Tuesday, November 9, 2010

bits and pieces

Not true
It doesn't happen like that. Life is not like that. Remember when you were twelve and you read those teen romance novels. I tried to get into the Sweet Valley High series.

I'm not sure anymore. What do I do? Good for you, you know who you are. I'm sorry the rest of us can't be as comfortable with ourselves

Questions to answer

The first time I was afraid
The last time I felt fear
All the things I say in my head that I can't say out loud about the Indian stuff
"Creative Tremors" - what happens when your identity changes
The need to be indian, who was I before?
What's the vortex? Describe it.
Why did I gravitate toward moon people.
Can she "play the field" by telling people, she was other things.
What is my dramatic question and what are the stories that will lead me thru the arc.
Look at the sadness as part of the story.
What is her sensitivity, does she constantly fight the tears or does she let herself cry.
“Need to change the things we can’t accept”
What's the opposite of the tears?
What does the crying feel like?
What happens after the tears?
What happened during that moment of loss of control with the tears?
More about the character because she says crying is weak.
Is my crying pavlovyene?
What would be the words to each tear, what's their soundtrack?
What does she learn after she cries?
If there's a mystery, what are you trying to solve?
What do you want us to know about her?


I read about the strife of my people and sadness fills my heart. How can this be happening in this day and age? When you read "About 60% of the Elders on Pine Ridge have sole custody of their grandchildren or great-grandchildren so there are often small children in the home, also at risk." how can you not feel sadness and an extreme need to want to reach out. I am filled with constant question about why my people would allow this to happen to themselves, where are the children's parents, why don't they want to take care of their own parent's much less their children.

"While need is everywhere, particularly at this time of crisis, there are no greater needs than those of the Elders, children, disabled, and ill on these reservations. They have the lowest income, the least ability to gain funds, and often suffer from such serious health issues as to be severely impaired by the cold. Even worse, for the most part, they are the least able to travel to get assistance or to get someplace that might be warm. Moreover, according to the last Federal census, about 60% of the Elders on Pine Ridge have sole custody of their grandchildren or great-grandchildren so there are often small children in the home, also at risk."

"FACTS: Average income on the Oglala Lakota Sioux Pine Ridge Reservation is about $3,500.00 per YEAR. Jobs are extremely scarce; unemployment hovers around 85% on this 11,000-square-mile reservation which houses about 40,000 people. The other Lakota Reservations face similar economic conditions."

how to dress/look like an indian

First off, you need something brown-like, you know buckskin looking. It's a simple shift, shor so you can see the indian princecess' legs, a belt, fringe, mocassins, add a few feathers, some silver and turquoise.

The picture of an indian princess, typical turn of the century you know, 19th century. Because what else do indians look like.


The party was in full force by the time she arrived. The moon hiding behind dark clouds made the evening seem a bit off. She stood on the patio overlooking the party, 80s music permeating the night air, white tents dotting the backyard, each holding their own mischief. She scanned the crowd for a familiar face. She enjoyed parties, but never really liked to attend alone. Tonight was different, the venue intrigued her and she was curious to see its inner workings. It did not disappoint. From the moment she walked through the front entrance she was impressed, it was like something from a movie. The large double entry doors gave way to a light pink, darkly veined marble with a crescent shaped staircase, a large crystal chandelier twinkling overhead, party noises echoing throughout the cavernous foyer. Deep breath. As the waiter passed, she snags a tall bubbling flute from his tray and continues on her way. Putting the glass up to her lips, she could feel the soft burst of the sparkling wine on her nose, leaving a slight imprint of her bottom lip on the rim. Her heels clicked as she walked towards the noise. Another deep breath, another sip. Here she stood leaning against the granite railing, the faint light from the moon and outdoor lighting picked up the tiny pieces of sequins that dotted her dress. She looked out into the sea of faces and found him, how could she not. There he stood, the center of attention, dressed in a dark blazer with white button up shirt, that brought out his tan. His long lean legs covered tightly in dark denim. She could not see his feet, but was sure he had his boots on. The thought of this made her smile. Not wanting to call attention to herself, she stood there for the longest time, taking in the slight smell of freshly cut grass, as well as following his every move.

She was thinking of the first time they met, all those years ago. Again it was his height that lured her to him. In a crowded bar, you couldn't help but notice him. He stood above the crowd, his scruffy face and smiling face just made you want to go to him. She was sitting in a booth with the usual suspects, Jo, Jeanette and Melissa, and their tag-a-long Tanya, as well as some of the other sorority sisters. Also in the booth were some guys from TKE and their pledges. This was a usual Thursday night for them, hanging out at the sorority house making the drink of the day, then dancing the night away at the Alpha on college night. Being regulars at the bar, they knew everyone, but the tall stranger was a new face to her, though familiar, she tried to remember where she had seen him before. All of a sudden the familiar boom of their song rang out, and so did a collective screetch from their booth. One last gulp of their drinks as they pushed their way through the crowd between them and the dance floor. Once there, they circled up and sang along with the song, jumping and bumping to the beat. The song came to an end, and the crowd filtered off the dance floor as a slow song started. She looked around and her posse was either dancing or had escaped the geeks. She felt tap on her shoulder and she cringed, afraid to turn around. Ready with an excuse of why she couldn't dance, she turned, and there he was. The handsome face from earlier. Not really saying a word, but merely shrugging his shoulders, she cocked her head to the side and gave her best coquettish smile and reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders. She settled in the lull of the music and placed her head on his chest. She felt his arms pull hold her a little tighter. She could feel his heart beating against her cheek. This made her smile and tiny butterflies in her stomach flutter. The song neared an end and she loosened her grip on him, looking up to thank him for the dance. He looked down at her, not loosening his grip, and asked if she would mind another dance. The music still slow, she gave a nod as she looked into his eyes. So what's your name he asked. Sally, she replied, as she asked his. Huh, she thought to herself, Sally, really? Where did that name come from? If you're going to make up a name, at least think of something cool, not Sally? With all the talk in her head, she missed his name, it started with an M. Mark? Matthew? He joked and kidded with her as he held her in his arms. She laughed, enjoying herself and not even thinking of her boyfriend, who was hundreds of miles away. The beat picked up again, and people flooded onto the dance floor around them as they parted ways. She stood there watching him as his walked away. Jo grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the group as she lost sight of him through the crowd, to once again bounce and dance.
A familiar voice brought her back to the present. "Nadia darling, so glad you could make it" said the voice. She turned to be greeted by a drunk and sloppy kiss on both cheeks from the hostess, skillfully avoiding the merlot that swished from overfilled wine glass. "Well Mia, you do throw the best parties, I'd hate to miss all the gossip tomorrow" she replied. "Well dear, you know the things that happen here are the tales the legend." Nadia just shook her head, only Mia was vain enough to think this way of her parties were all that. "So dear, who do you have your sights on tonight. You did come alone, didn't you, I didn't see your usual minions." She said with a laugh and another swig of merlot. "They are not my minions, they just look up to me and besides, and this was a last minute decision I didn't want to have to wait the hour for Paige to get ready." "Yes, she is a piece of work" Mia said under her breath, "well, I do have a new boy for you to meet, I found him on my latest travels and had him flown in for the party. Jean-Michel, Jean-Michel" she yelled as she snapped her finger, "ici cheri, j'ai quelqu'un que tu dois rencontrer. Monsier Jean-Michel Lachance, voila mon amie, la jolie Nadia." Nadia held out her hand, as the handsome stranger kissed it, "enchanter mademoiselle" and he gave a courtesy, a smile and a wink. Nadia blushed. "You need a drink darling. Mario, drink for my friend here" Mia barked as she snapped her finger again, "I'll leave you two alone to get acquainted, you do speak french right dear? No matter, I have a feeling there won't be much talking..." she finished with a devilish laugh as she walked away.

"Nadia, quelle jolie nom. Alors, dites moi comment vous connaissez Mia?"
"J'ai rencontrer Mia au Vatican, si vous pouvez croire ca? J'etudiais la bas, et mon italien laissais beaucoup a desirer. Je cherchais un sculpture en particulier et j'essayais de demander l'aide a le trouver. Mia m'a sauver et apres ca on etais inseparable." Nadia was lost in her thoughts and memories of her travels throughout Europe with Mia.
"Et vous? Que faites vous, que vous pouvez laisse tout tomber et venir au Etats? Mia ma dis que t'etais en Paris ce matin."
"Ah, oui, quand Mia vous invite a un party, comment pouvez vous resister. J'aurais du demander ou le party etais."


I think I've figured it out. I don't know how to be indian. When I think Indian, I think of buckskin and feathers, riding bareback across the open plains, I think of a shawl wrapping around me, it's edges covered in beads and shells, that make the pretties sound when you dance. At each bounce step you hear the rhythm of the dancer, like a low rush of a river. I can see the turquoise and silver dripping from my neck. A leather headband holds my single feather upright. Beaded bracelets and more turquoise and silver line my arms. Amber and precious stone rings the size of my knuckles cover my fingers. My people Woodland people, my clan the Crane. The men wear huge silver serving platter sized belt buckles, jeans that fit almost like a second skin and a shirt with some weird pattern held together with pearl buttons. On their feet, pointy leather cowboy boots and topping off the ensemble, the biggest 10-gallon hat you've seen, with some type of feathery hat band. When they look to their wrist for time, the hours are surrounded by boulders of red coral and turquoise stone.


After being sick for a week, and not in a happy I'm fabulous mood, Roxanne decided to go to the audition. It was for a soap opera, and she should have put more thought into it, but she didn't. Not quite the soapy star, she dressed in jeans, high heels and some soft scrunchy shirt. Still feeling a little under the weather, she thought of making her hair stick straight, so she could look more indian, but instead she ran a comb through it, put some make up on and headed out the door. As she walked down the street towards the office, she channeled a confident actress she knew and strutted into casting office. Without her glasses, she could berely see the back of the room so she signed in and took a seat near a few fellows she recognized, giving the obligatory "hug". As she took a seat, bopping to the beat of her sad songs, she felt a tap and looked up. There she was her role model, hair tightly curled and the obligatory cleavage top, stopping by for a quick hello. Her seat faced the door and she could see everyone that walked in. It intrigued her to wonder how indian these people were. Yes, it matters, she thought. These


I need motivation and encouragement around me. Do I? really? Where have you gone Wanda? my warrior, when did you give on our fight?
I don't what to do Wanda. If pressed to what my dreams are, I don't know them anymore. If I traveled back to remember my times with Wanda, it would be dreams of singing, dancing and strutting my stuff down the runway or on t.v.. Why does someone want that? Never really concerning yourself cliche until you've overgrown it and all your hopes and dreams have been "booed" out of you. You have to go underground with it all. But not Wanda, she continued on her solemn quest, she wanted to be like the other girls, but how realizes she really wasn't cool. More pathetic than not. Her boyfriend James who lived in Massey was just a kid of a friend of the family, who were thrown together for just that reason. Still my hero. I don't know where my dreams have gone, much less what they were when they left.
How could I let someone take this away from me. My power. My muse. Who exactly this person was, I am not sure. Was it the love of my life who all of a suddenly stopped loving me? No, he probably helped, since after losing him, my love life picked up again and I was back to breaking hearts and couples without even trying. Remember Aaron, Todd's friend an Raina who was pissed at me because we fell asleep talking and watching t.v. I am a cuddler and her apartment was cold, how can you resist a cutie who will let you fall asleep in his arms, I did not break-up him an his girlfriend up. At least I didn't to visit him during Winter Carnival. I would've, had not moved across the country a month earlier.
I have to talk and reminisce about these times because they made me feel special and wanted and above all, pretty.

Here it is! Vic and Wanda

So Vic, tell me about documentaries? You went to film school right? I mean what's the point when you follow your subjects around for a day, then cut that down to grueling hour and a half. I rather not name names, but the title rhymes with "the SCHM-exiles". The program said it was released in 1961 and nothing much came of it's director afterwards, and it was filmed in the mid 50s when he, the director, was still a student. Not that I am a cinefile by any stretch of the imagination, and I can't or don't, wax poetic about a film..."oooh it was beautifully shot...the chemistry between the actors was unbelievable..." I am sure that I should have seen some cinematic greatness in the film, but to me it's just like a really bad home movie.

While watching it I am reminded of the weekend drives to the rez, when I would visit my boyfriend. I couldn't call him to tell him I was coming, because they didn't have a phone. So then I would worry sometimes when the cab dropped me off and drove away, what if no one was home? I'd have to then hope the store was still open, so I could call for a ride back to town. My walk through the snow, on the worn path between the houses was long and cold. I'm not sure why I never got dropped off in front of the house, maybe it was because I didn't want to pay extra or that I didn't want the cab driver to know where I was going, because then my dad might find out, then I'd be grounded again for another month. He didn't grow up on the rez, neither did I, but I did have contact with it and he didn't really like that. Looking back, the secret trips made me sad. My boyfriend was the middle child, 17, and he and his brothers pretty much fended for themselves. His parents worked out of town, and for all the times I'd been there I'd never met them. Their uncle, who was strung out most of the time, was supposed to keep an eye on them, but he usually brought the people over to party. It was sad, there was rarely food in the house, the fridge didn't have food, but a few beer, I always had to bundle up, because the heat was rarely on.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

I should be a shut in

I hate to leave the house.  It is such a chore.  You think it would be an easy task.  I live in a big city why should it matter what I look like, no one is looking at me right?  But I feel that everyone is.  I can see judgement as I pass people on the street, I can feel eyes on me as they pass.  That's why I love living in the land of endless sun, I can wear sunglasses and follow their eyes as they pass.  I much prefer hiding away in my cave, hidden away from the world.  I explore the world through the window of my computer.  Don't make me go outside. Please.  I make excuses, I insist it's someone else's fault.  My breathing starts to speed up, it kinda scares me.  I can feel the tears well up in my eyes.  My nostrils flair in an effort to hold back the tears.  What difference does it make if I cry?  I'm alone, who'll see my weakness.  I wish I could walk out that door.  My head held high.  But I can't. 

Monday, August 2, 2010

Monday's prompt

Our prompt today is to write this famous quote in your journal and write what it means to you and how it applies to your life!

It’s how you deal with failure that determines how you achieve success. – David Feherty

Failure.  It's how I feel constantly, so I guess since I don't deal with failure well, I am doomed to not be successful.
I wonder where my want to do something, my want to be somethingwent?   As morning light creeps into my bedroom, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.  Why bother moving, getting up, or leaving the bed, the day will go on without me.  My internet world will not miss me.  I am not a mover or shaker.  I am a bump in the road that people barely feel as they carry on with their day. 
Failure.  I despise it.  Yet I fear it as well.  It keeps me gripped in a constant panic.  A constant silence that is deafining to my ears.  I roll over and put the pillows over my ears to try and keep the roar of it out. 
Failure.  Failure. Failure. Failure.  I cannot move past it. 

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Saturday Prompt

Hello old friend, I have missed you! I know you don't believe me, I've said it before, but I have truly missed you and to you dear friend I will tell you the truth. Fear has taken over me. Dreams and thoughts of childhood are burried deep inside my head, hidden behind a dark cloud that has enveloped me for quite some time. It has sucked the nerve right out of me. I need to blame something because it couldn't surely be my fault. Something else outside of me has got to be the cause, because why would anyone do this to themselves on purpose. Cut themselves off from the rest of the world, their true wants and dreams, why? I turn to my other old friend for solice. He lets me watch whatever I want and sits with me as we watch the same old movies time and time again or the pointless reality shows that seem to be on ever channel. He lets me cry as we sit on the couch, munching on whatever junkfood there is, never asking a question because he knows she knows the answer. We sit in silence, each knowing and sensing the fear, but he never nudges, never speaks.
I watch the stories of dreams play out before me, sensing the cloud hovering, why can't I find my umbrella to shield me from the coming rain. I just prefer to stand waiting for the rain. Will it wash all the pain away? Or will it follow me where ever I go, constantly dousing me in a shower of unhappiness?

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Angry v. Inconsiderate

I know over here at Angry Chix, we have a tiny anger problem, but we seldom lash out to the world around us, that's why we play hockey, and even then we don't hit (because fyi: that's not what hockey is about).  We however do not enjoy selfish inconsiderate f***ers!  There is a difference.

What brings this on, you might ask?  Well today while making my twitter rounds I  came across this photo:

The thing that struck me as funny were the comments after this photo.   I would be pissed off on both sides of the argument.  First for the selfish F***er who thought it was OK to park in a no parking zone.  I mean really how can you defend this guy?  It says no parking, so don't park there.  Oooooo, you're some kinda rebel to park there big man (or woman, whichever, it still doesn't make it a diff), I'm sure I sound like a fuddy duddy, but seriously, why?  What makes you think that you deserve to park there, I'm sure there is some policy maker, or city designer that thinks it was a good idea.  You are obviously saying "hey law biding citizens, you're stupid because you drove around the block a million times looking for a parking spot when you could have just parked here in this red zone with a pretty sign that says no parking, that's only a suggestion, I know better, oh I mean I am better than you, hence I will park here".

Secondly, I'd be pissed if I was the the arrogant F***er who totally parked illegally and someone had the gall to put that sign on my car, I mean, sure I parked in a no parking zone, but heck yeah I'm better than all these others who actually listen to "the man".  I'm here to exercise, so I have to park right up front so I don't tire myself out before I work out...

Yeah, no, that just sounds stupid.   Yeah, the more I think about it, the person who wrote the note deserves a shout out for telling this "law breaker" what I'm sure everyone who walked by the car was thinking.  But in the end, I'm sure it did no good because this person hasn't a clue about common decency and thinks the world owes it to them.

Have an angry day!

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Hot sauce and whipped cream

What the fuck and am I doing? thought Lucy. this is a miserable and horrible life. How does one carry on every day, week after week. You know once you stop doing and just sit and not move, you question more than you normally would. Busy days are filled with constant movement listening to the next order, moving, helping. But once it all stops you

May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

backstory Crystyn

This sucks. I have become my mother and it is a terrible terrible thing. I guess it's not too awful a prospect, but if I had to think about it I never really felt proud of my mother. Well I felt proud of her in the respect that she finished college got a job and took care of me, but as far as life goes, I kinda feel as if she was cheated somehow. I think of her life and she has always lived in her little town, rarely venturing out, and cringing when she did have to drive in the "big city" which really wasn't big at all. There was no major freeway, most roads were a few lanes wide. Nothing like the massive interchanges in New York or Los Angeles. I have become her, because there are maneurism that I do, things that I say, are exactly like her. So when the whole nature vs. nuture thing comes up, or dna vs. environment. I'm going enviroment all the way. I have someone who loves me, but what does his think our relationship is supposed to me. Me I see it as an extension of what my parents have and I never wanted that. I wanted someone who loved me unconditionally and would support my crazy ventures and participate and tell me they love me and help me creatively and write me little notes and surprise me with things I like and pay attention when I say something. Instead I get the nagging feeling that makes me cry when I think I have to yell at someone for their drinking. At the cringing I feel when I'm out in public and the humiliation I feel when I get home and he's hiccuping and is nothing but dead weight. I recall watching my mother nag after my father for his late nights at the bar. And it is exactly how I feel, but doubly worst. I hate that he is making me feel this way. He is making me act like my mother. Well stop it you say. Really? How am I to handle this? It's no wonder when I drink that I run away, I do reckless things, have drama in my life. Fine he loves me and shrugs it off. I want to be held, I want to be caressed, I want him to take my face in his hands and look deeply into my eyes. But if he did this, I would burst out laughing, it would certainly stop the tears. It's too late to try and do that, it's too late to try and be the romantic. I would feel awkward and uncomfortable. Yes, then I would most certainly need a drink just to get through it. I remember as a child watching my mother and telling her what to do and to just fuck him, who cares. But when all is said and done, you can't. It's almost like your trapped. The worst part about it is that I hate him for making me feel like this and I hate myself for allowing him to make me feel this way. But what else am I supposed to do? How else am I supposed to feel? If I ignore it, it won't go away. If I make a comment about it, it changes for a second, but in the next the behavior is the same. I've cried, I've yelled, I've quit, but it does not good. You're trapped. You have no place to got. Sure I could leave, but selfishly I stay. What else am I supposed to do? Where else am I supposed to go? I stay trapped in my little corner of the world trying to escape to nothing. I fall deeper and deeper into my hell. I've been here ten years. I can't remember what it was like. I can only imagine it. I don't think we've changed that much. Slivers of those people exist sometimes. Who was I then? I want to be her again. I want to live with abandon and a don't give a fuck, laissez-faire attitude. I want to be me at 8. I think that was my perfect age. No cares, no questioning, no self-censoring. Can I find that child again? Can I find who I used to be? When did I start caring so much about the outside world? When did my ego become so big as to think the world is constantly thinking of me and that I'm on someone's google watch list. That someone other than me cares what the hell I'm doing today. What I'm posting about online, what I look like, what I write about. In my head I have no friends so who are these invisible fans that I think I have? Who is this cyberstalker that follows my every move?

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Last show 3/14/10-part of rest was improvd

I don’t, I can’t I won’t. I can’t answer that question. And I don’t think I should have to. Yes I am Indian. I am Indian by birth, not by some wanting to be a part of this “mystical” ethnicity. I don’t walk around like I own the entire spiritual realm (do I see ppl doing this and how does this make feel, what does that look like). Being Indian to me does not entail a lifestyle, or simply a style. Sometimes I feel like I have to dress like an Indian to be the part, but that’s to satisfy the outside world’s perceptions of what an Indian is.

(my definition of this, can anyone take away her indianness, this is my dramatic question, or is it that she fears she’s not, can she stop being Indian, is it an addiction, complusion.).

And really am I one anyway? I’m not a rez Indian, because I grew up in town and not anywhere close to my “ancestral” home. I’m not familiar with the colloquialisms, I do not share the lifestyle most have lived. I don’t know my own history, or my language. I cannot recite the history of my people to you, our victories, our losses. When someone else tells me their tribal affiliation, I know it in name only, and have only a vague clue of where it is on the map.

I’m not an Urban Indian either because according to The National Urban Indian Family Coalition and Urban Indian are "individuals of American Indian ancestry who may or may not have direct and/or active ties with a particular tribe, but who identify with and are at least somewhat active in the Native community in their urban area." Ok…now define direct ties? I’ve never lived there, I have relatives whom I don’t know who live there, does that count? I’ve tried to get a job there, even though I knew I would never get hired. My years of schooling and degrees weren’t a match to being a relative to someone who worked there. Nepotism at its finest.

I wouldn’t even qualify if I were to use the definition of Urban. “Urban – relating to or concerned with a city or densely populated area.” I grew up in a small town, population 5000 if you were to count all the surrounding farms that are miles out of town. The nearest city was 4 hours away. Maybe I have to come up with another word…what’s smaller than urban but bigger than rez.?

But when I think of Indians, I think of them on a grander scale. An entire people that could change the world. Not in individual tribes or first nations or reservations, but as a people who have equally suffered. Who by heritage, have had their continent stolen from them and were reduced to living on a single plot of land instead of roaming freely. When I was little, I wanted to be an activist! I read books and watched programs about the militant Indians (what does a militant Indian do), the protests happening. I wanted to be there! To me that seemed like the greatest expression of being Indian. I was young, so I don’t know who was right or wrong (why is this a question and who is right or wrong) on how things were handled. I felt sad that we were portrayed as crazy Indians. I felt sad that the nation, the world was once again being shown what savages we were. The photo from the cover of Macleans or Time magazine was burned into my psyche that day. The blond Canadian Armed Forces soldier, not cracking stood in a staring contest against the hostile native who face was covered with a red bandana. The Oka crisis as it was called. I think that’s when my being Indian peeked out. I was mad trying to find an Oka flag so I could stand in solidarity with my captive brothers and sisters. I wanted to drive to Quebec and stand behind the barricades of tossed over cards and mounds of military and news crews. Wanda the warrior was born. I wondered if there was Black Panther like organization existed. At this time I was reading about Malcolm X, I was concerned about Nelson Mandela and how he was imprisoned as a political prisoner (how old is she). It would be only years later after Nelson was released, his ups and downs that I would find my next hero (cause would be the word but not) Leonard Pelletier. Bits of information about his story, his life formed my cheerleader force to be native. This was being Indian, ok, not necessarily the people dying part, but the guns a blazing force of nature camaraderie. My being Indian is based on news stories on the 5-oclock news, the covers of magazines. There was no mystiscism, no ritual, it was about the blurbs in the Globe and Mail (Details about what I’m talking about, Leonard, the news, the articles, what did I read, the gun toting..). But I think my fight was of being a silent activist. I thought the guns and ammo were a bit too much, and nothing was ever accomplished or resolved. I started a letter writing campaign. I wrote to my local Minister and was so excited when he actually wrote back. (what’s the letter)

In history class we were learning about Louis Real, the great Métis (explain what Metis is MORE) leader. I then started to call myself Métis since my mother was white and my dad was Indian, I didn’t understand how I could be Indian otherwise. After this discovery I found OMAA, the Ontario Métis and Aboriginal Association (explain the pageant more and why I wanted to be a part of it). They had teen activist groups that would meet and learn stuff and talk about their life. They also had a pageant. You could become Miss OMAA and represent all the Métis nation. How cool was that. Once I was crowned queen, I would then be the Indian thought I should be. This was my first encounter with how political it was. I mailed in my application, I made the hotel reservations and I prepared for the pageant (How old is she now). I thought of what kind of questions they would ask…”Miss Chichimon, if crowned queen what would be the first thing I would do? How does being Métis affect your day-to-day life? …” (what are her answers, was there beauty involved, is this the most righteous )

I also needed a talent. Ok I thought, I’ve seen those pageant shows (am I referring to Miss American pageant…which pageant ,what is my reference) , most played an instrument or sang, yeah, no. Not here. I could do neither. I had taken dance classes, but that was years earlier. Having just seen the High School production of fiddler on the roof, I was going to sing the matchmaker song, but in a comedic way, and incorporate my comedy act (did she have one or did she need, this sounds like I already have one). I was going to tell jokes. How’s that for pageant queen?

Does it make me feel like I’m the only one. I want this to be my story and no one else) Do the whole story as improve beginning middle end )

I’m a dick. How can I call myself a writer, a journalist, when I am so judgemental of everyone else. I feel so alone in the world. It’s as though I am the only true Indian left, sometimes I feel as though I am Kevin Costner’s character from Dances with Wolves.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

a pow wow

I used to spend my summers going to pow wow almost every weekend. My mom was into making baskets and pottery, and she thought this was the best way to sell her stuff. She would pack my brother and I into the family van and we were off.
There was this one summer we spent a whole month, traveling from pow wow to pow wow. There was this one time it was on an island, and the only way we could get there was this barge that you would drive your car onto. It would only take one car at a time. I remember the guy was telling my mom to back up, but we were on the barge and it moving forward already. My mom forgot this and we almost back right off the barge. My brother was just tiny at the time, still in diapers. I'd help set up the booth, unpacking and unwrapping all the different sized pots and vases my mom had made.
To escape the boredom, I would take my brother and we would walk around the grounds looking at all the other vendor booths.
At the time I though it was the worst summer ever, but now looking back, whenever I look at a piece of pottery or quill basket, I remember my indian summer. But that doesn't make someone indian! Anyone can spin a pottery wheel and read a book about

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

The face...

When I close my eyes, I can see him like it was yesterday. His face brings me comfort and a slight smile to my face and I don't want to open my eyes. I miss him. I see us, we're married. He's sitting at the table on the covered porch, having a beer looking out over the lake. He's green eyes crinkled at the corner.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

What makes an indian?

What defines an indian if it's not in the blood? Blood quantum was used for census purposes by europeans, then also used by the government to determine how savage you were or not. For example, if my dad is full blood and my mom is 3/4, you add those, then divide in two and you get what I would be. You can vote to be how indian you are, one example was is in Oklahoma where one tribe voted that whomever is on the roll right now, now has 4/4, even if they were listed as less before. Blood quantum doesn't make a difference,
You're preserving a culture that's being threatened all the time, by enforcing a blood quantum.
At what point do you you say you're a descendant and not an actual indian.
Family makes you indian? Adoption? if your indian community accepts you, since they have placed.

More random 9/18/09

Years of marriage felt like just a drop in the bucket, but she couldn't understand why she hated him so much. All of a sudden she understood how and why people would consider having an affair. As much as she wants to have sex, she can't imagine having it with him without crying. I miss the way we used to kiss. Sloppy, messy, when was the last time they kissed like that, when it was more than a peck. When was the last time he brushed the hair from my face. On the rare occasion that they would sex, she needs to be drunk to lose her inhibitions, as well as her urge to cry during sex.

Random 9/18/09

She stood behind him as they both looked out to the group that was scattered at the picnic tables.  She resisted the urge to run her fingers thru his black wavy hair.
He turned as if sensing her urge, stood up to face her and without hesitation kissed her.  Although in shock by the sudden kiss, she leaned into him and closed her eyes.  As if sensing her anxiousness, he stopped, his face flush, and still holding her face in his hands, asked "so since you'll be alone tonight, why not come over and I'll keep you company?"  Taking a breath, in an attempt to compose herself, but she couldn't stop smiling, tried to play coy.  "I'll think aboiut it".  His full lips reached to her again as he pulled away "Ok, think about that"  and turned back to the picknic table.  Her head was spinning.  What had just happened?