Personal Narrative: I Am A Native American

I am an American. Although I say that, there are prefixes I must place before that as to be properly identified. I am A Native American; a population which has a rough history with America. An LGBT American; another population which has a rough history with America. I am a minority American, like the majority of the citizens in our amazing and diverse country. These prefixes result in unfair descrimination. My only hope for the future is that minority drop their prefixes to become simply American. My Native American ancestry links me to the brutalities of my ancestors. Our government has undeniably belittled the first inhabitants of the country and their descendants. Despite broken treaties, smallpox blankets, battles, massacres, and starvation, we are still here. Though we are here, our voice is very quiet in such a loudly diverse country. The things that people do hear are mostly negatives, like alcoholism and suicide, and not the positives, like students being accepted at Harvard or Yale. We are often stereotyped for our brown pigmentation, though, we are not all criminals. Our skin color is also confused for Mexicans or another colored race that Caucasians know very little about. “Oh! You’re that kind of Indian?!” Though, I am not an

Gay is something that a vast number of people in our country are alarmed by, but also something a large amount of our citizens identify as. I have always been tormented by my peers for being me. Name-calling, hazing, and abuse, among other forms of oppression, are all things that we go through. America is supposed to be this accepting place that grants all citizens the freedom to pursue happiness, though some of us are often deterred from our pursuit. In 2015, the Supreme Court cleared the pathway to happiness for the LGBT by rendering same-sex marriage legal. To me, this said that I was just as American as the rest of the