It is not only my vocabulary that is colorful. As a Native American with a lot of European thrown in, I always seem Caucasian until people meet my family. I’m 1/8 Shawnee and approx. 1/8 Kickapoo making me nearly ¼ native, but my pigmentation isn’t quite right. The melanin in my skin is the same, but more pale. I am one of few people with cold brown hair. My eyes shift colors depending on mood and the phase of the moon. People think it’s easier for me to blend it, but it’s actually more difficult. I’m neither white nor native. I belong no where as a racial line. I’m mixed and terribly so. I don’t have the raven hair of my grandmother or the naturally sun kissed skin of my father. My facial features show it, and many people can recognize it, but it’s subtle.
I was raised in the old traditions of my people. I have trouble understanding some of the more modern social difficulties because natives always believed that gender was defined by the soul, not the body and orientation by the spirit and mind.
So being asexual was never something my family wouldn’t accept, but, like everything else, it was only my family that accepted this difference.
Like my mixed race heritage and the unusual pigmentation I carry, my asexuality was erased by those around me.
My race does not exist. My orientation does not exist. My heritage does not exist.
And yet, here I am.
I have become the proof that other people are wrong. That I can and will endure just as the heritage and genes I carry with me do.