More times than I can specifically remember, I have heard some variation of the question, “What are you?”

Sometimes I play dumb and respond with a joke, but sometimes I know what they mean and I say, “I’m native.” This declaration has a strange effect on me in most situations. I feel like I’m either trying on an expensive, beautiful gown or that I’m a spy blowing my cover. For a very long time, I felt like I was not allowed to be native or that I personally could not be part of such a divine lineage. I felt different, I felt older and browner – but not Potawatomi. 

Family members on my maternal side are federally recognized Prairie Band Potawatomi natives. My late, great-grandmother, Marion “Chequess” Perrote, was a fluent Potawatomi speaker and born on historically significant Skunk Hill (now known as Powers Bluff). She was a connection to the older native world that I regret missing; a side of her I knew less of compared to her Christianity. I was raised similarly, with more Christianity than heritage and for that I have always felt left out.

Often, my ethnicity is seen as the dark color of my hair or the bump in the bridge of my nose. My ears perk up to bastardized uses of “spirit animal,” “pow wow,” “teepee” and the like. I cannot deny the overwhelming internal stirring evoked during the Wisconsin Public Radio program “Kalihweyo'se” or our occasional trip to Oneida gatherings. Excitement that, as a child, I interpreted as guilt or embarrassment. 

A turning point for me was when I turned 18 and attempted to get my CIB (Certificate of Indian Blood) card, in order to apply for scholarships for college. This is when I understood that tedious bureaucracy is a favored form of institutionalized racism. From Jackson’s Indian Removal Act which queued the Trail of Tears, to the General Allotment Act which decimated indigenous land ownership, to present day Blood Quantum which quantifies being native into lucrative or not fractions of blood. Years of regulated erasure and stolen then repackaged sums of land has tried beating down indigenous people.

I am trying not to be angry as I get older realizing what I have lost. I have only suffered a misplaced identity that I can relearn, yet most have lost more and unjustly. Lately I consider the systematic genocide of my ancestors ringing loudly in “Make America Great Again,” for two large reasons. One, governmental oppression is being applied to many minorities still, even children. The parallels are grossly blatant. The same sweeping, malicious assimilation and rejection lives on in our modern policies.

Secondly, the phrase for me is hopeful as I reflect on how it might be repurposed. America, once a melting pot, has created a large populace of individuals with little to no cultural identity. The powdered wig presidents, cowboys, The American Dream, and the nuclear family are sources of American culture that have not withstood the test of truth and time. Building an identity on a framework of bigoted, white washed and manipulative ideals has created individuals who misunderstand, disrespect and appropriate cultures they yearn for, but have not kept during the “melting” of the United States of America. 

I think of how complex coming into my indigenous soul has been and of two things I am certain: the key to equality is individuality and I do not need the BIA to confirm that I am a proud Potawatomi. 

Chloé Allyn is an Appleton resident. She can be reached at 

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