I am the wife of a career soldier and the mother of four. I am registered with the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma and, like my ancestors, have always been proud of my Cherokee heritage. I have been studying Cherokee history and genealogy for a long time and I am interested in anything Cherokee, whether it involves the historical Cherokee Nation or the Cherokee people of today.
I am writing this letter in the hope it will help end the current situation you have found yourself in. It seems you are being ripped apart in the media because of your claim of Cherokee ancestry and you don't like it. According to a recent article in the Boston Globe, you believe your opponent is "creating a distraction" by "ridiculously" attacking you "with questions that have already been answered." It seems you would like the "attacks" against your claims of Cherokee ancestry to stop so I thought I would offer some advice on how to make it stop.
Tell the truth . . .
While you cling to a family story and the inaccurate report that ONE document was found that supports your claim, we real Cherokees understand that those things mean nothing. You see, we Cherokees have lots and lots and lots of documentation supporting our claims of our ancestry. Our Cherokee ancestors are found on every roll of the Cherokee Nation (30+ rolls!) dating back to before the removal and in all sorts of other documentation, including but not limited to claims against the US government for lost property; the Moravian missionary records; ration lists before and after the forced removal, etc . . . yet your ancestors are found in NONE of those records.
But, your ancestors are found in plenty of historical records, and every time, they are found living as white people among other white people. Never are your ancestors ever found living among the Cherokees. Never, never, never, never . . . yet you claim they were Cherokee . . . .
So, Ms. Warren, you see, it is not just your opponent who has questions. We Cherokees have questions too and those questions have yet to be answered by you.
You see, for us Cherokees, this is not political.
This is about the truth.
Good advice, to be sure, even if sadly late and, likely, useless to the candidate because it uses a word unknown to her and her kind (politicians of all stripes):
Truth.
An alien word in her world, so far lost in the mists of campaign practice that its meaning is no longer realistically ascertainable, by her or by her enablers.
Too bad, because as the Cherokee genealogist suggests, it is a word that might have set Liz free, as it has been said to do for so many others.
Sudden changes in cabin pressure in a commercial aircraft should be, of course, of concern, because, for example, they may indicate that death is only moments away.
But think how your surviving loved ones will linger over that last tweet, on the way down . . . and out.
And when it comes to events which can be . . . transformational, it's nice to have expert advice on how best to handle them, what to do, who to call, that sort of thing.
Like, in the event you take a pill and suddenly experience a total loss of sight or hearing, you should call your physician.
Maybe even . . . stat?
Although the loss of your sight and hearing may complicate the calling-your-doctor thing, so you might want to have help at hand, just in case. But then, if you did not have help at hand, why were you taking that pill in the first place, bunkie?
I entered the decade of the fifties as an overweight eight-year-old; I exited as a somewhat slimmer eighteen-year-old high school graduate, safely ensconced in my Ivy League college of choice, ready to take on, and of course beat, the world.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
We don't do nudes here very often - it seems to me that the last time I wandered into the genre was also in a post about the decade of the fifties, although I could be wrong about that, and I'm not about to go into my own archives to see, one way or the other - and we make an exception today only for the singular Marilyn.
For those who were not a part of the fifties decade, it was a time when all married couples, in the movies, on television, slept in twin beds and kept one foot on the floor at all times, just to be safe.
It was a time of cute by-play between perky Doris Day (who surely had never had a serious erotic thought in her life, so far as we could tell) and the ostentatiously hunky "Rock" Hudson (who turned out to be gay, not that there's anything wrong with that, unless it results in death from AIDS, as it did in his case).
It was a time for Hugh Heffner and his earth-moving Playboy Magazine, with Janet Pilgrim and, yes, Marilyn on the cover and the girls inside nude except for the censoring airbrush that took away their nipples and areola, any hint of their pubic hair - which, consequently, was not determinedly shaved away, as is the current fashion - and even the suggestion of any genitalia in evidence.
It was, then, a confusing time for a boy to come of age, with some vestigial pornography from an earlier decade or two - dirty pictures, as they were called - offering the only clues as to what sex might be about, and since it often involved men wearing dark socks doing things with not-really-very-attractive women of a certain age, it was not very encouraging about the prospects of much pleasure, and certainly none (this we knew to a moral certainty at the time) for the female participant.
Marilyn died young, her iconic status pretty much already established through a series of rather odd couplings with unlikely spouses, each ending more or less in tragedy and regret, but her breakthrough as a sex object was, well, breathtaking for the adolescents of the time.
Ah yes, those were the days, my friends, and yes, we thought, in our foolishness, that they would never end.
We were, for better or for worse (your call) . . .
"It's the resident, stupid" or "It's the resident stupid:" Either Way
Are we clear, then, about the importance of not traveling in circles, never in reverse?
That's a yup.
In part because they aren't in the least . . .
I am.
Update:
I like a good headline or title, or in this case, caption. So how I forgot it when I wrote this post is a bit baffling. But then, no one baffles me as much as I baffle myself.
Although the media, true to its agenda, would have you believe that George Zimmerman's injuries were likely self-inflicted.
Or, better yet, non-existent, racist propaganda.
Funny.
He doesn't look . . . white.
But let the spinning for the sake of the narrative continue, as continue it will.
At least two pieces of advice for the George Zimmermans of the world that come from this widely-reported incident, involving the kid-who-could-have-been-my-son according to the president, both of them, one late, one still timely:
Best to avoid Florida altogether, and certainly not to live there.
But a 1997 Fordham Law Review piece described her as Harvard Law School's "first woman of color," based, according to the notes at the bottom of the story, on a "telephone interview with Michael Chmura, News Director, Harvard Law (Aug. 6, 1996)."
The mention was in the middle of a lengthy and heavily-annotated Fordham piece on diversity and affirmative action and women. The title of the piece, by Laura Padilla, was "Intersectionality and positionality: Situating women of color in the affirmative action dialogue." . . .
Our lucky Liz was, intersectionally and positionally speaking, well situated in the affirmative action dialogue, until it turned out that, in fact, she was not supposed to be situated there at all.
Maybe she just came across to the keen-eyed people at Harvard as a woman of color, and she wasn't interviewed in person for the Fordham piece on her situation there.
Whites need not apply.
But of course, by then it was too late.
Well, until now, when (intersectionally and positionally speaking) a little hanky turned up in her - and Harvard's - panky . . .
Remember how the prosecutors conveniently and according to some, unethically, left out any mention of Zimmerman's injuries in their affidavit?
Now it turns out Martin had injuries consistent with hitting Zimmerman.
WFTV has learned that the medical examiner found two injuries on Martin’s body: The fatal gunshot wound and broken skin on his knuckles.
This shows that the state's charging document was woefully incomplete and how far beyond reality a second degree murder charge is. No wonder the Smiling Prosecutor didn't go to a grand jury.
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