Guest commentary: I'm Finndian and proud of it

I walked out of the Washington Elementary school gym, my head held high. My dance was beautiful. I walked into my kindergarten classroom and watched as all the kids scrambled to take their seats. They were all squirrely and ready to be set free. I sat in my little yellow chair. The pods were scattered across the room, in a flower-like pattern. I sat with most of the “bad” kids in my class, not a good idea.

The other kids sat around the pod. They watched me. I felt their eyes burn holes into my head.

“I saw you dance,” one kid said. I looked at him, confused. Indian Education had a powwow in the gym. I danced that day with all the other kids in my Indian Ed class. We all had different dresses: I wore a blue shawl dress. Most of the other girls wore jingle dresses, dresses that have multiple rows of metal to create a jingle sound when the dance is performed.

I was different. I fell in love with the way the shawl fell down my shoulders until the ends of the ribbon reached the floor. I brought it up over my shoulders like butterfly wings. We danced around the drum, and I felt it was all a perfect fit for me. As the drummers sang, all of us danced around to the beat. Everyone was welcomed. Soon my whole class was dancing along.

“Yeah, everyone danced,” I replied. I thought about the last hour. The way the dance made me feel. I loved dancing, but I was different from the rest of the kids.

“You don’t look like them,” one kid announced.

“What even are you?” another uttered.

“I’m a Finndian,” I answered proudly. My grandma called me this since my dad was Finnish, and my mom Native American. As I said this, I realized my teacher was listening in on the conversation. She walked over to me and pulled me aside. “What did you call yourself?”

“A Finndian,” I told her.

She looked upset. I watched her look at me. The wrinkles on her forehead made a frowny face. Why was she so confused? I didn’t really pay attention for the rest of the day. When it was time to go home, my teacher bent down and gave me a letter. I tried to read it, but obviously at that age it’s like looking at cuneiform.

“Give this to your parents when you get home,” she said. I was a little confused. Was I in trouble? Am I going to be a bad kid like the kids in my pod? Is that why I sit there? I had this horrible feeling in my stomach: whatever that cuneiform said held my future.

I ran to my mom’s car. I ran fast and climbed into my car seat. I buckled up and acted like I was in a high-speed car chase. I liked the feeling like I was a rebel, but I also have never been in trouble in my life. I handed my mom the letter. Her eyes widened, and then I saw anger. I knew my funeral was about to come. Whatever I did was not good. My mom reached for the phone and started yelling. She was on the phone with my dad, but it wasn’t about me. It was the school. I was saved. I praised the letter lords.

The next day, my mom came to school with me. She was still infuriated. She started yelling at the principal. Turns out the letter was about how I wasn’t “politically correct” and I should refer to myself as either white or Native American. The principal couldn’t do much but told us he would talk to the teacher. Nothing really changed. I wasn’t allowed to say it in school anymore.

My mom took me home and sat me down. “You can call yourself whatever you want. The other kids at school don’t need to understand why you don’t look like the other kids.”

As a little kid I didn’t really realize what she was saying. I still feel ashamed that I don’t look like the other kids. Ever since that day, I felt confused. I still am. Even in middle school I was called “One percent” because I didn’t look like them. I was made fun of because I wanted to fit in with my culture. My skin is light and theirs is dark. I was pushed out of the circle. I also didn’t have the life most of the other kids have. While most of them had “rez” houses, I had a “rich” house, as my friends called it. I’m still friends with some of them today, but some of them don’t accept me.

I’ve realized that in school I must act like I’m not like them. At home I can be whoever I want. It’s nice when I can go to things with my mom — she’s my proof that I’m like them. One day I want to dance again and feel that connection. Hopefully one day I can end this weird identity crisis and not care what other people think about me.

Amaya Bridge is a sophomore at Cloquet High school. She takes pride in her heritage as both a Native American and being of Finnish descent.