I grew up being told by family members that we are “just a Mexican Indian, we’re not real” because we are not “real” in the eyes of the government. As I grew into adulthood, I saw my Yaqui people transitioning from being “not real” to being “real” as the Pascua Yaqui Indian Tribe of Arizona was formally acknowledged as a federally recognized Native American tribe. Today, I watch as my Yaqui Indian people are being accorded status in the central valley of California, where we have always traveled to and from the deserts of Arizona in search of work in the agricultural and construction areas.

I completely understand the visceral argument by the younger generation of tribal people to not want to be associated with the follies of the European colonialists. I also understand the blood and tears of being a “real” Indian American during a time in history when it was neither fashionable nor prudent to be so identified. I know that I am a tribal American. I do not need a piece of paper to tell me who and what I am, and I own many pieces of paper that tell me who others think I am. I am an Indian.

Julie C. Abril

Durango