Part Cherokee

For whatever reason, there’s some kind of stigma about stating you’re “part Cherokee”. I have no idea why; there are so many other Native American tribes out there. All I know is that if you say you’re part Sioux, Seminole, or Chickasaw, nobody rolls their eyes at you. 

I mention this, of course, because I’m part Cherokee. I used to tell people I was one-eighth, but it turns out the math was off. My father recently said it was my great-great grandmother who was a native. That means I’m only 1/16th Cherokee. Or, if you round it down to significant digits, “none”. At least the story is interesting.

Most of that side of the family tree were white as ghosts. To hear my dad tell it, they were all either German, English or Scotch Irish. They settled down in Missouri, bore lots of children, became farmers, and did little else. I once asked my dad why his relatives always had so many kids.

“Farm hands,” he said while chuckling.

So, I guess it was pretty big news when my great-great-grandfather Tom Simmons married a native. To hear my dad tell it, he believes our ancestors accepted her into the family well enough, but nobody remembers how well received the marriage was with the natives. The couple must have been somewhat happy, because they had eight kids, including my great-grandfather Frank.

Until the murder.

The details get really sketchy on this part, but Tom Simmons was found dead in his house, and his Cherokee wife–whose name has been lost–was nowhere to be found. What law enforcement there was did an investigation, of course, but they never found the wife or the murderer. Or figured out if they were one in the same. 

“It could be that the Cherokee weren’t happy with that marriage,” said Dad. “So they killed Tom and took his bride back to the tribe. Or maybe she murdered him herself to run away. There was no CSI back then, so we’ll never know.”

There also was no Child Services back then, and there were now eight children without parents. The solution?

“The sheriff’s deputy simply took all eight kids and dropped them off at whatever farm where the families would take them,” said Dad. “Hey, everybody needed farm hands back then.”

So there you have it. My great-great-grandfather Tom was murdered, my great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee who disappeared, and my great-grandfather Frank was sort of adopted by a farm family but (I assume) allowed to keep his last name. 

Suffice it to say, Dad marrying a Filipino went a little better for him. And myself marrying a Russian has as well. 

So far, anyway.