My Native-American Friend

Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this post, let me give you some background.

My Dad was from the Philippines. My mother is white. Of German descent, to be exact; but born and raised in the mid-west of America.

So, I look a little different. And no one has ever been able to quite place me: Racially, ethnically. Oh, a few have, I'll get into that in a minute.

When I was a teen, my mother moved me to a little town in Northern California; an isolated little city with no diversity: Except a notorious population of Native-Americans; infamous for street fights and bar-fights and heavy drinking; or, at least, that's what impressed the local population. Don't know that these activities were occurring any more in the Native population than with the down-home locals, but, at any rate, to the locals it was impressive and noticeable.

So, me being the obscure-looking fellow that I am, got lots of questions: Are you Hawaiian? Are you Samoan? Are you this, that, etcetera, and so on...Mostly the question was this: Are you Indian?

To be frank, I consider the question irrelevant. It is particularly troubling when it's accompanied by a racial slur. Back in my youth, I took it all personally and decided to identify one way or another racially. Nowadays, I consider identifications to be stupid, false, and destructive.

Funny, I moved to a much more diverse community briefly, and it was the first time someone actually asked me if I was Filipino; usually the person asking was Filipino, maybe Hawaiian. But that's a different dynamic; it's because they are Filipino or know Filipinos, so the question is legitimate not just bizarre. And I never got the weird looks of wonderment and hate there. Felt more like I belonged.

Anyway, back in those teen years, everyone thinking I was Native-American, I made many Native-American friends. My friends were heavy drinkers, street fighters, thieves, and all around rowdy.

My best friend back then was such a person. Full-blooded Native-American: Tough and defiant. He looked like an upside-down triangle and when he punched someone it was a decisive summary. Me and my friend got into lots of trouble. I'll just say that much.

So, finally, here's the story, the meat and potatoes.

One day, my friend and I, we're sitting outside a small amusement park in town, which since has been shut down because it made no money in the depressed economy of this little feudal community. We were sitting outside the fence, drinking beers. The security guard comes up to us and tells us we have to leave.

I stand up immediately and say Ok. My friend sits there, unconcerned, looking at the guard. He waits quite awhile, finishes his beer, and finally says, Ok.

We get up and go.

While walking my friend asks me, "What's wrong with you?"

"What?" My summary answer.

"Why do you just do what someone tells you?"

I admit, it shocked me. But he was right. And it was a good question.

These days I question everything. Religion, the economic system, the social structure, what people tell me to do, what is expected, whether I should slave away at a thankless and mind-numbing job...everything.

But, I guess, most of my life, I really never did question things. Someone seemed to have authority and tells me to do or not do something, I'd fall in line.

And, at this late date, I've realized I was making a major error.

There is nothing better than a mind which questions, doesn't just say Yes, wonders why something is being requested or demanded.

And that is the value of learning from a friend. You learn about yourself.