Not Adopted
My father-in-law’s eighty- one year old wife
told me she was half Choctaw Indian,
but I had forgotten by the time she showed photos
of some of her forty great-grandchildren.
One toddler’s hair was jet black
and I asked if he was adopted.
She looked at me as if I were dense.
“No, not adopted. Choctaw!”
I kind of back pedaled a little bit,
trying to smooth any ruffled feathers,
saying how my own mother’s hair
and complexion were dark.
She pointed to a photo on the wall,
a raven-haired beauty—
herself in younger years
before her hair had turned white,
her skin sallow,
hiding her Choctaw heritage,
her beautiful Choctaw heritage.
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