I am Shakbatina Iskitini.
This is the name that my father gave
me. It means "little wildcat". Even as a child, I was untamable. Like
the feline for which I was named, I would prowl the woods and fields
near wherever we were living at the time. It was in these wild places
that I found the Divine. She came to me in several forms, as
ever-shifting as the leaves in the wind. She was just as wild as me, but
also so much more than I, a mere mortal, could ever hope to become. I
heard in Her Voice the truth of the Elders' stories, and learned secrets
in the silent whispers of the trees in winter. She taught me how to
listen to my heart song in every beat of my pounding heart.
It
was not until I was fourteen that I realized that I was different. Aside
from a single ethnic slur at a family reunion when I was nine, I had
not been exposed to the sheer stupidity that is racial intolerance. Of
course, my Choctaw heritage was not obvious as a child. Even
well-bronzed by the sun, I was "white" enough to pass. It was only after
attending a summer camp put on by the Kansas City Indian Center that I
gained any other outward sign of being Native American.
That sign
came in the form of an innocuous drawstring pouch. Such a simple thing,
but it became a bone of contention between myself and my peer group.
Like a brand, the medicine bag I so proudly wore around my neck marked
me as different. Many of my peers were curious about it, some
intrusively so. Others were ruthlessly intolerant. After I was reported
for allegedly having drugs in my medicine bag, it took the threat of a
lawsuit to get the vice principal to back off his demand that I reveal
the secrets held within the black leather, an act that would de-sanctify
the objects therein.
In high school, the distinction of my pagan
faith led to strife with my Christian fellows. Many did not do more
than aggressively attempt to "save" my soul. However, for a few, the
promise of praise from the deacons of their church led to acts of
harassment and vandalism, which, in turn, were overlooked by the school
administration. Luckily, I had connected with other pagans among my
peers. Thus I was not isolated during those years.
There was
still a distinct difference between my native beliefs and those of my
Wiccan friends. It is strange being the red face among the whites. it is
not unlike being in a foreign country where they speak a different
dialect of the same tongue as you. The words seem so familiar...but you
cannot quite grasp what is being said.
For all that I struggle
with the innate clashing between my wild heart and civilization as we
know it, I have found a great many rewards. I have found a community who
hears the same Song as I do, both among fellow pagans as well as among
the other Native Americans that I connect with through the Center; I
have a common ground with a man whose heart beats in time with mine--and
with whom I have two beautiful reasons to push for the betterment of
myself and society as a whole.
I hope that by attaining a
degree, I may find a method to making my dream of serving my community a
reality. I want to build a community center where those who walk the
wild paths may come together for education, worship, and support. On
either coast, pagans have these things. Here in the Midwest, the closest
thing we have here is only open during pre-arranged festivals. I would
like to teach those who would listen that pagans are not the monsters of
urban legend as portrayed on television. This is what I see myself
doing over the next decade.
I am Shakbatina Iskitini. I cannot be tamed.
