Dear Indian,

Working a nine-to-five office job is killing me. I don’t have a life! How can I cope with the inner deadness I feel?

Sincerely,

White Collared

Dear White Collared,

“Inner deadness”? How should I know what to do about being a depressed wage slave? Us Indians are living the good life on welfare and “unenjoyment” insurance. All we do is watch TV, eat chips and make babies. We don’t pay any tax and we get everything for free. Remember?

If I had a regular job where I got to surf the Internet for weird porn, eat “healthy” muffins and send text messages to my boo all day, do you think I’d complain? Hell no! Instead, I gotta be out there breaking my back every night loading cigs in the dark, and risk being “really dead” while speeding away from the cops.  Jeezus! Stop complaining, Taxpayer. 

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Ahneen!I grew up in the bush and live off the land. I speak our language, go to our ceremonies and fight for my Native rights. But I’m light skinned, and my own people talk to me as if I’m a white woman. What should I do next time they badmouth me that way?

Meegwetch,

A Displaced Sister 

Dear Displaced Sister,

Start swinging! Nothing says, “I’m a Real Indian” more than a punch in the face. Seriously, it sucks you lost the genetics lottery. It must be tough to be taken seriously, going on about Native rights looking like Heidi. And I bet you have a jerk of a brother who’s full-on Native looking but acts like a total gangsta rapper, heh? Don’t worry about what people on the “rez” say about you. Who cares if your face is whiter than a bannock on a paper plate in a snowstorm? You love the land and there’s rage in your heart. You’re the “real” Native.