Gentle warriors: A Mother's Day tribute to our Native-American foremothers

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The area where I grew up, in central Alabama, was part of what came to be known as the "Trail of Tears." I heard about it in school and from my elders, but it was a long time before I put faces or reason on these so-called savages who were removed in the name of progress.

They did not all go. Why should anyone assume they were willing to accept such a profound defeat, the loss of everything, not just land, and home, but religion as well. They didn't. But it wasn't until years later, in reading a local history of the Montevallo, Alabama area, when the impact of the sacrifice, heroism and ultimate victory of a group of Native-American women became apparent.

It was a mere paragraph in a history of a very small town. There was something about a group of what were then called "Indian" maidens. Jackson's Raiders found them alone, camping by a creek, in central Alabama. There was no explanation for them being there and nobody else near by. My, what those men must have thought.

When I was a child, my parents told me about the "part" of me that was then called "Indian," but now Native-American. My great-great-grandmother on one side of the family was Cherokee, on the other side though there were the Choctaws.

Looking back at this time in my life, it is easy to see little bits of the Native culture that survived. This story is from the Cherokee side. Of my great-great-grandmother, I knew little, except she insisted on being buried in the woods, "Indian style." That was her last wish. My great-grandmother, her daughter, carried out her request. Alone. She never disclosed the location, nor allowed the sacredness of her own mother's burial to be defiled.

I remembered my great-grandmother as a strong hard working woman. She lived away from town, collected herbs and grew her own vegetables. My grandfather, her son, made his own medicine from herbs he found in the woods. As a child, he taught me to find my way by the sun and to respect the forces of nature. I grew up in the woods, but even as a child was never lost. These were little things, I did not hold of much account, not until I was much older.

The day I was told of the Native blood that ran through my veins, I was told to never tell. They said, "If you are Black they will make you a slave, if you are Indian they will kill you. You are White and don't ever say different."

I kept this inside for many years, always wondering about these mysterious ancestors who would be killed for existing. They were a part of me. When I first read the story of the Indian maidens beside the creek, it sounded like some cheap Hollywood fantasy. A B-movie. But it wasn't. Those were my fore-mothers. I wondered how even savage parents could have abandoned their daughters. Had they all been killed? There were no men, children, or elderly among them. They were all maidens; all light enough "to pass," all "desirable" wives for the European men who had by that time taken over the area.

Each of these women took a husband, and they had children. They raised their children as White, but they did not forget, and they made sure their children knew the truth about who they were. Each time the story was passed on, those children learned that to survive meant to never tell the secret.

I was much older before I realized that land to them was not as we see it today to be bartered, sold and desecrated in the name of progress. Land to the Cherokee was a sacred bond between earth and people, the most holy of bonds. When I realized that, I realized what they had done.

Only in marrying the men who now ruled their land, they were able to stay with the earth where their ancestors had walked. They assimilated through marriage and they maintained the sacred bond between their people, their children, their blood, and their land. Life was not what they dreamed of when they were children, not in any way what their parents had hoped for them. But with the most gentle of battle, they refused defeat. Embracing in the most intimate of ways, they married the enemy. By the only means they had, they gave their lives to preserve the sacred bond of their people with the land.

They only got a short paragraph in a tiny local history, but they are not forgotten. These women were heroines of their people, of my people. Even as their parents, their brothers, and their men were marched away, they maintained their resolve. They gave up their opportunity for marriage, love, and community with their own people. In this they never quit fighting. There was nothing left, nothing but the sacred bond between their people and their land. Still they fought on, only the gray hair of death bringing respite. They gave every thing to stay with the land and to preserve that sacred bond for their children and their children's children.

Today, those children walk the sacred land of their ancestors. It was many moons coming, but once more, without fear, they can acknowledge who they are. Their lineage has survived, and today, silent no more, the children of their children's children once more lift their voice to claim the bond between their blood and their land. Each one a heroine, they were victorious.

For more information, see the following on the Trail of Tears.

Native voices: A tribute to Native American women.

For more information see:

Powwows.com -- for more on Native American culture and pow wows.
Native American heritage and lesson plans for teachers.
Understanding Prejudice -- Teaching about Native American issues.
National Museum of the American Indian -- a Smithsonian Institution.

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This article is part of the Ethnic Communities Series by Regina Garson. Your comments and suggestions are welcome. Subscribe to this feed and get an email update each time a new article is published.