Sisters in the Wind(26)
“Maybe,” I lie. “There’s a lot to get through before that.”
I don’t ever want to meet my birth mother’s family.
“But back to why you started your company, Raven Air. What made you want to help foster kids? Native foster kids,” I clarify.
“Well, I grew up in foster care,” Jamie says. “My mother struggled with addiction. I was five when I got taken away.”
He’s repositioning the remote control now. There’s a morning news show on TV. Neither of us is watching, but it’s something to look at when one of us needs a convenient distraction. I stare at the screen alongside Jamie until he’s ready to talk again.
He waits for a commercial break that neither of us needs.
“My mom knew she was Native but didn’t know what tribe her dad was from. I always thought she was Cherokee because I was born in Oklahoma City, but I learned there are almost forty different tribes in the state. Plus, Natives from reservations all over the country relocated to the bigger cities for federal jobs programs.” He looks embarrassed suddenly. “Not to bore you with my history.”
“I asked,” I remind him. “I’m interested, for real.” When I smile, I must remind him of Lily-bah, because his eyes tear up. I nod for him to continue.
“Okay, well. So many Native kids were taken from their families—stolen, really, for all kinds of reasons—that Congress passed a law in 1978 called the Indian Child Welfare Act, which recognized that tribes had a right to their children because they represented the future survival of the tribe. State workers needed cultural training because they were using middle-class standards that included poverty as a reason for taking kids, all while knowing poverty was endemic on reservations.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Endemic.”
“Okay, so tribes were forced onto reservations. Literally. At gunpoint, for some. They had to get permission to leave the reservation. Some Indian Affairs superintendent had to approve it.” Jamie shakes his head in incredulity. “Then white middle-class social workers came around and said, ‘Oh, you don’t have running water. That’s neglect. You’re poor. That’s neglect.’” He gestures dramatically. “But the families were enduring the conditions imposed upon them. Endemic means happening regularly, so prevalent that it’s commonplace.”
In addition to helping former foster children reconnect with their Native families, he explains, his company provides training and technical assistance to state agencies about the Indian Child Welfare Act. He pronounces the acronym ICWA as a single word: ICK-wuh.
“You train social workers about ICWA?” My heart races. I turn to look out the window so Jamie won’t see the color leave my face.
“Yes, Lucy. Along with a team of consultants, we train social workers, judges, and attorneys. The company’s really growing.” His face lights up. “We’ve got a pilot project next fall with one university—guest lecturing in social-work courses and offering internships for research assistants. We have two full-time project managers and a part-time office manager named Hazel who keeps us sane.”
Jamie hands me a sheet of paper. I must have been lost in my thoughts because I didn’t notice him leave to retrieve whatever it is.
He retreats to his room and closes the door, which, ordinarily, is left open during the day.
There are three photographs with text wrapping. The first shows a Native woman holding a smiling baby in tiny pink high-top sneakers. The second shows the baby, now a girl of about eight years old, wearing colorful purple regalia and holding a basket shaped like a strawberry. The last picture shows a Native family—all smiles—posing in front of a judge. The mom and two daughters wear matching blue skirts adorned with ribbons along the bottom. The title on the page is unusual: Gimiwan. It’s the name of the girl in the pictures.
Woke up to the sound of Gimiwan this morning. I’ve played many roles to her—auntie, cousin, teacher. She was born my cousin, but through ceremony and ICWA she is my daughter.
I was into my master’s degree full time, raising two boys and maintaining a full-time career. I felt like I couldn’t take on an eight-month-old. Later that day I got asked if I would come try to help comfort her. I walked in … she was so chunky and brown. She was crying the biggest tears. They handed her to me, and I said, “Aaniin, kwezans. I’m your cousin. I’m sorry you’re so sad.” She immediately stopped crying and looked at me. Her big brown baby eyes gazed into mine and she was calm.
That’s when and how Gimi got her little hooks into my mama heart and never let go.
Gimiwan is living proof of why ICWA matters.
Our beautiful little daanseh is … being raised with love by her family on her ancestral homelands. Attending tribal school. Dancing our dances. Singing our songs. Praying with our medicines. Learning in our lodges. Speaking our language.
Miigwech to EVERY person that helped us get to this day: ACFS, Tribal Court, guardian ad litem, our families, and our tribal community.
—The Isaac Family
I retreat to my room and shut the door. There’s a clock radio on the nightstand. I find a local station and saturate the room with sound. I lie down, turn to my side, and stare at the colorful, smiling girl on the paper. Gimiwan. I wonder what her name translates to in English.
I wish Jamie had trained my social worker. Then she wouldn’t have done what she did. Maybe things could’ve been different.