There’s always a brume of skepticism (of fear) that will loom like a fly, Slightly past 9:30pm on a Friday and the twilight is taking the sky I find myself reciting; “It’s too dangerous. It’s too dangerous.” I feel this way because it’s another day with another alert on the news broadcast; another “missing person’s” poster hanging on the bleak walls, The articles are increasing while the fight to battle against it is decreasing, We attend more social gatherings where we mourn more than we celebrate; We mourn, can’t you hear us? Our missing indigenous women; Of injured sisters, mothers, Aunty’s and cousins. Of our murdered women.
There’s so much injustice and shame in our system, Our voices get silence and we get dismissed with one wave of your ******* palm and no second glance. Shame.
Because I am Indigenous, My cultural beliefs are frowned upon; my healing ceremonies that takes away the discrimination toxicity, my herbs that help heal my throat that’s yelling at you to listen, My prayers in my two native tongues for those effected by your colonialism. My cultural heritage that is label as witchcraft and locked away in shelves cloaked by their leatherback book that they hold so close to their sinful chests
And dangling cross.
Because I am Indigenous woman, I am afraid to walk alone.
Because I am Indigenous, I am afraid to be a victim of a hate-crime.
to take pieces of land, like pie purchased and stolen, like monopoly and make it into something else, like Europe
this was our promise
so like good soldiers we planted our rows cottonwood manioc peas and beans painted flowers on walls and floors, like our mothers built porches for rocking chairs to gather the children and tell them all about it, like refugees
the roots are deep now but the ancient fear deeper we glance over our shoulders, still suspicious of our luck awaiting the act of god that will surely come, like karma
Because we are made up of our ancestors. But can remake ourselves too.