In a dream, my purported Cherokee forebear, Timothy Brown, stands at the head of a long line of people. His dark skin is careworn and he has deep lines in his brow. His face has a somber expression and his eyes seem to be focused on some distant object. He wears western dress, worn pants and a stained white shirt. His boots have seen better days. He holds out his hands to me as though he bore something of great importance. I look down at his lined hands, but there is nothing to be seen. He is empty-handed. He looks embarrassed and I feel sympathetic towards him, but there is nothing I can do to assure him that he should have no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed.