If you’ve ever hummed the tune of “Colors of the Wind” or watched Pocahontas leap from a cliff into the arms of her animal friends, you’ve been fed a story that’s as mythic as it is misleading. The Disney version of the Powhatan woman—romanticized, sanitized and stripped of her agency—is the most familiar face of 17th-century Indigenous America. But buried in the archives, half a world away from Hollywood’s animation studios, lies a portrait that reveals the harsh truth: how English colonizers saw Native Americans not as equals, but as potential converts to their culture. And it’s a portrait that still haunts us today.
The only known image of Pocahontas (Matoaka) from her lifetime—a 1616 engraving by Simon van de Passe—doesn’t show a girl dancing with deer or whispering to trees. Instead, it presents her as a woman in European finery: a tall, stovepipe hat perched on her head, lace choking her collar, a pearl earring glinting in her ear, and a quill pen in her hand, as if she’s ready to sign her life away. This wasn’t just a likeness. It was propaganda.
Archyde’s investigation into the Van de Passe engraving—and the colonial mind-set it embodied—unearths a story far more complex than the one Disney sold us. It’s a tale of cultural erasure, the weaponization of art, and the dangerous fantasy that Indigenous peoples could simply be reshaped into European molds. And it’s a lesson we’d do well to remember as debates over historical representation rage on.
How a Single Portrait Became a Blueprint for Colonial Ambition
The Van de Passe engraving wasn’t just a portrait. It was a statement. When Pocahontas sat for the artist in London in 1616, she was already a pawn in a high-stakes game of diplomacy. Her father, Wahunsonacock (the chief the English called Powhatan), had sent her to England as part of a fragile peace effort after years of conflict. The Powhatans, who ruled over some 30 communities along the Chesapeake Bay, were a powerhouse in early Virginia. But the English saw them as obstacles to their vision of a new empire.
Pocahontas’s marriage to tobacco planter John Rolfe in 1614 had been a calculated move—one that, in the eyes of the colonists, proved her assimilation into their world. By the time she posed for Van de Passe, she had adopted the name Rebecca Rolfe, converted to Christianity, and even learned to write. The portrait wasn’t just flattery; it was proof. To the English, it showed that Native Americans could be civilized, that they could be made over in their image.
But here’s the catch: the portrait was a lie. Or at least, it was a carefully curated performance. Pocahontas’s clothing—elaborate, European-style—was a mask. Beneath it, she remained a Powhatan princess, a political player in her own right. The quill pen in her hand wasn’t just a symbol of literacy; it was a tool of survival in a world where the English held all the leverage. As historian Camilla Townsend puts it, “Pocahontas’s life was a series of performances, each designed to navigate the shifting sands of power between her people and the colonists.”
Yet the English saw only what they wanted to see. The Van de Passe engraving was replicated and distributed across Europe, reinforcing the myth that Native Americans were eager to adopt European ways. It was a narrative that would later justify the violent displacement of Indigenous peoples across the continent.
The Art of Erasure: How Colonizers Used Images to Justify Conquest
Pocahontas’s portrait wasn’t an anomaly. It was part of a long tradition of European art that depicted Indigenous peoples as either noble savages or savage barbarians—depending on whether the colonizers wanted to claim them as potential converts or enemies to be subdued.
Take, for example, the illustrations in A Briefe and True Report of the Newfound Land of Virginia, published in 1590. The book, which included engravings based on John White’s watercolors of the Carolina Algonquians, was a bestseller in England. It painted a picture of Native Americans that was equal parts exotic and exploitable. Some of the Algonquians were depicted in minimal clothing—deerskin loincloths, skirts without tops—a visual shorthand for “uncivilized.” Others were shown in more modest attire, but the message was clear: these were people who could be molded.
“The images in Briefe and True Report were designed to make the New World seem both alluring and manageable,” explains historian James Horn, author of The World Turned Upside Down: The Global History of the American Revolution. “They showed Native Americans as people who could be converted, who could be made to see the superiority of European culture. It was a sales pitch for colonization.”
The book even included illustrations of the ancient Picts—allegedly based on an old chronicle—as a way to contrast “savage” Indigenous peoples with the “civilized” Europeans. The Picts were depicted as nude, tattooed, and violent, holding severed heads and brandishing swords. The message was unmistakable: these were the people the colonizers feared becoming. But the Algonquians? They were the ones who could be saved.
This wasn’t just about art. It was about control. By framing Native Americans as either potential converts or irredeemable savages, the English gave themselves permission to do whatever it took to “civilize” them—or eliminate them if they resisted.
The Myth of Assimilation: What Happened When Reality Caught Up
Pocahontas died in England in 1617, just a year after her portrait was made. She was buried in Gravesend, her body lost to history. But her story didn’t end there. Her marriage to Rolfe and her conversion to Christianity were held up as proof that the Powhatans could be assimilated. The English believed they had found the key to peaceful coexistence.
They were wrong.
Just four years after Pocahontas’s death, the Powhatans rose up in rebellion. On March 22, 1622, under the leadership of Opechancanough, they launched a surprise attack on English settlements in Virginia, killing nearly one-quarter of the colonists. The English responded with brutal vengeance, including a mass poisoning of Powhatan villages in 1623—a war crime that violated even the emerging laws of war.
The rebellion shattered the myth of peaceful assimilation. The Powhatans had never been eager converts. They had played the game of diplomacy because they had no choice. But when the English crossed the line—seizing land, enslaving Indigenous people, and breaking every treaty they made—the Powhatans fought back.
“The 1622 uprising was a direct response to English aggression,” says historian Linda Schele, an expert on Mesoamerican and colonial history. “It was not a sudden outbreak of savagery, but a calculated response to decades of broken promises and stolen land. The English had built their entire narrative on the idea that Native Americans would bend to their will. When they didn’t, the colonists saw it as betrayal.”
Yet the myth persisted. Pocahontas’s story was rewritten, sanitized, and turned into a fairy tale. The Van de Passe engraving, once a tool of colonial propaganda, became a relic of a more honest—if still flawed—attempt to document history. Today, it serves as a reminder of how easily One can be misled by the stories we choose to tell.
Why This Matters Today: The Legacy of Colonial Representation
Disney’s Pocahontas isn’t just a movie. It’s a cultural touchstone that shapes how millions of people understand Indigenous history. And like the Van de Passe engraving, it’s a product of its time—a time when the narrative of assimilation was used to justify conquest.
But the real Pocahontas was never a damsel in distress. She was a political strategist, a survivor, and a symbol of resistance. Her story challenges us to ask: How much of what we think we know about history is actually a carefully constructed myth?
Today, as debates over historical representation intensify—from the toppling of Confederate statues to the renaming of schools and public spaces—we’re grappling with the same questions that haunted the English colonizers. Can cultures truly be assimilated, or is resistance an inevitable part of survival?
Archyde’s research into the Van de Passe engraving reveals a deeper truth: the past isn’t just about what happened. It’s about who got to tell the story—and why. And in Pocahontas’s case, the storytellers were the ones with the most to gain.
A Call to Reclaim the Narrative
So what do we do with this knowledge? How do we move forward when the stories we’ve been told are built on lies?
First, we listen. We seek out the voices of Indigenous historians, scholars, and storytellers who are reclaiming their narratives. We read books like Pocahontas and the Powhatan Dilemma by Camilla Townsend or An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz. We watch films and documentaries that center Indigenous perspectives, like Pocahontas: Medicine Woman, Spy, Entrepreneur, Diplomat.
Second, we question. We ask ourselves: Who benefits from this story? Who is left out? What truths are being buried beneath the romance and the drama?
And third, we act. We support Indigenous-led initiatives to preserve language, culture, and history. We push back against the erasure of Native voices in education and media. We recognize that the past isn’t just something to study—it’s something to fight for.
Because the story of Pocahontas isn’t just about a girl and a colonist. It’s about power, control, and the stories we choose to believe. And it’s a story that’s far from over.
What’s the one historical myth you wish people would stop believing? Share your thoughts in the comments.
