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I am a Native American, but that doesn’t mean I jump around to the throb of a Tribal drum, or wear animal skins as clothing. I do ear moccasins once an awhile, but I prefer my cowboy boots. My hair isn’t always braided, nor do I use bear grease to style it. I am familiar with my tribe’s traditional dances, as well as most modern dances, and I studied a ballet for a several years. The points I’m trying to make are I dress, act, and talk just as an any human being might. It wasn’t until the summer after I turned nineteen that I realized there actually were people who considered me different or strange or less than equal to most other people. I was on my way by bus, to visit my husband, a Viet name draftee. My excitement at thinking of seeing him was so intense that I was afraid to get off the bus at any of the several stops we made that day, for fear the driver would leave without me. Finally, in ogalalla, Nebraska, after hours of c