I stand occasionally before audiences across America and speak of Cherokee history, language, culture, and storytelling. I describe ancestors who endured war, removal, allotment, and the relentless pressures of assimilation. I speak of Tsalagi who survived and never stopped telling their stories.

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Yet I carry a lament. My lament is not for the loss of our stories. Those stories still live.

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My lament is that too often Cherokee writers must carry them alone.

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For generations, others have written about us. They have interpreted us, explained us, romanticized us, condemned us, and profited from us. They have transformed our ancestors into symbols, stereotypes, and supporting characters in someone else's narrative. Meanwhile, Cherokee voices have struggled to find publishers, agents, reviewers, marketing support, and even recognition within our own communities. A Cherokee writer faces peculiar loneliness.

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The broader publishing industry often views Native stories as difficult to categorize. We are told our voices are too different, too regional, too historical, too political, too cultural, or simply too unfamiliar. We are encouraged to change our voices, soften our truths, or reshape our stories to fit expectations created by people who never lived our experiences.

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Yet another sorrow remains.

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Many Cherokee authors discover that support from their own tribes can be equally elusive. Tribal governments carry enormous responsibilities—health care, housing, education, cultural preservation, economic development, and governance. Literature rarely rises to the top of the agenda. Books are often viewed as personal endeavors rather than cultural investments.

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But stories are cultural investments.

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Every language program begins with stories. Every cultural lesson begins with stories. Every child learns who they are through stories. Every nation preserves itself through stories.

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If Cherokee people do not tell Cherokee stories, others will tell them for us.

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If Cherokee authors are not encouraged, funded, promoted, and celebrated, then future generations will inherit fewer Cherokee voices and more interpretations by outsiders.

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That is my lament.

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I have spent years researching Cherokee history, language, and culture. I have walked the paths of our ancestors through Georgia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. I have listened to family histories. I have read missionary journals, government records, oral traditions, and historical accounts. Like many Native writers, I have invested thousands of hours and countless dollars to preserve and share our stories.

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Yet I know I am not alone.

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Native authors are writing novels, poetry, children's books, histories, and memoirs. They are preserving language. They are documenting family histories. They are reclaiming perspectives long excluded from classrooms and bookstores.

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Their work matters.

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And that brings me to my song of hope.

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My hope is that Cherokee tribes increasingly recognize authors as cultural workers every bit as important as language teachers, historians, artists, musicians, and museum curators.

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My hope is that tribal libraries proudly feature Cherokee authors.

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My hope is that Cherokee schools invite Cherokee writers into classrooms.

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My hope is that tribal newspapers and new outlets regularly review Cherokee books.

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My hope is that tribal cultural centers host author events and literary festivals.

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My hope is that tribal foundations establish grants, awards, and fellowships specifically for Cherokee writers.

My hope is that young Cherokee storytellers see writing not as a lonely pursuit, but as a respected path of service to the Nation.

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Most of all, my hope is that Cherokee citizens embrace the stories created by Cherokee hands. Not because every book is perfect. Not because every author shares the same views. But because every Cherokee voice strengthens the chorus of our people.

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The future of Cherokee literature does not depend upon New York publishers alone. It does not depend upon literary agents, marketing executives, or national critics. It depends upon us. It depends upon whether Cherokee people choose to support Cherokee storytellers.

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The Cherokee people have always adapted. We embraced a written language. We established newspapers. We created schools. We preserved our identity through unimaginable challenges.

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We can do the same for literature. We can build a culture that values our writers. We can create opportunities for new voices. We can ensure that future generations inherit not only the stories of our ancestors, but the stories of today's Cherokee people as well.

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That is why I continue to write. That is why I continue to speak. That is why I continue to hope.

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Because every Cherokee story honestly told is an act of preservation. Every Cherokee book published is an act of sovereignty. And every Cherokee writer encouraged is a promise to the future.

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ᎣᏍᏓ ᎯᎪᎵᏰᎠ

May we meet again, and may our stories continue.