Every day, Purepecha parents make the choice to uproot their families and move thousands of miles north, in search of a better future. They risk their lives, take on years of debt, and give up their native Indian language and way of life. In exchange, they hope their children will thrive in a land of new opportunities. But is the trade–off worth it? We ask teens on both sides of the border.

Indentity examines the controversial question,  “Who is an Indian?” Who should define who is Indian, and based on what criteria? In the last census more than 4.1 million Americans reported some Indian blood;  2.5 million reported only Native American. Most Native American tribes base membership on blood quantum; a Federally imposed definition on Indians. Most Tribes define membership based on a minimum of ? blood quantum. Some extreme leaders feel that marrying outside the tribe means that children could lose citizenship in the tribe. Many Indians criticize this bureaucratic approach to identity.  The complicated politics of tribal enrollment also creates tensions between mixed race Indians and those who consider themselves  culturally “purer” because of their high blood quantum. Today children are born who do not have enough “blood quantum” in any tribe to be enrolled but are considered part of the Indian community. T he issue has become even more complicated thanks to the vast sums of money introduced by Native gaming.  In some cases people are removed from Tribal rolls. Who  and how these issues  are decided is key to the future of sovereignty. 

Voices:
Attorney Patrick Guillory,  a Muskogee Native , successfully represented disenrolled Tribal members and founder of Mixed Race Nations, an organization working with urban youth.
Wintun leader, Caleen Sisk Franco
Anthropologist Susan Lobo, author of “Urban Indians”
Joe Garcia, President of the National Congress of American Indians.
Morningstar Gali, SF Bay Area Urban Indian leader.

Within seconds of hearing someone speak, we make judgments about that person and their background, just based on their accent. Linguistics professor (George Mason University) explains how and when we develop accents and how these accents affect our identity. Also: Written in early English, Geoffrey Chaucer's fourteenth century writings may seem impenetrable, with strange pronunciation and incomprehensible phrases. English professor (Virginia Military Institute) says the best way to approach Chaucer is to read it out loud and hear the musicality of the words.

This piece follows Pat through midtown Manhattan and into the subway as she recounts stories of falling down stairways and participating in the blind power movement. She has been in the NYC Labor Chorus for years and loves to get arrested for worthwhile causes. She explores ideas about identity politics, the state of the left, and the importance of activism, while also discussing what life is like for a blind person living in NYC.

HOST: Today on This I Believe, we hear from Sufiya Abdur-Rahman, a teacher in Hyattsville, Maryland. Although "post-racial" is a popular term these days, Abdur-Rahman's belief could be considered a throwback. But to her, it's central to her identity, pride and heritage. Here is Sufiya Abdur-Rahman with her essay for This I Believe. ABDUR-RAHMAN: I'd been searching for a job for months with no success. I was just about ready to settle into permanent unemployment and a deep depression when my siblings suggested I try something I'd never before considered. "Why don't you put a different name on your resume," they proposed. Something less ethnic-sounding and easier to pronounce, something that doesn't set off alarm bells like my name apparently does. Out of the question, I said. "If they don't want Sufiya Abdur-Rahman, then they don't want me." I'm the daughter of two 1970s African-American coverts to Islam. I am black, I am proud and I don't shy from showing it. I wasn't going to downplay my cultural identity to accommodate someone else's intolerance, because I believe that black is beautiful. I believe in living that old 1960s credo, as out of style as it may be. Growing up black, and to some extent Muslim, colors almost all that I believe and just about everything I do-how I talk, what I eat, the clothes I wear, what I fear and love. In fifth grade, while my friends disguised themselves as witches and zombies for Halloween, I became Queen Nefertiti, celebrated Egyptian wife of the pharaoh Akhnaten. I thought I really looked like her with my tunic belted above the waist, feet exposed in my mother's sandals and heavy eyeliner, just like I saw in pictures. My neighbor thought I looked more like an ancient Roman or Greek. Back then I didn't know how to articulate to her the dignity I had for my heritage, so I said nothing. I just cut my trick-or-treating short that night. I learned, along with every other American school kid, that at one point in this country being black meant being less than human. But that never made me wish I wasn't black. I love that my African people were among the most innovative in the world and am constantly amazed that my ancestors survived a period of unimaginable hardship. I'm forever grateful to my grandparents' fight for equal rights and equally admire my brothers for creating a music and culture with impact worldwide. So I could never mask who I really am, not even to get a job. People like me may have gone out of style, with leather Africa medallions and embroidered FUBU T-shirts but I still believe in celebrating my blackness. It starts with my name and remains at the forefront of my identity because for me, there is no shame in being black. And I don't mean just having brown skin. There's no shame in having thick nappy hair, big full lips, a colorful melodic vernacular or even an inherent sense of rhythm, stereotype or not. So I refuse to be anyone but myself: hip-hop listening, nappy hair-having, "Girlfriends"-watching, James Baldwin-, Zora Neale Hurston-, Malcolm X-reading me. I've internalized that black is beautiful, not a condition to rise above. For as long as it takes, I'll keep being Sufiya Abdur-Rahman on my resume and everywhere else I go.

Part One: Searching For Self From childhood to manhood, Octavio Warnock-Graham struggled with a pivotal question as his sense of self was developing. Family photos document his dilemma. Mom, Step-Dad and baby sister, uncles and his beloved grandmother were all very noticeably Caucasian. Young Octavio however looked like he was sporting more than just a tan! For whatever reason Octavio could never get the straight answer he was looking for. But the budding filmmaker turned his frustration into a remarkable 25 minute long film, about his search for his true identity, titled Silences. His film recently won the prestigious Angelus Award presented annually by Family Theater Productions. Kathy Golden talks with Octavio Warnock-Graham. Part Two: Last Chance Connection For his fourth book, Life,Death & Bialys; a Father/Son Baking Story, writer and criminal defense lawyer, Dylan Schaffer borrowed from a most gripping passage of his life. In 2002, Dylan, living in California received a phone call from his somewhat estranged Dad in New York. His father, also a writer and known as Flip to family and friends, was inviting his son to participate with him in a master baking course at the French Culinary Institute. The kicker both men were very aware the Flip had little time left due to end stage lung and bladder cancer. What followed, in the book and in real life is a remarkable story of reconciliation. Kathy speaks with author, Dylan Schaffer.

"The History of My Names" is a reflective piece about the power of names and the influence of my particular names on my life. I examine my family and cultural history (in a humorous way) and explore the way these labels have shaped my identity.

Kendall Morse is an entertainer known for two things:  his Maine humor, and his renditions of traditional folk songs.  For Kendall, there’s a difference between being an entertainer and being a performer.  A performer puts on a show.  But for an entertainer, the show never ends.  It’s part of their everyday life. 

Until recently, Kendall didn’t anticipate having to end his show early.  But over the past few years, he’s faced the reality that he may never again be able to do what he loves most.