There I was with the old Man, his presence was what only I could define as the language of love. His spirituality enveloped every dimension of his being. I remember walking with him one summer in Oklahoma through what I recall as a huge amber field with my little sister Kimberly. His voice, singing as if with each step of an unheard drum. When I was still an infant, my mother would harvest potatoes and carry me on her back in a harness made of burlap. I, evidently would poke my head out, thus giving way to my first nickname, Pokie. My mother, said he would also refer to me as Honky tonk girl, his definition, resonates, since I was out until the wee hours of the morning with my mother. There was another huge reason as well. My Grandmother. For reasons only known to her, although I have my theory. She just could not come to love me, this pale skinned baby with ultra blonde hair. So, my haven, a potato sack. I, either accept her belief, I was not the image of a Native girl or I accept my own and I have. Many years of discovery, disdain and deep reflection. I determine what choice I make, what life I lead. The love I give. It is my strength, not distraction. As I am called a new name. Nohkometha, Grandmother, my first-born grand baby, a pale skinned ultra blonde boy, lead to another baby, a beautiful bronze girl, they both, a reflection of me. A transformation, a healing. We’re balanced together ocean upon the sky. No voice of confusion inside of me, with all possibilities of getting what I need.