When I am riffling through my files in search of a document I know is on my computer, or in a file cabinet, or (more likely) strewn across some lateral surface in my house, I often see things that previously escaped my eye--a newly familiar name, a suddenly meaningful date, or reference to yet another document I must go track down. Other times, a subtle tension or sarcastic tone leaps off a page of correspondence I had previously pegged as perfunctory and mundane. Tonight, I am struck by the power and affect of family, filled with sentiment and sweet sadness for the short-lived mother-daughter team embodied in a simple set of initials:
MP:pm
Marie Potts:pansy marine
This snippet is clipped from a letter to Sol Tax. It is less significant for what it says, than for what it reveals: family. A Maidu mother and daughter working hand in hand, side-by-side, making do in rough patches, raising children and grandchildren, putting up with each other one minute and laughing merrily together the next, always dedicated to California Indian lands and rights. Four years after typing this letter, Pansy died, leaving her mother and young children absolutely bereft. But in April 1961, sorrow was nowhere in sight. Potts was headed to Chicago and D.C. for a grand adventure.





