Smoking Elizabeth Warren’s Peace Pipe

About the laboratory that “analyzed” Elizabeth Warren’s DNA: the trailer with dented aluminum siding and dirt-covered windows, whose owner is a former osteopath and itinerant preacher, in whose absence the vinyl floor tile has bubbled and buckled while a rod of fluorescent light hangs overhead like a partially severed limb, its red and blue wires exposed like a serpentine duo between the radial artery and the Median cubital vein—amidst the shards of glass, burnt matchsticks, soda bottles, and cat litter, there stands a three-dimensional model of Warren’s DNA.

A double helix of sterling silver, bound by nucleotides of turquoise and tobacco canteens, the model authenticates what Warren has long claimed: that she is not only of Native American ancestry but as red-blooded as the most red-faced mascot of the Cleveland Indians or any chief of the Cherokee Nation.

Now, I am no more privy to the truth about Warren’s assertions than I am in the know about private information in general. But I find it easier to picture this laboratory than I do the image of Warren re-enacting the Siege of Fort William Henry, as she scalps overweight pretend soldiers and lip syncs The Raiders’ cover of “Indian Reservation (The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian).”

Perhaps, then, Warren should stop saying she is a woman of color—unless she is an albino, and a lapsed seminarian from Northeastern State University.

Perhaps she should heed the Native American proverb, which says:

Listening to a liar is like drinking warm water.

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