#Emerald Wounds: Selected Poems | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

batmanisagatewaydrug · 3 years ago

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reading update

buckle up gang, because I've been reading a HELL of a lot since the last time we did this. let's get right into it...

what have I been reading?

The Tyrant Baru Cormorat (Seth Dickinson, 2020) - Baru Cormorant is, without a doubt, one of the finest examples of a female meow meow ever put to page. and I adore that about her. I love that she keeps getting pieces cut off of her. I love that whenever something doesn't work she goes "but I'm??? a SAVANT???" I love that every other woman who meets her decides they need to fuck or kill her or both. and you know what? I'm very happy with the ending that she got. without giving out any spoilers, I didn't think that something so satisfying for our (nominal) hero was possible in a series this bleak, and I was *breathless* watching Baru pull this final scheme together - while still leaving some loose threads to remind us that the world still has a long way to go. oh and hey - Seth Dickinson? you're the only bitch in the world who knows how to write a genuinely shocking after credits scene anymore. m*rvel needs to take notes.

Sister Outsider (Audre Lorde, 1984) - I recently sat in on a virtual lecture by the brilliant lesbian feminist philosopher Sara Ahmed talking about her recent book Complaint!, during which she recommended everyone go back and read Audre Lorde in times of difficulty. I realized I've never actually read much Lorde to begin with - I've encountered her mostly quoted in other feminist's work, in confusing references to something called "the erotic," and particularly gay poems shared here on tumblr. I've encountered a lot of selected quotes - people like to repeat (or paraphrase) her thoughts on self-care as resistance, how no one lives "single issue lives," and how the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. for some reason (I know why) I've never seen much discussion of obvious discomfort Lorde caused among (some of) her white feminist contemporaries, and her refusal to let their dismissals of Black women go unchecked and unchallenged. her writing is glorious, clear-eyed and high-minded and filled with a very principled form of hope. it's made me want to be a be more conscientious about how I write in my journal, which I hope can be a lasting legacy.

Night Sky With Exit Wounds (Ocean Vuong, 2016) - this and several other entries on this list are actually just further tribute to Lorde, because the way she wrote about poetry in Sister Outside made me walk over to my silly little local library and scoop up three (THREE!!!) entire poetry collections. I was captivated by Vuong's debut novel On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous and found his poetry similarly... can I say gorgeous? because I want to. in my journal the words I used were "precise and precious" and "a delicate model of a life that I simply must handle with care."

No One Is Talking About This (Patricia Lockwood, 2021) - this is the second book I've read on the recommendation of booktube darling Jack Edwards, and oh BOY is it gutting. Lockwood, who you may know as the owner of beloved cat Miette, has created a DEVASTATING little piece of autofiction that plunges into the brain-addling depths of being Extremely Online before crashing hard on the rocks of all-consuming grief. Lockwood handles both with indescribable skill; I was left self-conscious about my own relationship with the internet and simultaneously sobbing. I must read everything else she's written at once.

Prelude to Bruise (Saeed Jones, 2014) - more poetry! and I really liked this one, which maybe shouldn't be surprising since I also REALLY liked Jones' memoir How We Fight For Our Lives. I've decided that jotting notes in my journal is the best way I know to explain my thoughts on poetry, so what I wrote for this one was "vibes all the way through, evocative of deep soil and emerald plants, choking growth and cold shade." Jones is well-versed in the intertwined evils of racism, homophobia, and toxic masculinity, and they haunt the collection as an endless ache from start to finish.

Bright Dead Things (Ana Limón, 2015) - I will be honest with you, friends: this was perhaps my least favorite of the three poetry collections I grabbed in my post-Lorde fugue state, which might make me a misogynist. but Limón, who grew up in California, talks with great affection about many of the things that were part of my own childhood in Montana: horse trailers and cows and dirt and weeds and the great big open sky. in "During the Impossible Age of Everyone" there's this line that goes "I’m like a fence, or a cow, or that word, yonder" that I found really stirring for reasons I can't quite place. there's also a poem called "Service" that's about pissing inside a garage because a cool dog did it first and I think more poetry should be about shit like that.

Strange Beasts of China (Yan Ge trans. by Jeremy Tiang, 2020) - this book is, as the title might suggest, strange; the beasts in question are in fact humanoid with small physical features that differentiate them from true humans while nonetheless relegating them to being treated as entirely different species who are studied like animals. there's a metaphor about tribalism or xenophobia or SOMETHING going on here, but there's also a failed student of cryptozoology having an absolutely AWFUL time that just keeps getting worse as she is hounded by memories of her mother, an abrasive former professor, her old professor's newest student, and a city filled with beasts and humans who all seem to want something from her. it's a mystery it's a psychological thriller it's a fable. you tell me.

Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century (Kim Fu, 2022) - absolutely fucking scrumptious. I DEVOURED this short story collection like a heart-shaped box full of chocolates, delighted even by the ones I wasn't too sure about. I ended up trying to make a list of my favorite stories and ended up jotting down almost all of them. "Pre-Simulation Consultation XF007867" is a TREMENDOUS example of how much story you can pack into nothing but dialogue between two characters. "Scissors" is an old pal of mine that was also featured in the anthology Kink, so erotic it could make you dizzy, and the story "Sandman" shows Fu flexing those same muscles in a much more fantastical manner. how did she make getting filled up with sand and put to sleep hot? idk, but I want in. "Time Cubes" is an absolute peak dystopian short, "Liddy, First to Fly" is a great instance of the monstrous female puberty trope that I simply adore, and "The Doll" is a perfect little spooky story. and the final piece, "Do You Remember Candy," was somehow the most haunting of them all, leaving me perplexed and sad in a way that I never would have expected from the premise. go read this, y'all.

We Do This 'Til We Free Us: Abolitionist Organizing and Transforming Justice (Mariame Kaba, edited by Tamara K. Nopper, 2021) - all I need to say about this, I think, is that ever since I read this I've been starting like half my sentences with "okay, so in We Do This 'Til We Free Us -" because it's just relevant to... everything? literally everything. Kaba gets it, she gets everything, and it's so inspirational to see her work collected in such a way that you can really appreciate the way she insists on organizing as a collective and communal process, always passing credit around to the younger generation and those who came before. her belief in hope as a practice moved me, her thoughts on the difference between activists and organizers were illuminating and resonant, the way she talks about restorative justice as something drawn out and demanding and hard are REAL and affirming that the work is both demanding and worth it. reading this is so revitalizing, I cannot recommend it enough.

The School for Good Mothers (Jessamine Chan, 2022) - I'll be real: I'm trying to keep up with a LOT of new releases right now, and at times it feels exhausting. but holy shit on a bike is it worth it keep up with novels like this. I don't know if School for Good Mothers will be widely classed as science fiction, but I think it is in the most affectionate sense. like an old school sci-fi story, School for Good Mothers probes existing technology for the horrific turns it could take without much pushing: after a horrific day in which stressed, depressed, and recently divorced mother Frida Liu leaves her toddler unattended for two hours, she's arrested and subjected to invasive surveillance in every corner of her home. when her behavior is deemed less than satisfactory she's sent away to the titular school, an isolating year-long program meant to "fix" mothers deemed unfit by the state. at the school, mothers who have lost custody of their human children are retrained using advanced robotic doll-children straight out of the uncanny valley - the dolls are programmed with realistic child behavior and feel real pain and fear, but are treated as objects by instructors who simultaneously scold the mothers for failing to connect with these facsimiles as they would with their actual children. but while the tech is (very slightly) exaggerated, Chan's conflict comes from very real issues. it's obvious within the narrative that the state's idea of "good" mothers excludes mothers who are poor, working class, or otherwise unable to stay home with their children all day; women who aren't straight; women who were raised in cultures that aren't American; women who are mentally ill; women who ever feel angry or lustful or tired or anything but perfectly quantifiable maternal adoration and servitude. it's noted in the narrative that most of the "bad" mothers are Black or Latina, that middle class "bad" white mothers cozy up to the guards, that Frida is the only Asian "bad" mother and is in a unique position because of it. it's a story about criminalization and self-surveillance and unwinnable systems, and it's utterly devastating. as you can probably tell by the sheer length of this segment, I loved it.

Playing the Whore: The Work of Sex Work (Melissa Gira Grant, 2014) - sometimes I like to play a little game where I imagine what I would put on a syllabus for a class on like, a college class for people who have sort of locked down feminism 101 and ready to start getting past that. some other entries, I think, would be Women, Race, and Class by Angela Davis, and Mikki Kendall's Hood Feminism, and as you've probably guessed by now, Playing the Whore is also joining the list. all the best writing on sex work comes from people who have actually done it (you should check out Revolting Prostitutes by Molly Smith and Juno Mac, btw), and Grant does a great job laying out exactly why. there are so many interesting points here about the ways in which sex workers are stripped of humanity and autonomy by anti-sex work feminists who claim to be fighting against exactly that; it's really a must-read for anyone who wants to consider themselves allied with sex workers because of how well it underlines the deeply hurtful stereotypes and projections that can infect so many conversations about sex work.

Woman, Eating (Claire Kohda, 2022) - a very millennial little vampire novel, following a biracial British woman who's trying to start an art career, gain independence from her mother, and stave off her constant cravings for human blood. you know, relatable! like any good vampire novel, there's a lot of metaphor - Lydia's "human" and "demon" sides cause her as much internal anguish as the mixed heritage of her Japanese human father half-white vampire mother - while also just very much being about a fucked up little creature of the night having a fucked up little time. it's about coming of age and finding yourself and repression and self-loathing but also wanting to bite someone's neck and drink their blood so SO bad.

I didn't do the bingo sheet this month because uuuuh I didn't want to so c'est la vie!!

#bookblr #reading updates

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fluorescentpipedream · 7 years ago

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Information for Gates

I’ve been gathering info on Gates LeBeau lately, things I learn as I go. So here’s a bit more:

- he doesn’t have a guide dog and generally has an aversion to all dogs (if my mother was torn to shreds by a Hellhound and I could only hear it, I’d have an aversion too) He’s not unwilling to be around other people’s dogs, as long as they’re small and their owners are nearby

- he uses an apple iWatch to navigate unfamiliar areas with an audible GPS system

- he’s also a big user of the white cane to get around, and is quite skilled even in unfamiliar cities (he gets to St Louis and gets around pretty well)

- he had a girlfriend who chose a restaurant and broke up with him over dinner, and then left him there. She’d had his hand and was leading him so he didn’t have his cane with him. He asked the waiter to call Tracie, his best friend’s wife, to come get him. The girl had been one of her friends, but isn’t now.

- one of his nieces sometimes plays the guide role, she is 16 and likes going out with her uncle, often opting to go out with him over people her own age. Her father isn’t exactly pleased with this arrangement and once suggested that Gates may be manipulating or otherwise hurting her. Gates denied it, telling the husband that just because his aunt did that to him, not everyone is trash. The young girl actually has very few friends and just likes being around Gates because he actually listens to her. She came out as a lesbian to him, feeling he would be a safer alternative than her parents. She’s out to the whole family now, and with such a large family of primarily women anyhow they didn’t react as badly as she was afraid of. Apparently she also wants to be a personal care assistant, so gets practice with her totally blind uncle.

- He has insomnia, as a good portion of blind people do, and pretty severe nightmares associated with his fears. The Hellhound returning for him seems to be a major sticking point and is one of the reasons he seeks out his half-sisters. He’s also having more elaborate dreams involving Annalise Hale, his half-sister who was blinded by another demon. Not sure what they entail, all he tells me is he smells brimstone, and hears her screaming.

- Though capable on his own and usually stable even in strange places, he has gotten lost and wound up on Royal Street without any form of aid after being robbed. His cane was broken during the altercation. Apparently JD helped him get back to Reverend Zombies where his aunt was able to take care of him. In return he told JD she would know warmth and safety one day, very soon, and warned her not to turn her back on it. Because he was anxious and uncomfortable at the time his control waivered and he was able to “read” her future from her touch.

- has no tattoos but does have his ears pierced and usually has silver studs in his ears. His aforementioned cousin bought him an emerald stud several years ago and he tends to prefer that in his right ear. He also wears a Morse code wrap bracelet on his left arm that uses a few lines from his mother’s favorite poem

- attended special training as a child and later as an adult in order to help him learn the appropriate ways to get around on his own

- lives alone, primarily, though Tracie and Jimmy live next door to his condo and one or the other of them come over once in a while to check on him.

-he’s able to cook for himself and everything in his kitchen is put exactly where it should be. I think he gets a home delivery thing set up like BlueApron or Hello Fresh and uses a Microsoft surface in his kitchen which reads the recipe to him. When he goes grocery shopping someone goes with him and when they get home, particular items are put in the fridge or in glass containers with Braille labels.

- he has a house cleaner who is forbidden from moving anything without at least telling him first and using very specific language if they do have to move something for some reason. (Ie, I moved the coffee table 2 inches forwards and 45 degrees south)

- has been found sitting at Cafe duMonde with a frozen cafe au late and a few begneits

- typically “writes” his music with a secondary tablet, this one an iPad, that typically goes with him. He uses voice recognition software for the device to record his speech and translate it into the notepad

- before her death, his mother instilled a love of traveling and getting to experience new things

- a little selective when it comes to dating, he doesn’t want to be a burden that must be taken care of

- does -not- like having a permanent care nurse on hand, and though he has a number he hardly ever calls them

- has an old, stuffed koala his mother got him when he was 2 at the zoo. It’s usually sitting on his mic stand when they perform.

- was hospitalized once a couple of years ago (not sure what for) for about a week

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thekimmelwindows-blog · 6 years ago

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V O I C E S | spotlight on the artist: Tashina Lee Emery

Tashina Lee Emery, Ojibwe is currently working on her MA in Arts Politics in Tisch’s Art and Public Policy program where she will graduate later this year.

Enrolled in the Keweenaw Bay Indian Community of Baraga, MI, Misanaquadikwe is her Native American name: The one who can clear a cloudy day. If you ever have the opportunity to meet Tashina (hint, she’ll be at the exhibition’s reception on April 17th 5:30-8pm in the Skirball Performing Arts Center Lobby, and so should you!), you’ll see what a perfect name this is for Tashina; she truly radiates the sun.

Her artwork, Anishinaabekwe, is featured in V O I C E S @nyukimmelwindows and we had the chance recently to sit down with the artist to learn a bit more about what inspires her creative process. Check it out!

Who are the women you have portrayed in your piece and what informed/inspired you to select these 7?

Mikah and Aubree. Jailyn. Sydni. Ginger. Shani. Jeanne. Victoria. Seven humans. Seven bodies. Seven physical places in life moving at once. I obscure through layers the magic of tradition, a sacred secrecy to withhold but instead asserting the wonders of existent real women and their roles in raising villages. The thick and heavy central role of the woman’s strength on the reservation that I witnessed. I celebrate their resilience to generations of trauma, now bearing the weight on my shoulders from my mother. I validate the vigor carried by blood from the collective power of the women who surround me. Glorifying my optimism through the delicate and intimate chiffon silk marking a statement of survival, the ones still here. My work shares the tenacity and superpowers of legacy. Drawing questions of the decisions we make today and how it will affect the future seven generations.

Where did you grow up and how do you feel that contributes to the person you are today?

I grew up on a small reservation of the shores of Lake Superior, the Keweenaw Bay Indian Community in Baraga, Michigan. I was raised traditionally and always had a house full. My mother raised villages, she took in anyone in need. Rez life was always something I wanted to escape growing up. Any opportunity, I took it, the more I left, the more I want to return. The more I return, the more I want to leave. However, I love my home. The awareness from a distanced perspective gives me the vigor for a healthy community, my people deserve.

What materials did you use and can you speak a little about your artistic process?

The silks transparency, the soft touch of see through that flows following the bodies fluid movements. I created seven chiffon pieces to hold the seven women of my inner circle of strength and struggle, woven elegance and damage.

I had invited all the woman in my immediate family during Thanksgiving break to spend the day in Zeba, MI with me, bringing back memories of were my mother and aunties grew up. Originally there was supposed to be a few more chiffon pieces. My cousins, aunties, sisters, and mother dressed across from deep frozen waters of Lake Superior. We did our makeup together and I made sure to bring an immense collection of my own jewelry, which anything they wore they were able to have after. An offering for their time and help in my project. My poems and short proses adorning the woman who raised me and the future generations we too, will one day effect.

My stories come from the hardships I bared, the trauma that my family has. I disguise the complex narratives of hurt and hope with stacked layers, to beautiful burden the viewer. The reader is forced to look deeper. A strategic transparency the viewer will have to work for.

You include what appears to be handwriting in the some of the pieces; who's writing is this and is there more of a story to how and why you've chosen to incorporate this in places?

My mother’s handwriting was such an important piece, representing a thread between all the pieces. The Ojibwe floral layer is the bond between the women, but my mother’s words, some in Ojibwe, are the realistic spots creating a decolonized version of the map, a fabric framework of place. A bit of her being, reclaiming her voice.

What are seven things that inspire you in life and in art-making?

My home. The thick woodlands, and the crystal lake Lake Superior shores. My reservation right near the water's embrace. I vow to surround myself again with the trees and water.

My mom. She is my best friend and her stories however horrific come with a tinge of humor, happiness, and hope.

Indian Country. The social movements and political progressions excite me. I am honored to witness the privileges my ancestors fight so hard for coming into fruition.

My nieces. I try to crave out terrain that one day, they can one day exceed expectations too.

Raw natural materials, their carried stories. I cherish the traditional medicines, the plants, and the decolonized memory and making.

Healing. I come from a Tribal Public Health background and the practices of other first Nations is power. Culture is medicine.

Traveling. The mobile Native or body of color has been a new fascination, especially coming from a reservation enacting my dual citizenship, a double consciousness.

Below are detail images of the installation along with translations of their accompanying poems; be sure to swing by and see the works in person!

Nieces - Mikah and Aubree - Panel 1

Beautiful Baby.

I look at the light skinned dark babies, the babies born mixed, the mothers who hold shades lighter, the black haired mothers who protect their redheaded daughters.

The worlds purposeful intentions, reminding us that difference is okay, humbling our mothers, my mother. This beautiful baby, we created in our body’s came out into harsh world, the very not memory of the past colonization, not our light skin, not only the light hair. Not the colonizers wounds, it’s a reminder to love one another. To find new forms of securities, new love, new radical change.

I watch a mother of dark complexion cradle her little lighter joy and embraced the baby’s new warmth, she holds the entire world in that little girl. Her eyes didn’t look like her mothers but she loved her to the moon, I traveled to witnessing her joy.

Nieces - Mikah and Aubree - Panel 1

Bright Pink Fuel.

Bright pink, yes, our favorite color! The colorful toes were adorned in glittered, glamorous, tall, jeweled heels walked through the cold, dark rain. The studded emeralds were the only pieces in color in the gray, murky video as they moved closer towards us, with sass. Then, guess what the fabulous feet did? They brought forward one beautiful foot in slow motion, swung the tattooed leg with just enough force to smash the window, glass in front of them. The glass's sharp edges bursting everywhere.

Be careful where you step, but good thing the feet had heels on.

I see the power in the person wearing those heels, a fight in heels is a tougher work then most. A similar work you’ll have, as women of color, your heels is the shade skin you wear. The height of the stem should empower you. Stand up straight, walk with vigor and purposeful, with finesse. The heels you wear are adorned with jewels of your ancestors carrying you as you sustain them. Please know those heels come with baggage, the pain, the ache in your foot, feel that with every step you take and use it as bright pink fuel.

Cousin - Jailyn - Panel 2

Baamaapii.

Baamaapii. adv tmp temporal adverb - later, after a while, eventually. In Ojibwe, we do not have a “goodbye”. What a beautiful reminder that the permanence of leaving or being gone is unrestricted and open ended to possibilities. We also view death as “passing on”, no one “dies”, but “passes away”, just moving on until we meet again. As a wanderer, these notions of the “see you later” are comforting. I learned very young, my home will always be there - the fresh cold water of Lake Superior, the dark woodlands, the dirt tireless roads, and the vast open fields to roam.

I take my passion, my dreams, the unknown with me to New York City. I left my appreciation, with cooked dinners and movie nights with my mom. I left my joy with my nieces and sisters spending days at the beach. I left my strength with the women in my family, to carry on the raised villages. I left my future with the hardest worker and most compassionate boy, my best friend.

My values of family and my rural home, are so ingrained that I have a innate need to settle and have a family. The reservation calls my name even 1,137.2 miles away. The content lifestyle of the midwest is seducing because it was all I ever was exposed to, it was the norm. I can’t stop moving, I need to explore. The unknown captives me more, but I known in the back of mind I can have it all. My autonomy is so strategic, that I will prove you can be a found soul. Baamaappii.

Cousin - Sydni - Panel 3

Speak or fashion or eat or adorn and repeat.

“Decolonize” has been such a buzz word it’s on fire, the trend game is so strong. Do not get me wrong, we need the framework, decolonization seeks revolutionary change and a sense of peace we all need. Decolonize, a mindful act, has always been an unspoken truth for Native communities, an existing way of life but now it is law. A term to police each other, another quantum to test my blood. A verbiage to see my percentage of authenticity, but guess what I’m not prefect. Strip down bare, bring fire to everything, live in this past world, listen carefully to every word you say. How dare I accuse someone for not wanting to suffer? Not assimilation, but to live a life our ancestors fought to be apart. Yes, I will be educated. Yes I will speak and write in english. Yes, I will shop online. Yes, I will move in and out of the reservation. But, I do everything with my values of my mother and her’s before her.

I hate the word, but I’m not saying to not purse practices, change the agenda, but bring awareness to use words that aren’t even ours. Maybe I’m writing for myself to digest the words of criticism, of hate, of intolerance or unawareness. Decolonize is a tool or maybe a truth to get some where new, but it should never be a way to beat someone up. “If you don’t speak or fashion or eat or adorn and repeat in decolonization, then your Native authenticity is lacking.” More ways of classification, as taunting as measuring my relations to my people, my community and my land. Yes, there is a difference between decolonize and pride, one doesn’t force you to follow along in the boasting of Nativeness.

I’m not the colonizer.

Cousin - Sydni - Panel 3

A part in my heart where no trust lives.

On Saturday morning at 3:21 am, I called the police with an almost calm voice and simply but accurately stated ", I recently had a home invasion with assault." How bleek, I had no emotion, but I spoke in their words so they could hear me.

My face was marked with blood and burned with stinging pain along my eye and a few intense deep scratches on my cheeks. I felt woozy so I sat down with my phone in my hand, numb. I sat alone.

I had already outlined the situation in my head. Trying to replay the events in my head, trying to label and fully understand what happened, trying to remember how to start and finish. I was there, but I couldn’t grasp time anymore. I'm trying to wrap my freshly onset of dizziness, but I was blurry from the outside deep down within, the world flew out softly and left me shuddering on the floor of my living room.

I sat in my house empty. Sending a photo to my best friend first, labeled should I call the police?

I am mad, I am pissed, I have rage. I have a part in my heart where no trust lives. No home or shield that will protect me. The part that reminds me to lock my doors twice. I sit back and observe everyone. I want them to know they ignited a tiny fire and it is a reason to speak even louder, to scream next time. I want accountability. I want justice. I want that if she was a guy, she'd be a prisoner. I want credibility. And this isn't acceptable.

But survival you do alone, when breathing becomes essential. I’m not saved or healed, but I breathe. Take deep breaths.

It is not with the cloak of physical wounds I carry, but the adusatity you have of boasting about the events. The fact that you claim the victim. How does the idea come to your head that you “win”? That you even want to “win”.

My case wasn't taken seriously, so I sparked flames. I couldn’t break the cycles of hurt, because hurt people, hurt people. I am broken, but the fight of a shattered person is effective when saving other shattered people.

Cousin - Ginger - Panel 4

A cloud that dropped everyone to their knees.

I braid the hair of the bridesmaids, and ending with the little flower girls because the restless toddlers couldn’t sit long enough. Their pearl crowns in place, the small crowded house seemed to get louder with anxiousness. My aunty in all white, her voice shook as she entered the room, she held her phone. Already she was the center of attention, we paused everything for the bride, we grew silent listening to the beautiful text her son had just sent. He wished he could be there and was sorry he wasn’t able to see her beauty on her big day. He was called out to a wildfire in Utah at 3 am the night before. The ceremony was near, I was helping with last minute highlight, adding more or less creme blush, we choked on hairspray, sipping wine and beer to ease the excited tensions. I was the last to be ready, the bridal crew escaped leaving me behind while I applied my last touches of peach shadows, hands shaking applying my matte liquid wings. The primer, creme foundation, and the powder setting, can not forget the setting.

The world went blurry, the bride was limp, numb to the news. The alcohol that was just setting in, did not ease the pain I saw and couldn’t digest. Everyone’s shock was a slight buzz, a cloud that dropped everyone to their knees. The disbelief traumatized everyone. His sisters, my sisters screaming out, “he is gone”. She sharply snapped, yelling at my optimistic skepticism. She wanted to punch me with the truth. She could have and I still wouldn’t have listened. The police arrived to confirm.

The trauma of that evening broke my whole family, broke my community. The firefighters never made it outside of Minnesota. Two years have gone by and there is not a day that goes by when I don’t think of the Jimmy, James Frederick Shelifoe Jr. Again, we met at my mother's house to struggle together and we still do.

It wasn’t the day after when the world stopped, it wasn’t the weeks after when a being who was presence no longer existed, it wasn’t the months after where every meal around a table meant Jimmy wasn’t there.

Sister - Shani - Panel 5

Lineage.

My lineage stems from strong powerful women, the strength of wounds that still need healing. The endurance, the resilience mirrored in their our young. They say a higher power, gives you only what you can handle. The generations of women in my life handled what can only be told in stories surrounded by laughter, because you wouldn’t be able to hear the truth in seriousness. My mother comes from broken parents, split in half by trauma. My grandfather beat my grandmother into suicide. His drinking came from the abuse he received himself and so on. At 11 years old my mom and her siblings fended on their own in homes of a broken community - Bridgette, Cathy, Jerry, Jim, Vicki, Miino, Baghi, Wausa, Waba, Allen, and Steve. They carried the heaviness of loss entering this already harsh world.

The pain and hurt has descended to my shoulders, and that’s just the pain I witnessed. Dare I even go back further? Do I want to know? What I do see is the baggage on my cousins, their little ones. We are normalized to the hurt, content with the struggle of barely making it through. That is all we ever known. Three of my uncles are currently incarcerated, more than half addicted to numbing the pain, three have passed on because some couldn’t “handle what the higher power gives you”. The damaged but tenacious beings who now are raising kids. I would ask my mom how do you handle losing a sibling, more than one because, at my age, I didn’t know how to grip the hurt, pain and hate that comes from the loss of a young soul, we were supposed to be the generation of stopped cycles. She never really responded but, just lead the way, just kept moving. It was like an initiation to the club. I have learned loss at age 5 years old. My mother lost her younger sibling and my cousin became my sister.

Now take this hurt, times the built up tonnage by *1,130 and trap it in one place called reservations.

How are you not mad? How do I accuse someone of not wanting to suffer? Because sometimes, I am so heated that I want to fight. I want to break walls, punch, kick and scream - but I don't I use my words and stories. Stories you can only tell in laughter.

*The # of Keweenaw Bay Indian Community Tribal Members Enrolled residing in Baraga County

Mother - Jeanne - Panel 6

Degree of Holiness.

My cousins tease that my mom is a Catholic saint, our lack of Christianity didn’t deter us from labeling her a powerful being having an exceptional degree of holiness, likeness or closeness to God. We did, however, know she was the Native version of a saint, she was a Native Saint.

My mother has an exceptional degree of holiness, a likeness and a closeness to the Creator. She always has, she'd tell us stories of when she was little, she'd sing in the woods as if that was further confirming her sainthood. I think it’s funny, her Ojibwe traditional knowledge is most prominent but I see subtle hints of the colonizer she adapted in her own reclamation. I wonder what my people, called prayers or messages to the Creator before Columbus. Even the Ojibwe word Anama'e, which means prayer translates to “church, Christian”. But the act, the ritual, the modern day ceremony of her prayer creates her own resistance through her blend of worlds.

She offers her Asemaa, tobacco, usually from her fresh pack of Seneca's because Marlboros are now too expensive. She closes her eyes holding them shut, with the same tension as she holds the small grains of the whitewashed Kinnikinnick, smoking herbs. The "old Indian way" would have maybe Bearberry leaf, Mullein leaf, Deer's Tongue, Osha leaf, Red Sumac leaf, and Spearmint leaf in their mixtures. Although now most First Nation’s natural resource departments harvest their own real traditional sacred tobacco, the plant Nicotiana Rustica, successfully and unsuccessfully. But she acts on the call of prayer, which is spontaneous and always urgent. She introduces herself, connects herself to the land, and connects herself to her role and community. I see her mumble the thoughts, the wishes, the needs of my people. I can even hear her inner voice ending each phrase “in a good way”. I give her, her space as she mends those around me.

“Aunty Jean, can you pray about my Dad he is in the hole again.” “Mom, can you pray for my Cats they keep peeing in my bed.” “Can you have your mom pray for me as I go into this final nursing exam.” “Aunty Jean, can you pray for my rez car, I about to bring it to the shop again.” “Mom, can you pray for my IUD procedure Friday.”

This is my meeting place, where my Ojibwe tradition encounters contemporary western society.

Then, the ritual starts again. My mother introduces herself. Nindizhinikaaz Namid Migizi. My name is Dancing Eagle. Nindonjibaa Baraga. I am from Baraga. Mikinaak Nindoodem. My clan is Turtle. She continues sharing her courage with me to do the same.

Mother - Jeanne - Panel 6

Because you are my daughter.

I have never been so filled with anxiety. I see mixed messages on every social platform. My brain is constantly talking to itself and all I’m trying to do sleep for the two hours I have left before the new day starts. For the first time at least since I can, remember I feel like I’m constantly questioning my own work, and my own authenticity, why am I the one allowed too be here, to create? Am I stressed because I’m not apart of my Native community? Or is because I’m the only Native dealing with this new place by herself?

Is this what rewarding risk taking feels like?

Decolonize has always been an unspoken truth, but now it is law. If you don’t speak or fashion or eat or adorn or repeat in decolonization then your Native authenticity is lacking. The new classification is as taunting as blood quantum, measuring my relations to my people, my community and my land. Yes, there is a difference between decolonize and pride, one doesn’t force you to follow along in the boasting of Nativeness.

I have never questioned myself more since coming to NYU, so I asked my mom why do I get to do what I do?

“Because you are sweet and because you are my daughter.”

Aunty - Victoria - Panel 7

Fucking Tough.

Learn to be fucking tough, does being an artist mean I have to be tough? Which I thought I was.

I’m just as valid in my own way, my work is valid and means shit, I need to represent it as is, fight for it, that's my toughness.

I’m just as right as you and I accept you.

Recognize the conversation you now play with everything to the past? Do I have to respond or is it okay to just be? “I have to be tough, I have to be tough, I have to be tough, I have to be tough” I grow thicker skin, the more I say it.

Aunty - Victoria - Panel 7

Deviant.

The second you don’t feel the fear, you’ll see the future so clear. I’ll keep telling myself that.

And what if my change I try to push, comes before they are ready, is there a better time? Maybe it’s not timing, but it’s more about the process, the way you teach and not scare. Because if you change in a Native American community, then we are gone, we are extinct. The second I’m deviant, an artist, when I break the rules or go against tradition, prove, maintain, and represent I’m still Native. How can I create conditions to change, formation.

Aunty - Victoria - Panel 7

Through Exhaustion.

Both of these worlds, want to refer to me in the trapping past or always a near future, but never the present here and now. I appreciate the challenge, but to be apart of the conversation I physically, mentally and wholeheartedly beg, strive, fight to represent my past with integrity then, I do the exact same to represents the future. Through exhaustion, tirelessly because if I don’t, who will. My nieces and my own children will one day have too, and that makes the urgency even more. I tell myself to grow thicker skin, I need to be tough.

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