The Cherokee In Me.

When I was a fledgling teen, maybe not even that, possibly 12ish, we (The family) were deliciously treated to a new neighbour. She moved into the house directly across the street from our house. She (Can’t remember her name) was very pretty, youngish (I think) wore multi coloured beads on the ends of her wild flowing, very dark hair and always seemed to wear the same bright coloured clothes. (She probably didn’t wear the same clothes but it just seemed that way to me)

She, let’s call her Amira, simply because I like that name, was very pleasant but never forthcoming (If you know what I mean) She (Amira) always took the time to say good morning every time we saw her, naturally accompanied by a beaming smile, set off with beautifully white teeth and lips that required no artificial gloss put definitely required my lips!! Admittedly, I was besotted with seeing her make fleeting appearances.

She was single, at least I think she was because I can’t remember seeing her with anybody. Mum guessed Amira was Indian, simply because of her olive skin and the tantalising tint in her voice that brought to mind foreign shores. Looking back, I can sort of understand why mum came to her racial but Innocent conclusion. All I could see was perfection.

Anyway, over the weeks and months, my mum somehow became very friendly with her (Yippppeeeee) Occasionally, mum would pop over the street for a cup of tea and a chat, which was very out of character for mum, and Amira would reciprocate mum’s visits.

I guess Amira had more money than my parents, or maybe she was just kind, because for the one and only Christmas she lived on the street, she brought a big wicker basket to our house, packed to the rafters with all sorts of festive goodies, festooned with coloured tinsel.

Anyway, mum discovered, much to my fascination, that Amira ‘Read palms’. I really had no idea what that was at the time, but mum explained it to me. You can probably imagine my fixation with Amira quadrupled. Beautiful and mysterious.

I remember arriving back home from school one day (Unusual for me because I didn’t like school so was mostly truant) Throwing my school bag on the chair I heard my mum talking to my sister in the kitchen, who is 4 years older than me and had just left school. Mum was talking about Amira, and how she had read her palm. I was listening intently, not really understanding mum and daughter dialogue but interested because Amira was mentioned quite a few times. A few days or weeks went by without much sight of my fascination. Then one afternoon, she came walking through the front door with mum. I was asked to make them a cup of tea, which I did with dribbling enthusiasm, wanting to make Amira the best cuppa she had ever tasted. I sat watching something on tv, half listening to their chitter chatter unfold when mum slipped into their conversation that Catherine (My sister) wanted to know if Amira would read her palm for her. What followed astounded and excited me. Amira answered in a matter of fact way that of course she would, but she would like to read my palm because I interested her. I looked at Amira with what must have been a bright crimson complexion, but she calmly looked at me and moved her hand onto the vacant chair next to her. When I sat down, Amira looked at my mum and said, very openly that I was special! (To be honest, judging by my life that has unfolded over the years, I have to say I am very special, lots of people have told me the same thing, but they put it in layman’s terms, such as “Twat” “Nobhead” “Pillock”) Anyway, my secret love and I sat across from each other and I believe, despite my best effort to hold it in, I allowed a little fart to escape. I wanted to disappear down the little hole that my fart had created in the chair! Amira let out a little giggle whilst mum told me off. Remarkably, despite my embarrassment, Amira kept hold of my hand, palm facing up.

Amira told me, and I remember this almost verbatim, that in a past life, I had been a holy man, a quiet Cherokee, respected and trusted. Of course, as an impressionable boy, I believed every word that escaped those beautiful lips. I hung onto her every word, listening but not listening (If you know what I mean) mesmerized by her soft tones. When she let go of my hand I didn’t want her to. Amira eventually left the street without any sort of warning. One day she was there, the next, she had simply left. It took me ages to get used to not seeing her. I remember looking through the windows of her house, expecting her to come back. But she never did.

Funny thing is, ever since then, I have been fascinated by the native American way of life. It seems so simple and stress free. I’m sure it’s not but that’s the way I see it. I even bought a Grand Cherokee a few years ago but it kept on breaking down so I sold her.

The one thing I’d love to see in my lifetime is a Native American becoming the president of a land that is rightfully theirs. Let’s face it, if Trumpy Bum did it, then it’s not beyond the realms of possibility. Is it ? Sod it, I may just go over there and run for it, I am, after all, a Cherokee in spirit!