Dora was born in 1891 at Boggy Bottom, Indian Territory. She was Choctaw, and she was poor. When she died in Seagoville, Texas in 1978 a single nickel was found in her coin purse.
Dora was my grandmother. We called her Ma.
In her lifetime Ma experienced the Dawes Commission enrollment of the Five Civilized Tribes, the theft of her meager land allotment in the infant State of Oklahoma, the Great Depression, two world wars and a whirlwind of cultural and technological change that forever transformed the face of American life. But, some things remained constant through the 87 years of her life.
Dora never stopped being Choctaw. Dora never stopped being poor.
My mother, only five years old at the dawn of the Great Depression, often recalls life in migrant camps, burning tires in dirt floor shacks for relief against the cold, and watching hopefully for the first sign of her father walking up the road in the evening. She could tell by his gate whether he had found work that day… whether there would be food that evening.
My Mom is Choctaw, and she was poor.
My grandfather died the year I was born, and Dora came to live with our family. It’s the way things were done among my people. My brothers and I were the constant beneficiaries. A soft hearted grandmother can be a great ally to an adolescent boy.
My grandmother fought for her country through the tireless labors she performed, and held her breath in fear for loved ones for the duration of four foreign wars. She fought for her family, and she fought for her life in times of extreme deprivation and want. She was resourceful, determined and strong. She was compassionate, tender and kind.
America, I’m told, is the greatest country on earth. Dora believed it was worthy of her allegiance and sacrifice. People need to believe in something.
The last time I spoke with her, just two days before her death, Dora asked when Mary Ann and I could make the trip back to Texas for a visit, and she asked again when we would be starting a family. She was impatient. She asked about children every time I called. My son never got to see his great grandmother. I’ve always been sorry for that. Everyone should have known her.
What I owe to my grandmother I pay her every day in my memories. She was my grandma, my sidekick, my defender and my friend… she was “Ma”, and I love her yet.
America doesn’t remember Dora. Can’t place her… can’t recollect just who she was or what she looked like. Can’t recall just what she did or when she did it.
America takes no notice of Choctaw women, and averts its eyes from the poor. They are invisible—nameless grist for the mill and thankless “human resources.” In looking away, America missed a beautiful sight.
America is the greatest country on earth.
When she died, a single nickel was found in Dora’s coin purse.
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America and Americans hate poor people because they are embarrassed that poor people exist in a country as rich as this. They don’t want the world to see them. It is like when the North Koreans only allow foreign reporters to go to the nice parts of town and hide the poverty and hunger that is everywhere else. I read the other day that the UN Commission On Human Rights is about to issue a report in which it says that the way America treats its poor people is a human rights violation. The Native Americans have been treated even worse.