OpEd: Fucking Cherokee Men (and Other People of Color)

As a kid in Mississippi, the Native culture was all around.  State law requires 5th graders to take a year of Mississippi history, and high school students have to take at least one semester of Mississippi history to get their high school diploma.  I’ve been very fortunate to have several mentors who literally changed my life, and the irony that most of them were American Indian has not been lost on me.

When I entered Catholic schools in 4th grade, I discovered just how cruel the elitist class could be.  Because of my fair skin, I was called “albino.”  Because my hair was a weird strawberry-blonde color and my eyes were blue-green, I was called “mutant.”  Add in my freckles and the gap in my front teeth, I was a treasure trove of reasons for the rich kids to ridicule me.

This was also around the time the movie E.T. came out.  So playing on the mutant/alien theme, I would hear, “Hey, E.T., here’s a quarter, why don’t you phone home? ‘Cause we don’t want you here!” …  or …  “Hey, E.T. Guess you’re here ’cause your alien family didn’t want you either.”

When I hit puberty, I was suddenly taller than everyone, and I grew breasts and hips, making me wider than everyone else, too.  The kids took my first name, Patricia, and renamed me “Fatty Patty.”  I was not overweight, but reality did not matter.  When we studied World War II and learned about the Japanese suicide bombers, the Kamikaze, the bullies at school then took my last name, Causey, and used it in taunts: “Hey, Kami-Causey, you’re so ugly, why don’t you go fly a plane and kill yourself?!” …  or…  “Hey, Kami-Causey, you’re so fat, why don’t you go fly a plane — oh, wait, you’re so fat, the plane wouldn’t get off the ground.”

The “in” look of the late 1970′s and early 1980′s, as portrayed by models like Cheryl Tiegs and Christie Brinkley, was the Midwestern tall, thin, tan stereotype.  I certainly didn’t fit the bill. Except for my grandmother, I was the shortest female in my family.  I was 5-foot-6.  In my Scotch-Irish family, the women were Amazons and the men were tree trunks.  I was short — for my family.

Somewhere in these formative years, I developed a liking for men who were tall, dark, and handsome… or at least tall and dark.  Maybe it was a matter of “opposites attract,” or maybe I just had too many years of being made to feel worthless because of the way I looked.  Maybe it was the cultural and media conditioning of Disney movies where the “Prince” is usually tall and dark.  Or perhaps it is just a cruel fact of nature that blonde men are stupid… and arrogant…   On a side note, I hope a blonde man will prove me wrong one day. Also, I prefer brunette women, but sex with a redhead would just be redundant.

I support colorblind casting in theatre.  Everyone should be given a chance regardless of what they look like.  And I’ve always felt that reverse discrimination is still discrimination.  Isn’t discriminating for  just as bad as discriminating against?  And yet, growing up in the elitist world of private schools and the fine arts, having “discriminating tastes” was a sign of being well-bred and “cultured.”  Looking back, I can see now why some people were shocked that my best friends in (Catholic) high school were a Jewish girl, a black guy, and a short, overweight girl who ate Wendy’s burgers to curb her sexual fetishes… and then there were all my gay theatre friends…

When I was 17, an American Indian ballet dancer pointed me in the direction of my Irish heritage.  It was amazing to finally be connected with people who looked like me!  And learning about the pre-Christian traditions of the Gaelic people was life-changing for me. But meeting him — this gorgeous, tall, gorgeous, dark, exotic, gorgeous, NDN male ballet dancer who exuded virile masculinity even though he wore tights on his gorgeous muscular legs and his gorgeous buns of steel…  Sorry…  I digress…  Meeting him opened my eyes to men other than the WASPs and redneck assholes I’d met so far.

Participating in an international theatre competition in South Korea at age 21, I fell in love with the Korean people, and my eyes were opened to the beauty of Asian men.  (Yes, I now watch “Hawaii Five-0″ for Daniel Dae Kim. I could totally fuck his cheekbones!)  And yet, I have a fondness in my heart (and in my loins) for the Black Irish and Black Scots like Pierce Brosnan and Sean Connery, respectively.  Years ago, I developed a fascination with India and all things Hindu, so those dudes are most definitely on my vagina’s radar.  A sure sign of progress, television now offers a beautiful rainbow of men to ogle, thanks to diversity casting (albeit for still somewhat stereotypical roles).  And truth be told, being a white chick from Mississippi, I just assume no black guy would want to be with me, so no, I haven’t bothered in that department (doesn’t mean I wouldn’t if I got the chance, though! Call me.).

However, the idea of purposely choosing a partner for  the way he or she looks — or for  his or her ethnicity — didn’t enter my awareness until a conversation I had while working with a ballet seamstress of Cherokee and Choctaw blood.

Studying ancient cultures and other peoples of the world, I found that most of the world has black hair and brown eyes, while reddish hair and blue-green eyes really are the results of mutant genes….  Oh, well….  The good news was that lusting after dark men isn’t really discriminating for  that “look.”  Choosing a man with dark coloring is actually just the law of averages at play.  So then choosing a mate really comes down to penis size.

(Just kidding.  Still reading?)

Joanne, the Cherokee/Choctaw master seamstress, and I worked on the costumes for an upcoming production of The Nutcracker.  I think she was bedazzling a Sugar Plum Fairy costume — except she was doing it old school, hand-sewing each cabochon rhinestone and sequin by hand.  Meanwhile, I was put in charge of working on the Mouse King’s giant chicken-wire and shag carpet-covered head.  As a woman in her 60′s, working with the carpet materials was too much for her hands.

She would often reminisce about previous ballet competitions and the former great dancers.  She would also talk about being from the reservation here in Mississippi and being poor.  At this time in her life, Joanne was looking forward to marrying her second husband, and I noticed she would often talk about her first husband from many years prior, the father of her children, who were now grown.  Knowing that she needed to vent, I let her.  I loved her dearly as a friend and mentor.  She was a prolific articulator of the words “fuck” and “asshole.”  I loved her even more for it.

Working in complete silence, Joanne suddenly started the conversation that inspired this post…

“He was a mean asshole.”

I thought she was talking about the Artistic Director.  “Fernando?!”

“No, my first husband…  He was a mean asshole.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He was a full-blood Cherokee and cantankerous as all get out….  Yep.  He was an asshole.”

Silence.  Several minutes passed.

“When he would drink was when it was the worst,” she continued.  “He’d start some stupid shit just to start an argument.  And he seemed to forget I’m  Cherokee and  Choctaw.  And an Indian woman doesn’t put up with an Indian man’s bullshit.  Fuck that!”

In complete naivete, I inquired, “Joanne, why on earth would you stay with someone like that?”

She looked off into the distance, “He was only like that when he drank too much.  But when he was sober, he could fuck like nobody’s business!”

“Joanne!”

“It’s true.  He didn’t realize I let him have his drunk rampages ’cause I knew the fuckin’ we’d be doing when he was sober and sorry about it.”  She looked me square in the eye.  “If you ever  get the chance to fuck a Cherokee man, do it!   You won’t regret it!  Best fuckers out there!”

“Joanne!” I exclaimed, still incredulous.  “Isn’t that racist?! “

“It would be, if I were talking about his skin…  But I’m  talking about his dick.  And Cherokee men can fuck  like nobody’s business.”

So ……………… um …………………….. Any Cherokee men out there???

Aroused and heading for the stomping grounds,

trish

Related articles:

• OpEd: Wounded Knee 1890 – U.S. Still Wages #WarOnWomen
• Anatomy: Female Ejaculation and Woman’s Ability to Conceive
• AskTrish: Stop Ejaculating and Have Multiple Orgasms Already
• OpEd: Want Me to Talk Dirty? Bite Me.

Links:

• Trish’s Daily O.J.
• ArousedWoman Forum
• AskTrish a Question

August 4, 2012 | Categories: awakening, body image, bullying, communication, emotion, journey, misogyny, OpEd, patriarchal religion, reclaiming sexuality, sexual energy, women's circles, women's sexuality | 9 Comments »