I grew up in the Mexican American, working class neighborhood of La Puente (which is located about 20 miles east of downtown Los Angeles), which was once known to the Tongva as the village of Awiigna. The city of La Puente clings to the high school mascot, a Plains Indian warrior named Tommy Tomahawk, as part of their city identity (it is so extreme that they even call cheer and football pride days "powwows"). Growing up, outside of my siblings and mother, this was the only Native figure I saw. Anything and everything Tongva had been erased from La Puente. While I've come to learn that there are actually several Tongva people still residing in the city today (some actually just down the street from where I sit writing this post), growing up it felt like we were invisible.
This feeling of invisibility is one of my primary motivations for conducting historical research. I have an innate desire to give voices to those who have been silenced. Throughout my life I have been fortunate to have the stories of my ancestors’ experiences (building and working the California Missions and attending an Indian boarding school) passed down to me. Because of the pain that comes with reliving these often-traumatic experiences, many Native peoples never get to hear about these lived experiences. Having these stories embedded in my head is both a blessing and a curse. I have a deep understanding of who I am and where I come from, and how the experiences of those who came before me have shaped my life and my identity. But at the same time, I also was always fully aware of the fact that my history teachers were either providing me with incorrect information or only telling me half-truths. I constantly rejected the information teachers would provide me with and challenged their perceptions by simply not turning in assignments (my parents were not pleased with the grades that came with this act of resistance).
For me, the exclusion of my ancestors’ voices from historical events - specifically when learning about California history - is a perfect example of Hinojosa's statement that their experiences were less important, and because their experiences weren't important - I often felt like I wasn't either and sometimes I still struggle with this. Something as simple as sharing my honest opinion in class can be extremely difficult because I feel as if the perspectives of Native peoples only matter to other Native people. I've come to realize that this is actually a survival mechanism passed down to me by my ancestors. In doing historical research on Southern California I’ve learned that many of my ancestors hid their Tongva and Luiseno identities by identifying only as Spanish or Mexican. They chose to have their truth go unheard so that I can be here today. It is my responsibility to honor their sacrifice by (re)telling and (re)writing their stories in my research.
As I've grown as a person and scholar, I've learned to channel these feelings of invisibility and silence into my work. But I often question if my work comes off as un-American because I choose to provide a counternarrative to not only American history in California, but also to that of Mexico and Spain. Being Native is not just a racial identity, it comes with a political identity of being a member of a tribe (regardless of whether or not that tribe is recognized as a sovereign nation by the US government). So, while I am an American citizen, I am also a Tongva/Luiseno citizen; and this dual citizenship creates conflict in where my loyalties should be. Because I privilege my Native identity, and in doing my tribal citizenship, my perspectives often conflict with mainstream Euro-American society values and norms. I prioritize addressing and solving California Indian issues and push for the dismantling of colonial and settler colonial constructs that have oppressed so many people of color. Does this mean that I am un-American? Taking into consideration the genocidal history of America, I wonder… do I even want to be considered American?
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