Identity 

“Entering sovereign territory of the Seneca Nation Of Indians.” It felt different reading it now compared to my usual habit of skimming past it when we would enter the reservation during Thanksgiving and summer. It was now my home, my new home, with family members on every corner. 

Everyone knew everyone. 

The day we got settled in, people were passing by and rolling down their window trying to see what new natives just moved in. It wasn’t long before word was getting around that John Williams had moved back to town, and he brought his whole family with him. 

Any person I would meet would greet me with, “Oh, yeah, you’re a Williams kid.” 

“Yeah, you’re John’s daughter.”

Life felt different. My language was present on every sign. They offered Seneca language at the high school I went to, but it wasn’t something I was familiar with. Sure, there were occasional Seneca words my dad would throw out at dinner, like, “Pass me the ‘jíke’da’ and ‘deyóhsait,’” or teaching our dogs to “sajë:h” and “ga:jih,” but now I was living on a reservation where everyone spoke the same language. They knew far more than I did. 

In the class I took, I learned more about my clan and my heritage. It seemed everyone in the class considered this elementary knowledge, something you are born into knowing. I was just trying to keep up.  

I felt completely out of place. 

Like an imposter. 

Was I really a Native American, or had I just happened to be born to parents who were? I felt like many of the things I was given through my tribe were things I didn’t really deserve. In Arizona, people would ask me what I was. 

“I’m Native American.”

Laughs would burst out, followed by a “No, you’re not.” 

“I am! I swear,” I would protest. 

“OK, so what? You live in a tipi?” 

I started to feel bad about it, like maybe this is something I should be ashamed of.  

Maybe it was something that people shouldn’t know. 

I used my time wisely in my Seneca class, retaining a lot of information and learning more about myself and my people. To this day, I can recite the Ganö:nyök (Seneca prayer).

“Sga:d hëdwa:yë:’ ögwa’nigöë’ dëdwadahnö:nyo:’ Ha’deyögwe’dage:h Da:h ne’hoh dih nëyögwa’nigo’dë:ö.” 

“One we will have our mind, We give thanks to each other, All of the people, And so let it be that way in our minds.”

Some of the knowledge had to be gained outside the classroom, like attending cultural events and powwows, experiences I never had in Arizona. 

I would see dancers in their headdresses, women in their ribbon skirts and the bells attached to their beaded moccasins that jingle with every step they took to the stage. 

I worked for the tribe one summer, where I got to watch firsthand how younger people interacted with each other. It was like everyone was family, and you could joke with anyone, and they would get it. 

“Who just said ‘uno’? It’s ‘sga:d’ in this area,” one boy said to another as we were playing cards. 

Break times would turn into socials where they would play Seneca songs on the speaker and start smoke dancing. 

I felt more connected as months and months passed by. It felt comforting to be in spaces and environments like that and knowing that people there were like me and we were connected. 

I noticed that the little things I began doing connected me back to the past and honored my ancestors. I felt good about myself for finally knowing about my culture. 

Now, it’s the one thing that identifies me the most.

I’m even helping Point Loma Nazarene University secure a plaque for the land we’re on and contributing ideas on how to preserve the knowledge of the land without making it performative. Attending a predominantly white school and working to expand general knowledge of Native American history makes me feel proud of myself and my people. In a way, it feels like I’m giving back to both my community and my younger self. While working on the land acknowledgment, I also attempted to start an affinity group. Though the process was cut short, I wanted to create the group because I realized others on the campus might be going through what my younger self experienced – shame for being who you are, for being different.

I hope to continue the work of acknowledging those who came before us while empowering others to feel proud of who they are. 

I am no longer ashamed. I am proud to be who I am.

Miranda Williams is a third-year environmental studies major with a concentration in biology. Her goal after graduation is to move back to her reservation, where she can work on conservation efforts in the environmental department and contribute to her community.