How does one begin at the end? If he had known the outcome before he ever met her, would he have embarked on that journey? Probably. Definitely. From the moment he heard her voice, he was smitten. She was a siren to him, her every intonation catching his breath. Her slightest movement, captured his eye. He was entranced by her laughter, striving evermore to be the beneficiary of it.

She laughs, like she means it. Like happiness from roots deep within. He visualized tree roots, pushing upward through hard ground. Growing into tiny jewel-colored bubbles, her rich uninhibited joy, rang out. It was distracting on a spiritual level, of which he was not yet aware. The maturity in her voice was unsettling; it touched a physical chord in him. It tugs him in her direction, every time. Making a fool of himself, if need be, to keep her sparkling.

Her cry was equally as faceted, with sharp edges and shallow valleys. It’s a heartrending sound from other, deeper roots. When it breaks forth from her, he is drawn to her, as if life itself, depends upon it.  Her injured cry, which seldom erupts, is similar to someone else’s angry cry. So rarely does she deign to admit injury, it raises the same alarm in him, as it did the first time he ever heard it. Her sad cry, which he never wants to experience again, is kept at bay by whatever means available. Her happy cry, is accompanied by that intoxicating laughter, only she was born with.

Simply touching her skin, put a spell on him. Even a gentle brush against her, brought a sense of longing. Her fingerprints leaving a warm tingle wherever they landed. He was powerless in her presence; empowered in her absence, to see her again. Even though, he had been instructed to never go near her.

Grown now, even a faint waft of her fragrance, brings him back to that first time. That must have been a thousand lifetimes ago, he thought. Her very essence, an ageless combination of flora and fauna, unique to her. There is no understanding it; grasping is a waste of time. Let it be, they say; you’re better off. As she pulls herself up by the twisted roots, tiny bubbles burst like fireworks in his eyes. He is powerless in her presence.

She laughs like she means it.

Parkland Hospital, Dallas Texas, the summer of ’69, weighing in at 7 pounds 3 ounces, I made my grande entry into the universe. Head strong, even then, I was born in an elevator; going up, I might add. Six years earlier, President Kennedy was pronounced dead, at the same Hospital. Somehow that really impressed me, as a kid. I was also impressed, that the first 3 letters of my name are the same as, the last 3 letters in Jesus’ name. Also sUSAn just sayin.

Within a few months, my young parents, moved us back home to Oklahoma. That’s where I’m based today. I’m a Free Bird in a red state and I’m proud to be Oklahoman. Our history and heritage are rich and the future is bright with opportunity. We have more coastline than the Atlantic and Gulf together, beautiful landscapes ranging from mountains and prairies to lakes and rivers. Untold talent continually flows from our towns and cities. Medical treatments and research continue to climb ahead of competitors domestic and foreign.The culture and history are mesmerizing.

But, you are not doing fine Oklahoma, on all fronts. Contrasts between poor and wealthy are striking. Our rankings are staggeringly low, when it comes to public education, hunger, poverty, child abuse, teen pregnancy, domestic violence, obesity, divorce, smoking, diabetes and the list goes on. Between racist frat boys, Senator Snowball, and jacked up executions, I find myself defending this great state all the time. Unfortunately, I’m defending Oklahoma to other Oklahomans as well.

All my life, I’ve heard, “Why would you come to Oklahoma?” “Why would anyone come to Oklahoma?” I have asked that myself. It’s a valid question and one I’ve spent considerable time contemplating. That begs the question, “Why do I stay in Oklahoma?” “Why do you stay?” Being Native, gives me a unique perspective into the facets of this precious gem called Oklahoma. It’s a Choctaw word meaning Land of the Red Man, recently amended to Land of the Red People.

Most of my childhood was spent in Hugo Oklahoma, my parent’s childhood home, before me.  “As a railroad hub in the early 1900s, Hugo, Oklahoma was a hotbed of activity, with a vivid mix of dance hall girls, hustlers and gunfighters, a Harvey House Restaurant, and at one time, a dozen circuses wintering nearby taking advantage of the moderate climate and easy rail access. The Hugo Frisco Depot Museum in the restored former Harvey House Restaurant captures some of this rollicking past, and Mount Olivet Cemetery showcases the final resting places for rodeo greats. The cemetery also features a special area known as “Showmen’s Rest,” which features unique headstones and grave sites for circus performers and owners. Ready for sweet dreams? Try the Old Johnson House Inn Bed and Breakfast built in 1910 – it still boasts many original furnishings from its territorial days.”

The Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma Tribal Headquarters is Durant, a short drive from Hugo. The Choctaw Vision is, “To achieve healthy, successful, productive, and self-sufficient lifestyles for a proud nation of Choctaws.” Our Mission statement is “To enhance the lives of all members through opportunities designed to develop healthy, successful and productive lifestyles.” 

According to my dad, I am 1/4 Indian, according to the tribal rolls I’m 1/16 Choctaw. From what I understand about the rolls, Indian heritage must be proven through the original tribal member. That’s Zenie York, my paternal great-grandmother, who was full-blood Choctaw. Granny York lived to be a very old woman. The men in the family, unfortunately, did not. I have no memories of my paternal grandfather Roscoe or his father, as they both died of heart attacks as middle-aged men. Heart disease is a major killer among Native peoples. My dad has fought it for decades.

Granny York was always welcoming and happy to see us. Even after my parent’s divorce, they each would take us to see her. I have only fond memories of the tiny brown raisin of a woman. She was a master quilter and continued quilting, even after she was blind. Passing her love of the art on to many generations of Choctaw artists. She dipped snuff and spat into a spittoon across the room, blind. The sticky brown juice ran down the grooves, on both sides of her chin but Granny was a good aim. She didn’t miss her spittoon, but I kept my distance. Having been spat upon, as a toddler, by another great-grandmother, I was gun-shy.

That was Granny Beaver, Dad’s maternal grandmother. I’ve been told I’m Cherokee on that side. I had a bee sting or a sticker or something that needed to come out of my arm and she spit her gross brown spit on me. That was worse than the original offense. That’s my only memory of her. Granny Beaver shushed me and her snuff spit worked, it healed me and it gave me magical powers. Granny Beaver’s special mojo. That year was my “Star” birthday. I was 3 years old, on the 3rd of September. I wished for a musical jewelry box with jewelry inside. That’s exactly what I got. When I opened the pastel floral lid, a tiny ballerina in a tiny tutu, twirled on one slippered foot. The cheap music box, played a tinny tune, which I can’t remember any more. The jewelry was plastic and shiny, I wore all of it, everywhere. I always believed in “Star” birthdays after that.

I was fortunate, as a kid, to have all of my grandmothers and great-grandmothers living. On my mom’s side, I was the adored first grandchild, niece, baby. Two years and twenty-eight days later, my sister was born. A few months later, our folks split up. For the next year or two D and I were swapped, hidden, separated, reunited, separated, reunited. We were dropped off, whisked away, forgotten at school, and yet we survived. That’s when I got to know Granny Fox, Mema’s mother. She was the last-ditch effort for a babysitter.

She was a mean old biddy from start to finish. Like all of the greats, she had long gray hair. She kept it in a braid that hung past her shoulder blades. She did not dip snuff but I heard through the grape-vine, that she grew a different kind of tobacco, for her aches and pains. Mema told me horrific stories, of how she was beaten and mistreated by her mother. Her father Samuel, the patriarch of the Fox family, adored and favored Mema. Her mother Lanora, aka Granny Fox, resented it and punished her for it. Grandpa Fox passed away, before I can remember, but his children and grand children remember him fondly. I have many memories of Granny Fox though. I was afraid of her because she was gruff and not affectionate. Years later, when she was suffering with Alzheimer’s disease, I realized how very much I resemble Mema.

In the 70s and 80s old folks homes, were atrocious.

Her house was old and creepy, with a dirt cellar, on a hill out back. She had indoor plumbing but there was an outhouse too. She kept a big garden and canned her own food, which was stored in the cellar. To this day I’d rather die in a tornado, than in a dirt cellar. It’s basically a spidery grave already and smells like mildew and brine. No thank you. I’ll be standing on the front porch with a glass of spiked ice tea, videoing  like the other red necks. According to my mom, I’m 1/4 redneck, I fear it might be closer to 1/2, fortunately it isn’t documented. For all her faults, Granny Fox was a pioneer woman. She and Sam brought several children, including Mema, in a covered wagon, during the dust bowl, to Oklahoma. She was a survivor.

The last of the greats was Sady Bell Drinkard, Mom’s paternal grandmother. The tiny wrinkled Pentecostal Holiness woman, gave birth to nearly a dozen children. My grandfather Arvie was the oldest and tallest, reaching only 5’5”. The Drinkards were little people. Granny Drinkard was deeply religious and raised her kids accordingly, but her boys, especially Arvie, gave her hell. She maintained her stoic piety into old age. I was about six years old when she spent a week with up one spring. I distinctly remember her perfume and her tiny hands. The perfume was a luxury item and a sin for holiness people. She used way too much. The worn thin gold band, on her left ring finger, was embedded for life. She wasn’t affectionate and she preached at us. Like the creepy little fortune-teller in Poltergeist. Exactly like that, actually.

Our people have been here for generations. My foremothers raised their families and our food in Oklahoma’s obstinate red dirt. Which can be hard as stone in dry times and runny red mud when it rains.  My soul and soles are deeply rooted in the chaotic climate, mesmerizing sunsets, native culture and southern food. Will Rogers once quipped, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, wait a minute and it’ll change.” That was before we became a hotbed of earthquake activity.

Benjamin Franklin Elementary School was and is, about a block away from our house on E. Street. Next door, was Mema’s house and next to her, lived a circus family.  An Irish Catholic circus family, with two grown daughters with families of their own, three teenage sons and a two-year old daughter. They were smart and well-traveled. The daughters were exotic trapeze artists. Daren, the middle boy, was an elephant trainer. He was my age and he was worldly for a twelve-year-old. Audrey, his two-year old sister, thwarted our every romantic opportunity. Most of which, were Daren’s clumsy attempts to get ahold of my boobs.

Hugo is also home to a circus graveyard. “The Showmen’s Rest section of Mount Olivet Cemetery is bordered by sculpted tusked elephants on granite pedestals and each grave colorfully designed to show the personality and trade of the interred.” ” Hugo is still “Circus City, USA,” as its welcome sign proclaims, with the Kelly-Miller and Carson & Barnes circuses currently calling the town home. There’s also the Endangered Ark Foundation with the second largest herd of Asian elephants in the United States, and in driveways around town you can see circus trailers alongside pickup trucks, and maybe a trapeze in the front yard.” I broke my arm, stepping backwards off a circus trampoline, after a near perfect back flip, I had been practicing for weeks.

Very early into that budding romance, Daren’s folks separated and he moved away with his father, the circus king. I wrote to him, asking him to come back. In one letter, I selfishly shamed him for leaving his mother and younger siblings. Eventually Daren did move back to Hugo, only it was too late for us. I had also flown the coop, leaving behind my mother and younger sisters, and most of the family who raised me.

I finished growing up in Oklahoma City. Now I’m an Okie from OKC and I have been known to THUNDER UP on occasion. I ask myself again, “Why do I stay?” For now, because I have a successful business and my daughter is in college. I believe in Oklahoma and I hope to make it better.