My mother is Native American, but I am white. My identity is more than my DNA.

My mother likes to tell a story when my brother and I were little. We would walk around our neighborhood in Tucson when a (usually) well-meaning white woman would stop us and proclaim how cute my brother and I were. She then asked my mother if I had been adopted.

These well-intentioned white women could only believe me, a small sack of light-skinned, fair-skinned potatoes that could possibly belong to my dark-skinned, black-haired mother and my dark-haired, hair-haired brother. black.

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"It came from my own vagina!", Said my mother, and we would continue our walk. It has been a common story throughout my life. I am no longer blonde, but my skin is clear and I have always gone blank. My mother belongs to the Tewa Native American tribe and my father is white. Physically, I took after my father.

Because the Tewa have never been a recognized tribe by the federal government (there are between 400 and 500 tribes that have not been recognized in the United States) and our family has never lived on a reserve, we are not quite native. I understood. I do. Historically, many non-native peoples have claimed to be native to claim (ie, steal) lands or tribal resources. Despite the lack of recognition and despite my skin, I claim both whiteness and nostalgia because I have a knowledge in the bones that was shaped by my mother, mother and mother before her.

The debate over who becomes an Aboriginal American has been hotly contested for years and was fueled this week by the release of DNA test results from Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass. she had a Native American ancestor from six to 10 generations ago. But the issue of Native American identity can never be summed up in DNA. What if your tribe never existed in the eyes of the government? If you are not registered on a tribal list or do not have a CDIB card (Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood)? If the natives with whom you grew up belong to a tribe different from yours? If you are adopted or in the process of marriage or are you married? The question is incredibly complex.

The author (right) sits on his mother's lap at a family photo in the 1980s. His brother and father are on the left. (courtesy Anna Pulley) (N / A)

For my mother Tewa, being Aboriginal meant working with natives, living with natives, making friends with them, and attending 12-step addiction recovery meetings with them. It meant sharing recipes, making beads and helping Aboriginal communities as best as she could. She has lived and worked in a number of Arizona Reserves, and was responsible for the Yaqui Reserve Mental Health Department in Tucson.

Child, I spent a lot of time with the Yaquis. I did not live in the reserve, but I was immersed in the culture. I danced in their pow-wow, ate their fried bread and learned to cook red pepper with them. I had a crush on their sons (and later, their daughters), participated in their community events, their sweat ceremonies, their "funny shopping" and their outreach programs. At age 12, I witnessed what my mother and I affectionately referred to as "Indian Camp," a summer program on the reserve that taught life skills and the preservation of cultural traditions. My mother gave the course on Native Beading. She learned from her mother and has since written three books on the subject.

I continued this tradition during my university studies and afterward, volunteering at the Tucson Indian Center to teach beading to children as part of an after school program created by my mother. I make excellent Huichol earrings, even if my bread is medium.

From my experience, membership involved far more than a blood test. It's a question of reciprocity. This is time spent in communities. It's a shared culture, story, language and food. It was you who raised you, who came to you, who broke bread with you and who supported you when you thought you could not go on. It's claiming a community and claiming them in return.

Nobody has yet claimed Warren, and his recent political speech does not help his cause. Indeed, Chuck Hoskin Jr., Secretary of State for the Cherokee Nation, said Warren "was undermining tribal interests by continuing to claim his tribal heritage."

What is Warren doing to improve the lives of Aboriginal people with whom she says she is related? What has it done in the areas of health care, housing, domestic violence, police brutality, sexual assault, clean drinking water, clean air and so on? any other problem affecting indigenous peoples? Why had she remained silent during the Dakota Access Pipeline protests, while water protections were being shot down with water cannons, bitten by attack dogs and threatened by the army and the police in riot gear? She eventually wrote a statement on Facebook, but at that time, many felt the move was too small and far too late.

Part of the kinship claim, particularly as a white privilege claimant like me and Warren, is to assume some of the risks and harms of the communities you claim. It is easy for a white man to say that he has cherokee ancestors when he does not have to worry about the racial or social inequalities that are faced by those who do not pass as white. It's much easier to brag about a DNA test on Twitter than to confront riot police to protect their ancestral lands.

I'm not saying that Warren has to be shot with water cannons to prove that she has skin in the game, but I think the more power a person has, the more responsible she must be to communities that have fewer resources than they should be. Warren is a person with tremendous power. Will she use her privilege to amplify Aboriginal voices and issues?

One of the sweetest lessons my mother has given about belonging is an interaction she had with an elderly man on the Yaqui Reserve. He asked her if she was someone's daughter, a polite way to ask her if she was Yaqui. She responded with a lengthy explanation of not belonging to a recognized tribe.

When she finished, the man smiled at her and said, "I recognize you. So if someone asks you, tell them you are my daughter. That should be enough.

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