I felt a dissonance that I could not yet articulate, a tear in what W.E.B. Du Bois called the “double-consciousness” of race, not knowing how to meld my distinct identities. I understood these two versions of myself as Indian—my home self—and American—my outside self. I was anxious that either I would not be Indian enough for Papa or I would not be American enough for Nancy and Marin. Ultimately, I’d be outed as a fraud by everyone I cared about.
