So, I appreciate any attempt at stopping DAPL. But I don’t appreciate doing it while culturally appropriating what isn’t your culture.
The drumming isn’t correct, the headdress is inauthentic. By the way, women don’t wear them. The chanting? WTF?!
What the fuck? Can’t you support the issue from the point of fact that you drink water also?
Our land had been taken. Our families stolen, split up, white washed and assimilated. Do you have to steal our culture too?
This person is NOT honoring Indigenous people! She us insulting us, making a mockery of our life, all to play pretindian.
It’s not OK. If you want to honor Indigenous people, LEARN. HEAR US, when we say we aren’t honored. STOP your friends when you see them appropriating our culture. TELL THEM, it leads to resentment and we LAUGH at them, while crying inside at how you see us.
That video, is maddening and is probably a good thing I can’t tell her what I think.
We aren’t costumes. You don’t blackface, so don’t do the equivalent to us. I won’t feel friendly to you.
Support the water protectors, but stop playing Indian. It’s super unbecoming and makes you looking like a shitty fucking ally.
My Experience at the Front Lines in Standing Rock I left Phoenix on the evening of September 1st, driving through a double rainbow that I believed to be Navajo blessings for good travel. I passed t…
Source: #NoDAPL – Part 3
My Experience at the Front Lines in Standing Rock
I left Phoenix on the evening of September 1st, driving through a double rainbow that I believed to be Navajo blessings for good travel. I passed through my home in Window Rock and picked up my friend Paul from Denver on the 2nd. We headed through Nebraska and South Dakota, crossing countless traditional territories and Reservation boundaries, weaving across the prairie. We kept driving on through the night until we arrived in Cannon Ball the morning of Saturday, September 3rd. Paul and I come from very separate social communities, yet we had both been exposed to the #NoDAPL fight through some degree of the Native Grapevine. However, we knew the coverage was incredibly limited; so limited, in fact, that mainstream media had failed to truly cover the story at that point in our journey. I…
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Happy Birthday. I’m going to meet the two oldest.
I miss you everyday.
I may soon be able to write. But right now, I just need to go through it.
So, the other day I got pissed at Mr. Yummy.
He’s never around, he never lets me know if he’s off on a bender, hanging with family, or doing something I don’t want to know about.
I guess it was out of anger, I told him I would be gone Tuesday through Friday. I must have surgery and will stay somewhere else (where he doesn’t have to care for or help me out). He kind of stopped packing his firearms and ammunition and asked very surprised what I needed surgery for? I sort of surprised myself because I became hostile and told him I didn’t really feel like telling him WHY, because it doesn’t fucking matter. We both said a few other things. Mostly I said, to have felt so dismissed and ignored has hurt and I am at the point where I just don’t give a shit anymore. He quietly said, “I don’t want you to feel like that.”
I didn’t really say anything to that, because I’m hurt. It would have been mean and more of the same.
For a year, I have been trying to put my mother fucking life back together. I lost Mel, I have lost Mr. Yummy and I lost a good friend and daughter, because she thought something I posted on Facebook about Mr. Yummy, was about her.
I’m fucking tired, and I am tired of losing people and honestly, I don’t fucking care anymore. Fuck it. Everyone wants to go away? GO AWAY!
True to Yum form, he took off for a few days. No response to me saying “you hurt me, it sucks and I can’t give a fucking shit anymore.” He knows I am looking at moving. This all sucks, but I don’t care anymore. I can’t. Maybe it won’t be a pretty little hate garden, but it’s not a fucking love festival.
So imagine my surprise when he comes in last night, drunk. He climbs in his bed, next to me, and rolls over facing me and loosely snuggles up to me and starts touching my feet and toes, with his feet and toes. he knows I like this.
I was mad. I don’t want to trust it. AND WHY THE FUCK NOW, after I said I don’t fucking care anymore. I feel like I was naive and gullible with him and I don’t trust much with him now.
Go ahead, go the fuck away.
What is it I want to say to her?
She’s been gone over a year now, and I still miss her every fucking day. The pain hasn’t gone away, but it has lessened some.
There are just so many things I would have told her in 365 plus days. Most of my year has been really shitty, because I have been dealing with losing her. The loss of her so dwarfed any loss I have ever known before.
It dwarfed the loss of practically everything. In a way, I lost myself. The me I had become, the open, loving, happy, and hopeful person. I was a person living with intent, and doing the things I was creating in my life and losing her just…FUBAR. In all ways.
I’m still here. I am still living and though I am happy, I am depressed. I don’t want to stay in this place. The loss of her was so, so deep. I truly feel most people don’t understand it. Yes, she was my best friend, but she was so much more. She was my sister, at times my mother, and at times my kid. She was my soul mate and I never understood that, till that moment I told her as much as she lay there on life support. At least, to my clouded and blacked out memories of those 11 days in Texas, she was still on life support at that point. What room were we in? NICU or Hospice? I really don’t remember.
I remember in NICU, walking into her room and it was empty. My heart started beating out of my chest. I thought she had died. I don’t even remember why she wasn’t in her room when I got there, I just remember them telling me she had been taken to someplace and she would be back.
I remember going into the Emergency room, after we removed the life support, after I asked her what she needed. Her eyes looked at mine and I knew, she needed/wanted life. I asked her as much, “You want to live huh?” I remember her responding with a slight nod and tears. I remember panicking and asking her if she wanted me to get the doctors, nurses and, machines back? She responded with a negative nod. I asked her, “What are you going to do, just fight till you can’t fight anymore?” She, nodded yes. I replied that I was there to hold her hand. I remember we cried together. I remember walking the halls later and just wanting to scream my mother fucking lungs out and never stop. It was in my head and my heart and it just needed out. I had NO CLUE how to process what was happening before my eyes. I found myself in the ER, falling apart, crying that my best friend was in NICU dying and I didn’t know what to do. They made me fill out paperwork. Eventually, I left. I just got up and walked out after a while, sitting in a room, crying. I walked the halls. I sneaked outside and smoked a joint. I went back to her.
I remember so much, but it’s foggy, blurred, blacked out.
I remember that sound in my head, at that final meeting with doctors and the final MRI results. I remember asking if once the ventilator, catheter, and attendants started, would there ever be life without them. I remember being told no. I remember the doctor saying her reality would be fuzzy and dream-state like, forever. I remembered her coming to me the night before in that not asleep, not awake state. Showing me myself, leaning over her in the hospital bed earlier that day. I could see the shape of my long hair, under Dylan’s Carhardt hat. I knew it was myself and I knew it was how she was seeing me. Then there was that sound in my head. It was the collective sound of everyone in that room knowing she was coming off life support. It was the sound of comprehension. It was the sound of everything secure, being destroyed. It was loud, ripping, wailing, deep and long in duration.
I began typing this over three weeks ago. So sad I was on the day I was writing, I left it in draft at “I remember that sound in my head…” Here I sit, 1 year, 1 month and 1 day after your death, wondering if you would be proud of me for still being here. Wondering if I am crazy, because I know you so well, that when other people say, “She wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.” I have to try not to laugh at them. I think you would have secretly loved that I loved you so much it wrecked me. I think you would approve of the depths of my grief and how I have been unable to step beyond it. I think you would think, it was appropriate and that your human form would have been saddened at it, yet loved it. Now, however, I wonder if you would be proud of me for wanting to get back on track with where I was?
I’ll always be sad that you left. My life will never be the same, but I have definitely learned much, in many ways.