I used to contend that “pride” is the noun form of the adjective “proud,” and pride is one of the deadly sins.  I’m over it.

Joannie is going to Oklahoma on business this weekend and called to make a reservation at the Choctaw Resort. They now have a smoke-free casino and hotel.

When she asked whether they offered any discounts, she was asked whether she had a DIB (Degree of Indian Blood) number. She supplied hers and was given a generous discount.

Of course, today we know that there is really no such thing as “Indian Blood,” but in this scenario, just go with it. It is a legitimate way of documenting our native heritage. Our mother went to a lot a trouble to be sure we are all registered on the Choctaw rolls. Her father was the last one of our ancestors to be on the “original” rolls before Indian Territory became the State of Oklahoma.

This ancestor, whom we call Papa Harrison, was born in Lehigh, Indian Territory, in 1901. He would be so happy that he indirectly could make this small thing happen in his granddaughter Joannie’s life. I believe he earned it. Serving as a teenager in WWI, he was shipped to Vladivostok. He was very proud of his service.

He died very young (52), and at that time I was his only grandchild. He lived very modestly and never really had much of anything. He was incredibly “proud” of me. I have no idea why. As a ten-year-old, I hadn’t done anything particularly laudable when he died.

He was also very proud of his Choctaw heritage and talked to me about it often. I am the last of his descendants who was blessed to know him, and  I am proud.