Cicatrix

When I was 17, a man handed me a snake and it bit me.

He had bought us groceries the day before, so I trusted him enough to take things from him.

But I didn’t ask for this snake.

I was old enough to have the snake.

But I didn’t want it.

He caught me off guard, so I didn’t have the chance to deny the reptile.

But of course I would have.

He was not in his right mind when he handed it to me.

But why did he have the snake in the first place?

I did not want this snake.

But he handed it to me anyway.

Without my consent.

——

Did he think he had it?

My consent?

He did not.

My age is not consent.

My smile is not consent.

My eye-contact is not consent.

My outfit is not consent.

My trust is not consent.

My unconsciousness is not consent.

My vulnerability is not consent.

My silence is not consent.

And the excuses and the promises of change that you craft so sweetly and feed to your conscience?

I hope you choke on them because those sure as hell are not my consent.

—–

One night, at 2 o’clock in the morning, a man handed me a snake.

And it bit me.

Its venom was slow.

It gave me a false sense of hope.

I heard about girls all the time who had been bitten and it about destroyed them.

Maybe I was immune to it.

Maybe I was strong enough.

Maybe I wasn’t.

—–

By the time I began to notice the symptoms of this poison, it was already coursing through my veins.

It had been there too long.

My skin had already changed colors, the paralysis already set in, my throat already half swollen shut.

It took everything I had to suck the venom out before it was too late.

But I did.

And I recovered.

The funny thing about venomous bites though is that, even after the venom is removed, they still leave open wounds.

It healed. My body regenerated and the tissues came together to mend that tear in my flesh.

But there will always be a mark.

—–

One late November night, when I was 17, I lay sleeping on my couch.

In a still slumber, in the comfort of my jeans, hoody, and silence of my living room.

A man handed me a snake and it bit me.

I still have the scar to prove it.

---

To The People That Ask Me What I Mean When I Tell Them That I Am Alaska Native…

I mean that my roots are buried deep in the earth that my grandpa’s house is built on.
I mean that I can swear that I hear the river whisper my name on the days, my head is too loud for my thoughts to breath.
I mean that I my heart craves the vibration of a drum so badly that sometimes its sighs well up in the corner of my eyes and fall just as soon as that beat shakes them loose.
I mean that my hands get fidgety right around the time the berries are ripe, and my knees start to curl a little more out of muscle memory.

When I tell you that I am Alaska Native
I mean that my dreams lie in the tiny hands of the little girls that call me ‘Auntie,’ even if they aren’t my relation.
I mean that my hopes rest in the minds of the little boys that can never seem to keep the dust off their smile and are outside as long as the sun will allow, preparing to be hard workers, before they even realize.
I mean that my ears have tuned themselves to the frequency that my elders speak at, and my voice to the station that they recognize.

When I tell you that I am Alaska Native
I mean that I am indigenous.
I know what ‘home’ means.
I mean that I am united.
I know what ‘family’ means.
I mean that I am strong.
I know what ‘needed’ means.
I mean that I am resilient.
I know what ‘recovering’ means.
I mean that I am smart.
I know what ‘learning’ means.
I mean that I am giving.
I know what ‘helpful’ means.

When I tell you that I am Alaska Native
I mean that my people are always with me.
Their smiles, embedded in my spirit.
Their laughter, ringing in my ears.
Their prayers, written in the folds of my hands.
I mean that my heart lies with my people.

When I stand here today,
Far from my home,
Feet planted firmly before you,
And tell you that I am Alaska Native,
I’m not talking about my blood quantum,
I’m talking about the essence of my being.

A Letter to My Future Daughter

Dear honey-baby-sweetie-pie,
Gosh, you’re beautiful.
You were given your mother’s shoulders
Strong, but often carrying more than they have to.
You were given my father’s feet
Always checking to make sure that they were guided by the Lord.
You got my mother’s laugh
Genuine and contagious.
You have my grandma’s tongue
Speaking sternly, but always with love.
You were given my grandpa’s hands
They never stay idle for very long.
You got the family voice
Honey, they are gonna LISTEN to you.
But baby, when I tell you that you’re beautiful, know that I am not just talking about your smile.
I am talking about your light.
The one that I watch burn a little brighter when you’re favorite song comes on.
The one that dances every time you tell a story.
The one that I pray to God you never hide.

But beautiful is not the only thing I will ever call you.
Sometimes I will call you Sherlock, because you will never accept things at face value.
Sometimes I will call you Van Gogh, because you will make art out of life and sometimes you are going to take a little more creative license than I would like, but I know I have to have faith in your vision.
Sometimes I will call you Einstein, because the way you figure life out is going to make the theory of relativity look like child’s play.
Sometimes I will call you Ali, because you will be like a fighter that they have never seen before.
Sometimes I will call you love, because baby you embody it.
But sometimes I will call you fire, because baby, you embody it.

On some days though, I could call you whatever I want and you won’t buy it.
On those days, I won’t have to say a thing, but know that my arms, will always hold your heartbreak.
They will always hold your fear, your loss, your failure.
Know that you can always leave them here with me.

Babygirl, I will never tell you to find someone else to love.
Instead, I will tell you to find your passion.
I will tell you to find your calling.
I will tell you to find yourself, and love who you find.

And Sweetie? When I’m not there to tell you, there are some things I want you to remember.
Remember where you come from.
Know that you have strength in your blood, resilience in your veins, and capability in your DNA.
You are the dreams that your ancestors had.
You are the future.
If you can remember that, where you came from, there is no limit on how far you can go.

And honey, baby, sweetie pie, my dainty princess, my fearless warrior, my simple song, my jigsaw puzzle
Know that, no matter what, you are ALWAYS loved.

I’m Not Going to Write A Memoir

“Task: Select a single event in your life and describe it.  Write in detail, describing the event well enough that your reader understands the situation and the emotions involved.  Be sure that your writing reflects on the event and considers the deeper meaning associated with it.  Try to make sense of the experience. The final draft should be 3-5 pages.”

I have to write a memoir. I have to pick this grand event in my life and describe it. I have to write about this ‘Ah-ha!’ moment in my life that made me suddenly realize some hidden characteristic about society and helped me to make sense out of life. It sounds like a perfect opportunity to be dramatically philosophical. Shouldn’t be hard, right? I mean, come on. It’s my life. Who would know about the events of it any better than me? I could write about anything. I could pick anything out of life at 16. No problem, right?

Wong. The problem is this. I don’t want to write it. I just don’t want to. I knew from the beginning that I would despise the assignment. Memoirs are something that I read. They’re designed to read other people’s stories, not mine. I just don’t want to write it.

After I was assigned the memoir, I complained, mostly just for the heck of complaining. I figured I would say I didn’t want to write it up until the night before and write it at 2am. I figured it was just another assignment that I was going to procrastinate on and then get it over with at the last minute. I knew I didn’t want to write it.

So, I didn’t. We got multiple class periods to work on it. I didn’t. I wasted time. I zoned out. The classroom was pretty quiet with the exception of a few sounds. There was the occasional whisper and giggle, the tick of the clock at the top of every hour, and the clicking of the keyboard on every laptop but mine. I fought my sleep. I could feel my eyelids start to droop. I was already avoiding my work, I wasn’t going to sleep through class as well. I may slack, but not that far. I would socialize about anything really – sports, current events, how much I didn’t want to do this assignment, etc. I would read the news. There was a lady who was being charged for trying to burn down her pet shop with 27 puppies inside. 27 puppies! Really, lady?! Clay Aiken announced that he was going to run for congress. The former American Idol star is now in his mid-30s. He looks a lot older though. The rumors related to Sochi say the terrorists are putting bombs in toothpaste tubes. And Syria is just unstable in general. I would just let my mind wander. I followed every train of thought on every set of tracks that I could possibly find. For about a week, this is what I did. I avoided everything down to the thought about the memoir.

I wasn’t going to do it. I hadn’t even picked a topic yet. I didn’t plan on picking a topic. I picked a stance. I wasn’t going to do it. I was going to avoid it to the very end.

I couldn’t even figure out why I didn’t want to write it. So, in the midst of my zoning, I pondered it. What was it about this paper that I loathed so much? I hated writing all essays, but what was it about this one that bothered me so much. All I had to do was share my experiences and what I thought about them. That was all I had to do.

But that was just it. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to share any meaningful experiences. I didn’t want to expose my thoughts about them with anyone, let alone the people I see in an academic setting. I just wasn’t going to do that. So I dug my heels in.

I’m all for sucking it up and getting the job done. I hate essays. So, I will only do it when I absolutely must. I hate dealing with radians or trigonometric functions. So, again, I will only do it when there is no other option. I will get the job done when I need to, but only when it’s just a job, not when I have to be personal about it. That’s taking things too far. I won’t go there.

Some kids don’t like the circus because it had clowns. Some don’t like the zoo because it has tigers. I don’t want to write a memoir because a memoir has emotions. That’s what people go to see professionals about, their life changing experiences and feelings. They talk about their life stories and their thoughts about it. But they just say what they thought. They just talk about what happened. They simply make waves in the air with the sound of their voice.  But the waves soon die off. Their words hang in the space between the conversers for mere moments, before they fade. Only a vague hint clings to the memory of the listener. Nothing is never solidly noted. That keeps people from being completely exposed. It keeps them secure in their sharing, because the memory would rarely be solidified in the mind of their confidant. So why should I want to abandon that security and write down these experiences and my thoughts about them? The words would no longer be a mere vibration in the atmosphere, but a legible ink marking on a tangible piece of paper. Why would I want the words that describe my life to be written down to be read and reread? Why would I want the description of my life to stare me in the face in 12pt font? What need did I have to experience those emotions over again through black and white lettering? The two dimensional pieces of paper that would make up my memoir just had too much depth to them.

I didn’t want to write a memoir from the very beginning. At the time though, I thought it was because I didn’t want to write. I see now that it’s because I didn’t want to write a memoir. I still don’t want to write a memoir. So, I’m not going to. I’m not going to write a memoir.

But it’s too late. I just did.

Educated

I am educated.

The sun taught me that, even when no one is looking, I must shine.

The rain taught me that your plans don’t always work out, but you can either go inside or splash around a little.

The birds taught me that there is a time to hide and there is a time soar.

The butterflies taught me that nothing worth having is easy to catch.

All the little children taught me that all you need is imagination and forgiveness to have a good time with anyone.

All my friends taught me that sometimes things come between you, but in the end, the real ones stick around.

They taught me that, no matter how much they don’t agree with what you do, if someone else challenged you, they would defend you till the end.

But, most of all, they taught me that sometimes you have to be a little insane to stay sane.

My grampa taught me that when you love doing something, you do it and put as much of yourself into it for as long as you can.

He taught me that, if you can fix it, don’t just throw it away.

My gramma taught me that being quiet and simple is nice.

She told me that I need to be proud of who I am because that pride was once denied.

An auntie of mine taught me that if you set your mind to something, you can finish it quickly.

Another taught me that if you like doing something enough, go ahead and make it into a career.

They’ve all taught me that it is possible for someone to be like a mother to you, but still treat you like a friend.

An uncle taught me that sometimes good things come out of situations that aren’t the greatest.

My cousins all taught me that, even if you aren’t technically siblings, you are.

My brothers taught me that just because you pester your siblings constantly doesn’t mean that you don’t love them forever.

And they taught me that the dog matters too.

My little sisters taught me that sometimes the people who follow you and imitate you just want to hang out with you every once in a while.

The older ones taught me that, even though we may not talk much, we are still just as close as ever.

My mom’s husband taught me that, not everyone’s your child, but they are still your kids.

My mom taught me to be the change that you want to see.

She taught me that if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

She taught me that if you have too much on your plate, you get another plate.

She taught me that the road to success is a struggle created by others, but how you travel on it is dictated by you.

She taught me that you win some and you lose some.

And she taught me that sometimes things get loud, out of control, overwhelming, crazy, frustrating, confusing, difficult, conflicting, and they just plain suck, but no matter what, Life Is Good.

My dad taught me that, no matter what, it will all be okay.

He taught me that sometimes, it’s okay to let someone else handle it.

He taught me that I can’t do everything and I have to accept that.

He taught me that sometimes, even when I’m not asked, I need to keep an eye on things.

He taught me that even though I’m mature, it’s still okay to be a little girl and that I will always be his little girl.

And he taught me that you earn something from everyone.

They all taught me that, no matter what, you have someone behind you who cares regardless of your faults.

Being educated doesn’t mean that you got a certificate.

Being educated means you learned something of value.

Education isn’t learning what your told in a book, it’s learning what you have the chance to learn from all that you encounter.

I am still learning.

I am still being taught.

But I am, and always will be,

Educated.

Off

Wrong.

Weird.

It’s just … off.

I’m taking a step back

And looking at the painting that is my life.

There, in front of me, is my whole world on a canvas.

It’s an inconsistent random.

I can tell that each major stroke had a different feeling behind it.

It’s a secretive book, longing to be analyzed a bit farther.

I know that there is so much more that can be expressed, but it has all been painted over and hidden by other colors.

It’s an unorganized clutter.

There’s so much happening in every aspect of it.

It’s a soup with no recipe.

There are so many colors, dull and vibrant, all mixed together to create a piece with no over all theme.

It’s an unruly teenager, making her own path for tomorrow.

It’s not modern, nor is it traditional, and I can’t find one technique that resembles any other painting.

It’s just … off.

But, still, it’s beautiful.

Still, it’s wonderful.

And, still, it’s mine.

No matter how off.

Her Harmony

Lying there.

Just Listening.

The grass was soft under her hair.

The sweet night lullaby of the lagoon, glistening,

lingers in the lax

summer night

With the moon phase on wax.

 

The song of her soul

was sung in secret.

Still, nature knew her strife and salvation at 18 years old.

She stayed still, and listened to it,

hearing her mind in sweet song.

And, silently,

her soul sang along.

 

Her heart was never

heard by the people she knew.

But that night, in hiding from forever,

she heard her heart in a harmony, so true,

with the hushed breeze.

Her God,

He knew her hardships and happiest ease.

But there, He had the heavens sing to her and her thoughts.

Sing her the melody of her heart.

Help Me Out Here

Okay. So I was told about this writing competition. I plan on entering into it buuuuut I have a problem. I have to pick a few pieces to enter and I can never decide. SOOO if you have any suggestions or favorites or aaaanything please let me know. I will be writing more between now and the deadline but still. Thanks!

There’s Something About It

There’s something about that drum beat.

It makes me want to smile and move.

It seems to make it okay for me to just close my eyes and breath.

I can see it bring people together.

We may not all know the words to the song or the dance that goes with it.

But — man — when that drum gets goin’…

It’s something’ else.

Feeling that drum beat is like listening to your heart beat.

It just feels right.

There’s just something about it.

 

There’s something about sitting with the elders.

It makes me feel special and cared for.

Just listening to their stories and lessons.

It just makes you want to sit with them forever and see what else they’ll share with you.

Even just the way they say things is significant.

Every once in a while, they’ll mix in a tribal word.

Then you know that they have shared something great with you.

Sometimes they’re from a different region, with different customs, and language.

Still, you share one thing.

You are Native.

That, in itself, makes the time you share together unique.

Knowing that, you feel important.

There’s just something about it.

 

There’s something about practicing our customs.

Whether it be hunting, or berry picking, or cooking, or sewing, or providing, or whatever.

It just seems to make everything okay.

If you’re alone, it gives you an escape to thought.

If you’re with someone, it gives you bondage.

Every now and then you just catch yourself smiling.

Doing it just puts you at peace.

There’s just something about it.

 

There’s something about your people.

Being with them gives you a sense of belonging.

Providing for them gives you a sense of strength.

Being provided for gives you a sense of security.

Teaching them gives you a sense of knowledge.

Learning from them gives you a sense of wisdom.

Laughing with them gives you a sense of being care-free.

Hurting with them gives you a sense of comfort.

They’re not perfect, but you still feel proud that they are your people.

There’s just something about them.

 

There’s just something about it.

Being who you are.

Knowing what you know.

Having the people in your life that you do.

It completes you.

It’s what makes you.

It gives you a sense of identity.

It makes you feel good.

Makes you feel whole.

Makes you feel complete.

Makes you feel like you matter.

Like you have a voice, because of who you are.

Lets you know that, even though things won’t always be easy,

But because you are who you are, you are strong enough to get through them.

Makes you feel–

Unexplainably good.

There’s no way to put it into words.

There’s something about it.

 

Being Native.

There’s just something about it.

I Am Saved

My hands are stained with sin and darkness, but He still holds them tight.

I walk with my eyes closed, but He guides my steps safely.

I ignore Him, but He still tries to show me the way.

I don’t talk to Him as much as I should, but still He listens.

I don’t say the things that I should, but He still cares what I have to say.

I don’t act the way I should, but He still takes full responsibility for my actions.

I worry too much, but He constantly comforts me.

I settle for less than I should, but He still tries to hand me more than I could ever deserve.

Although I don’t look often, He paints these unique pictures for me every moment of every day.

Although I am rarely quiet enough to listen, He still plays for me a song of light.

Although I war against everything, He brings me peace.

Although I am tired and heavy laden, He secretly gives me energy to push forward.

I am wrong.

I am weak.

I am ignorant.

I am impure.

I am not okay.

But He has taken my life, cleansed me, and made me new.

He has worked on me, is working on me, and will work on my forever.

Because of Him…

I am right.

I am strong.

I am wise.

I am clean.

I am okay.

I. AM. SAVED.