if you want to wear a T-shirt of that picture fine.
BUT, here is the truth.
The woman will be wearing he ex’s All Tourney T shirt with holes in it and her most comfy pair of yoga pants even if she never did yoga, not even once in her life. She will be barefoot, on her couch watching some reality show on TV as she beads and her only thoughts as she beads are gas money, snacks, and cig money. There is no wolf, maybe just a cat or mangy dog and 3 or 4 kids running around until she screams at them to “Behave or else.”
I think it’s funny to see the romantic perceptions some people come up with. Like End of the Trail. I know so many people who hate that and sometimes I do incorporate it into my beadwork because it sells. Nobody knows the only real End of the Trail that I ever saw was an unnamed relative on a barstool, hanging on for dear life.
It is up to you, if you believe in the Land O Lakes Butter girl, that’s fine. I really do know the lady who posed for that, (Hi Juanita) She doesn’t really sit around and hold butter to the rising sun all day, but you can believe it if you want.
You can also believe that I am sitting by the river with my beaded laptop typing this as wolves howl, eagles fly overhead, the moon is rising, my moccasins are propped up, and my unzeki is sore from sitting.