If you knew how proud they are that you made it to the age of 16 21 twenty-five 30 thirty-six age 10. in this province built up on the devastation of universes and bodies like ours you might never feel lonely again. The next time you wonder if life is easier outside of all your dark-hair, dark-sky… Continue reading For northern girls
As the doctor empties a third needle into my face to temporarily freeze the colonial eye twitch I’ll endure the rest of my life, she chirps, “It’s great that you started this procedure so young: you’ll never get wrinkles!”
Poetry gives me freedom, sometimes. Sometimes forces me into shapes, corners, feminities that are stunning, suffocating And deliciously dishonest. Once I said I wanted my writing to taste good served with misâskwatômina, like sweet berries. Like the only way Native women are valuable is when we are consumable. Pretty. Sweet. But the problem is my writing smells more like… Continue reading miwasin
Content Warning: sexual assault; Indigenous Feminist anger that cuts like the lead riff in “The Trooper” My optimism wears moccasins and is loud. My optimism sometimes wears moccasins and is always loud. As a Nehiyaw girl growing up in a small prairie city in Canada, I got into punk, hard rock, and metal music early… Continue reading My Optimism Wears Moccasins and is Loud: On Paris, Heavy Metal, and Chasing Freedom
Shame is the reaction requested when they look you in the mouth and say, “lost her language”, but I know language well enough to pinpoint each time it's lost instead of stole, and that my shame alone cannot build homes or sustain bodies.
What truths would be written if academics weren't afraid of losing their jobs? What truths would be written if you followed through, in practice, the type of sovereignty and decolonization you theorize in journals? All the times I've heard some version of "I'm concerned about your academic career if you talk about this publicly": that's not concern for… Continue reading I’m concerned for your academic career if you talk about this publicly
I walked home down 20th street, toward a small brown-skinned Indigenous girl, maybe five years old, standing on the sidewalk. She was wearing a pink raincoat, rubber boots, and carrying a big gold foil balloon in the shape of a star, but overfilled with helium so it puffed up like a marshmallow. I waved at… Continue reading And to think that I saw it on 20th Street