Exchange during the last editing session:
Meg: We’re the two most insufferable people in the world.
Me: Why, did something happen to Zooey Deschanel?
Meg: No, but ever since I delivered copies of our books to
Occupy DC’s “People’s Library” and wrote that letter to the Texas Parole Board
you asked me to, I’ve been saying “I do my fighting with my writing,” like, all
the time. And you won’t shut up about finding out you’re related to Pocahontas.
Me: “DID YOU EVER HEAR THE WOLF CRY TO THE BLUE CORN MOON…”
Meg: Yes, exactly that.
During my trip to Texas, my aunt casually mentioned we were
descended from Pocahontas. Like, just kind of threw it in there: “And so turn
left up here to get to the place with the dinosaur tracks. Yeah, so, your
great-great grandmother was an Allen, but her mother was a Lee – I said LEFT –
and her mother was descended from
Pocahontas.”
“Wait. So I’m descended from Pocahontas.”
“Yeah, apparently. I mean, so are about 150,000 other
people, I don’t think we’re getting a casino anytime soon.”
I learned this at the worst possible time. Being “less than
employed” has been hard on me, so I’ve been doing those Oprah-style “list your
accomplishments” exercises to stave off a fried chicken, Cybill, and tears 2008-style meltdown. “I have co-written three
books” and “I have a master’s degree” weren’t cutting it anymore and I was
ready to try “compared to the average of EVERYONE who EVER lived, I’m really
tall,” but then I found out I was descended from Pocahontas, which makes me, in
the vaguest, most tenuous, most not-holding-up-to-scrutiny way, royalty.
I think about “Grandma Pokey” all the time, as evidenced in
the infographic below:
My Pocahontal frenzy has manifested itself in the following
ways:
- I’ve been humming “Colors of the Wind” to myself
for weeks, which of course means that everyone who’s been around me recently
has started humming it. Last week’s catchphrase around here was “How high does
the sycamore grow? If you cut it down, GODDAMMIT, CHRIS.”
- During my birthday celebration, Meg bribed the guy at the piano bar to play “Colors of the
Wind” just for me. A woman near us immediately closed her eyes and began to
sway and feel it, which pissed me off
because it was MY SONG.
- I tried to Netflix Pocahontas to watch over
Thanksgiving (you know, because it’s an accurate historical epic with
well-developed characters), but it wasn’t available, so I had to settle for
“Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World,” which arrived late. I watched it by
myself yesterday and communed with my ancestors.
- I saw in the news that archaeologists think
they’ve found the remains of the church where Pocahontas married John Rolfe. I
told Giant Camel, who accused me of setting up a Google alert for her. I
hadn’t, but I have now. More than one person called to tell me.
- I wrote to
my congressman about how it pissed me off that Virginia Native Americans
get treated especially badly. According to internet, they don’t get land grants
literally because their paperwork got fucked up during segregation in the ‘20s
and they’re not registered right. I used the same good stationery I used to write the Texas Parole Board. It’s gold-edged and makes me look rich, so maybe they’ll take me seriously.
Get back to me on this in a few weeks, by which point I intend to have found out from the grinning bobcat what’s so damn funny.
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