I was the only “half-breed” (yes, that’s a Cher reference) in a small Oregon town. Largely white with a sprinkling of Latinos, it was assumed that my father was Mexican—nobody knew what an Oklahoma Cherokee accent sounded like (let alone what a Cherokee looked like). And me? I was whiter than my mother. By the time I was 12, strangers assumed my father and I were dating when we went out alone together. By 13, I refused to be seen in public with him.
It’s impossible to squeeze the myriad of jabs, one after another, into something of an essay. The renowned poet Marvin Bell recently asked me, “Is it all true? Did this all really happen?” Yes—completely. My father disappeared when I was 15, popping up a couple of years later from a cancer-soaked deathbed in an Indian hospital. My mother kicked me out the summer I turned 16, changing the locks on the doors and leaving a bag of my clothes in a trash bag on the porch. I spent a few months homeless, but not car-less thanks to working under the table jobs since I was 11. I showered in Pilot Station bathrooms, sold torn out stereo equipment in pawn shops. I was a kid and this was an adventure. For the first time in my life, I felt free.
That was a lifetime ago. I think it’s that tenacity that honed my gut instincts, my dogged heart-following tendencies when even the most obtuse of people would say it’s a mistake. I’ve never made a mistake, but I’ve had plenty of adventures. I’ve been in love once—hard—still am, in fact. He looks like my father and has all the same “good parts” but none of the bad. But he’s the “wrong” kind of Indian, the kind that grew up along the Arabian coast and snuck parathas dipped in ghee as a child instead of M&Ms. It took six years of heartbreak, my running away to Costa Rica, and him risking being ostracized from his family (he was supposed to be arranged, after all) to come to this: An impending wedding in Mumbai, elephants and mehndi as accoutrements.
I’ve lived enough close calls and in enough countries by now to understand that “belonging” isn’t a physical space. There were times London felt like home. It’s easy when you’re in graduate school, flush with fellowships and living next door to Hugh Grant (though I never saw him), gorging on real Christmas pudding. It wasn’t so easy when I failed moving there permanently with a work visa. There were slivers of home in Seoul, when I let fish eat away at my feet and got foggy from too much Korean barbeque. I’ve felt at home in Costa Rica, the United Arab Emirates, India and even (sometimes) when I visit that small Oregon town.
So, where do I belong? Where am I free? It depends who you ask. I was never accepted in either of my “born into it” cultures. I “pass” as white, though some strangers with sharp eyes saying, “You look something.” (It’s in the eyes. Those high cheekbones). But I never felt at home in that culture. Never unshackled. My Cherokee family was scared of me, a blonde little girl who couldn’t speak the language and hated those Oklahoma granddaddy long legs that scaled the front doors. I tried so hard to fit into the “right places” and felt like a fraud in each of them. The high school cheerleader. The sorority president. The one who got a good corporate job and was miserable in zippers and skirts. Through it all, I kept where I was from a secret—nobody wants to hear about that. Fortunately, it doesn’t really matter what anyone else says about where I belong. I know where that is now.
I belong “here.” I’m free “here.” In my words, and in my writing. I belong in a healthy body, one that isn’t emaciated in eating disorders in another valiant effort to look like a Pinterest board. I belong with my partner so we can see how a real lifelong love story unfolds. I belong deep inside books, my favorite yoga poses, and on that special hiking trail I worked out for myself amongst the forest and rose gardens. I belong to nobody and everybody, including myself. Freedom and joy are everywhere. Look around—and don’t forget, from time to time, to look within.
About the Author: Jessica Tyner, born and raised in Oregon, is the author of The Last Exotic Petting Zoo and What Makes an Always, published by Tayen Lane Publishing. She is the founder of MehtaFor, a writing company which serves a variety of clients including Fortune 500 enterprises and major media outlets. As a member of the Cherokee Nation, Jessica offers complimentary writing and editing services through her company to Native American students as well as non-profits based in the Pacific Northwest and/or serving Native communities.
Jessica currently lives in Portland, Oregon where she writes and practices yoga.
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