Leaving the comforts of home to help preserve the Cochiti legacy

Princeton reminds me of everything I am. Tall. Brown. Big-boned. Quiet. I speak "Indian (pronounced In-din) English." I have a near zero bank account. I have a grandfather who probably never read a book in his life, but who is one of the wisest men on this earth. I come from a place where the majority of people I know will never get a college degree or will never leave the comforts of the reservation — or "rez," as we call it — because that is where their hearts, minds and souls want to be. Sitting in the wooden desks and in lecture halls, walking on stone pathways and listening to students' conversations about trips to China, Paris, or Aspen, Princeton reminds me of everything I am.

At times, I feel like I just need to go home to the "rez," my place of inclusion, a place that I love and a place where cyberspace has yet to reach us — except for that one lone computer in our tribal library. When I am worn down from comments from professors or other students like, "There are just enough Indian people in this world to matter" or "Why don't Indian people just change, instead of trying to fight a losing battle?," I go home literally, and often times mentally. At home, Indian people are alive, not simply in books and American nostalgia. When I go home, I know why I am at Princeton.

Indian people have a long history of pain when it comes to schooling in this nation. Not too long ago, it was a government policy to educate Indian people by forcing their children to attend Indian boarding schools in the East when most of them lived out West — the farther away from their family, community, cultures and native languages, the better. Our children were taken away, stolen to be educated and assimilated. In most cases, these children returned changed, unable to speak our tribal languages and unable to fit into a sociocultural role in our communities.

To my grandfather, and those before him, to be educated mean, "to leave our homes" in heart, mind and spirit. To me, to be educated is a way of returning home. As Supreme Court cases slowly chip away at indigenous sovereignty, as encroaching urban centers and the nation's economic interests threaten to erode our land bases and as poverty and political invisibility continue to exist amongst Indian people, Princeton gives me credibility.

My grandfather may speak the wisest words in Keres, but his words and the message they carry may not have meaning or make sense in academia or the world of politics. But they mean the world to my people and me. Because I will soon have a piece of paper with "Princeton University graduate" written on it to validate my grandfather's voice. People will listen to me when I articulate his message.

Princeton has beaten me. Princeton has made me cry. Princeton has made me feel alone. Princeton has hurt my deepest feelings. All those precepts I felt uncomfortable participating in because I was the only indigenous voice, for that time someone told me "You live in an Indian box," and another said, "There are over 30 Native American kids here, why are you complaining,?" Princeton has tested my fortitude.

But it's worth it. I call my grandfather to be reminded of why I am here. In his gentle way, he talks to me about how his old Toyota truck won't start or about how bad his back hurts, and he unknowingly tells me why I am here. He is why I am here. My grandfather and I are on the same continuum. Princeton helps me to ensure that continuum remains in existence.

My senior thesis is about the federal policy history of Cochiti people, my people. In my thesis, behind the jargon of government documents and MLA citations, my grandfather's stories will be committed to the academic history of this institution. In this one document that I will write, our stories will not be dismissed as tribal folklore and myth, inaccurate and unreliable. I will tell our stories and our history, and record our voices. They will be our stories that speak to the pain of being ignored by history and mistreated by this country's educational institutions, but they will also be stories that speak to our survival through some of the hardest challenges faced by any small community. By no means can I speak for all Indian people, but I can speak from them.

I once heard someone say, "You are considered an 'educated Indian,' different from the rest because you were smart enough to go to school." No, I am really not different. I still have to learn how to cook corn soup to perfection, sew Indian dresses and bead. I still go home and say "Aiiyyeeee" when someone makes a joke. I go home and make sure to take my grandma to Bingo. And I go home so I can make frybread for different feasts and play with my nieces and nephews.

I have had the benefit of going to school at this university, of reading Weber, Smith and De Tocqueville, and of sitting next to Cornel West at dinner, but I am still a typical In-din woman. Princeton reminds me of it everyday. Thank you Princeton for reminding me of who I am and why I have spent my last four years so far from home. A-dae Romero '03 is a Wilson School major from Cochiti Pueblo, N.M. She can be reached at varomero@princeton.edu.