The other day Imogen was talking about Indians (by which she means Native Americans) and at the end of whatever monologue she had going on she stated that she would like to be an Indian when she grows up. I looked at my exceedingly white child, with her tiny freckles appearing across her cheeks after a summer at the pools (slathered in sun screen) and proceeded to crush her ambitions with a basic explanation of how one does not become an Indian, one is born an Indian, if your parents and grandparents are Indians, and so on. I pointed out several other races and talked about how they are from different parts of the world and even took a stab at explaining the difference between one's ethnicity and one's nationality.
She absorbed precious little of this, I'm sure, distracted that her chances of riding horses, shooting bows and arrows and wearing moccasins are pretty much nil. To get a clearer picture of this tragedy she asked me "What do Indians do?"
"Um... the same things the rest of us do... They live in houses, watch TV, wear blue jeans and drive in cars," I said, trying to paint a picture of modern American life. She was sorely disappointed.
She was taught some early American history in school last year. Obviously, comprehending long periods of time (from then until now) isn't Imogen's specialty (like, I suspect, most six year olds). I'm surprised she doesn't expect us to wear corsets, ride around in horse drawn buggies and milk the cow at sunrise.
Unlike Imogen, I'm not heartbroken that we've moved on. I like electricity and running water, cell phones and stores that sell everything and are open 24 hours a day. Modern life is stressful? Bring it on, it's got to be better than only bathing once a month and spending your life over a hot stove because no one's bothered to invent a microwave yet.
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