American Indians of Texas

I am a footprint left in the soft, drying mud over 13,500 years ago near a place you now call Buttermilk Creek. I am the echo of a hunter's quiet call across vast, grassy plains, the steady warmth of a fire inside a rock shelter, and the deep wisdom passed down in stories told under a sky crowded with brilliant stars. Long before there were highways, long before great cities rose from the soil, and long before the name ‘Texas’ was ever spoken, I was here, woven into the very fabric of the land. I was the rustle of the wind through the tall pines and the shimmer of heat on the desert floor. I am the spirit and the enduring story of the first peoples of this land, the many nations you know as the American Indians of Texas. My story is not just one of history, but of a connection to this place that is as old as the hills and rivers themselves.

My story is not a single thread, but a rich tapestry woven from many different lives and cultures, each one perfectly and ingeniously adapted to its home. In the towering piney woods of East Texas, I was the Caddo. As early as 800 CE, my Caddo hands were building enormous earthen mounds for ceremonies and burials, creating one of the most advanced societies in the region. They were skilled farmers, coaxing corn, beans, and squash from the rich soil, and they were master traders, with networks that stretched for hundreds of miles. Along the shimmering Gulf Coast, I was the Karankawa and the Atakapan. My life moved with the rhythm of the tides. I learned the secrets of the sea and marshes, fishing from dugout canoes and gathering shellfish and plants. In the harsh, sun-baked lands of South Texas, I was the many small, resilient bands you group together as the Coahuiltecans. To survive in that difficult land was an art, and they were masters of it, knowing every edible plant and every animal’s habits. To the west, where the Rio Grande carves its path, I was the Jumano. Between the 1200s and the late 1600s, my Jumano people were vital traders, forming a bridge between the farmers of the Pueblo villages and the buffalo hunters of the Great Plains. They were also artists, painting vibrant stories on cliff faces that you can still see today.

For thousands of years, my world changed slowly, like the seasons. But then, new winds began to blow. From the north, the Apache arrived around the 16th century, fierce hunters who adapted to the Texas plains. They were followed in the early 1700s by the Comanche, who would soon become masters of this domain. The biggest change, however, came not on two legs, but on four. When the horse, brought to the continent by the Spanish, arrived in the late 1600s, it transformed life completely. For people like the Comanche, the horse was a revolution. It made them the most skilled riders and hunters the land had ever seen, able to follow the great buffalo herds with astonishing speed and skill. Then, new people came from across a vast ocean. In 1528, a Spanish explorer named Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca and his starving companions washed ashore on the coast, becoming the first Europeans to meet me face-to-face. Over the next centuries, many more followed. They built missions and forts, seeking to change my beliefs and control my land. They also brought new diseases that my people had never known, which caused terrible sorrow. The 1800s brought waves of Anglo-American settlers, and our worlds collided. Fierce battles were fought for the land I had always called home, leading to broken treaties and the forced removal of many of my people from their ancestral lands.

But my story did not end with hardship and loss. It is also a powerful story of survival, resilience, and strength. My voice was never silenced. Today, I live and thrive in the three federally recognized nations in Texas. I am the Alabama-Coushatta Tribe, whose sovereign rights were restored by the government on July 21st, 1987. I am the Tigua people of the Ysleta del Sur Pueblo, who have maintained their community near El Paso for over 300 years. And I am the Kickapoo Traditional Tribe of Texas, who hold fast to their heritage along the Rio Grande. Beyond these lands, I am also the thousands of people from many different nations—Cherokee, Choctaw, and others—who live in modern cities like Dallas and Houston, carrying their heritage with them. You can hear my voice in the beat of the drum at a powwow, a vibrant celebration of culture with dance and song. You can see my spirit in the intricate beadwork and beautiful pottery created by artists. You can feel my strength in the elders who work tirelessly to teach their native languages to the young, ensuring that the ancient words are not forgotten. I am not a memory. I am a living, breathing part of Texas, sharing my deep history and proudly building a strong future.