Cherokee. Maya. Apache. Seminole. One by one, they’d walk in, just by chance. Sometimes they knew who we were and needed to visit and chat or simply nod their heads. Their destination was my family’s bodega on the corner of 154th Street and Courtlandt Avenue in the South Bronx. We held the fort at that Mom-and -Pop grocery store for thirty years.
Mohawk. Yupik. Taino. Navajo. Indigenous peoples from indigenous nations from North, South, East and West. Our mother was a curandera, a traditional Taino healer with some African thrown in. Counselor and medicine woman who could see your past, present and future. She might lead them to the back room, light up a cigar, and tell them to part company with those who were dragging them down.
Quechua. Narragansett. Montauk. “Black Velvet Indian” from Louisiana. Proud of who they were. No wish to assimilate or change their ways. Some had heard me at a poetry meeting or attended my lecture on ‘American History from the Perspective of a Puerto Rican Indian.’ One man expressed his gratitude with the gift of a hand-carved walking stick topped with the image of the face of Cotubanamá, ancient Haitian tribal prince. A grandmother bestowed on me a secret name to be shared with no one except the ghosts who appeared in my dreams.
Papago. Kickapoo. Garífuna. Natchez. The store sign read “El Omnipotente.” My folks figured that the establishment was a gift of the Great Spirit, so they dedicated the bodega to Him. Some of the local Evangelicals took offense. These weren’t Christian Indians seeking our connection. They were traditional Natives steeped in the ways of their most ancient ancestors. Not easily understood by followers of contemporary mainstream faiths. Most of the grocery store’s clientele were “Hispanic.” However, few were aware of the blood that flowed through their veins. They might have been detribalized and Hispanicized, but they were still Indian.
Choctaw. Lenape. Wampanoag. Miskito from Nicaragua. One young traveler shared a story about his vision quest in the northwest Yellowstone. Taught by an uncle, he spent four days alone in the woods seeking an answer to questions. I explained that my Taino forebears did not practice sweat lodges or vision quests. However, modern day Tainos now were embracing these and other ceremonies of sister Native Nations.
That bodega no longer stands on that corner. My mother and father no longer walk the earth. But I am sure that every once in awhile a Chippewa, Ute, Aymara or Shawnee pilgrim stops and faces the boarded-up, vacant storefront. They will be sure to understand that constant change is an inescapable law of the universe. And they know we will meet elsewhere, at some other point in time in the South Bronx Reservation.
Bobby González is a multicultural motivational speaker and storyteller of Native American/Latino heritage. You can visit his website at www.BobbyGonzalez.com or write to him at BronxTaino@aol.com
