My father was rich. Key word…was. He was upper middle class and engaged to marry a lower upper class women.
Then he got my mother pregnant. They should have gotten an abortion. He should have paid my mother off and kept it on the qt. No, he had to do the “right thing” and marry her. One of the problems with marring my “out of wedlock” pregnant mother was she was part Wichita Indian. That would make my mother and me “half-breeds”. No matter that she was only a very small amount Wichita Indian. One drop back then and you were “half-breed”. Also, it didn’t help that her side of the family was poor working class.
My stupid dad was disinherited. He had a son who was a bastard and a “half-breed”. I was barely aware that I was some small part Wichita Indian. The shame was never talked about.
When I was a teenager I went to a Wichita pow-wow. I walked around, not belonging, but feeling somhow connected. At the end of the pow-wow the drummers’ invited everyone to join in a community circle dance.
My heart ached and for one of the few times in my then “sociopath” life I cried. As I danced, I got lost in the beat of the drums, I cried. I had never felt such joy or such pain as I danced. I can feel the feel the pain now. It is unbearable.