MFA Thesis: Halfbreed Savage
Halfbreed Savage
“He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.”
-Declaration of Independence
Jordan Mackey
May 5, 2022
Introduction
There are many things in this world that can inspire someone to write. I, in particular, am motivated by the wise words of Ernest Hemingway: “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” I have experienced many hardships throughout my life, and the only way that I have managed to make sense of them is to write. It has become a part of me. It extends out like a third eye or an extra limb. It may provoke those who don’t fully understand it, and all its glory and cause them to stare. However, once those who truly see past the shock and awe of it, they grow to appreciate and admire it.
Nonfiction has always come easy to me. Writing about my childhood and experiences has given me so much freedom to breathe new life into myself. In my time as an undergrad, I went through a lot of life changes. I had a falling out with my father, and started to grow closer to my biological father and native culture. During this emotional struggle, one of my professors recommended a book titled The Mistress's Daughter by A.M Homes. This powerful, raw, and intimate memoir inspired me to write about my life and confront the pain that has been tormenting me and my family. It was also in that same undergraduate nonfiction course that we discussed the concept of generational trauma. Intergenerational trauma, as defined by Duke University “is the transmission (or sending down to younger generations) of the oppressive or traumatic effects of a historical event.” I have come to understand the truth in that, and have spent time dissecting what my family has experienced. Ultimately, Native Americans have this unresolved trauma and anguish lasting generations that was established by a culture conquered by European ideals. (Brave Heart & DeBruyn 60) After further research, Native Americans have experienced trauma in terms of loss of tribal population, land, family and culture. In essence, “for the last 500 years, individuals from the dominant European cultures have engaged in behaviors that have resulted in the purposeful and systematic destruction of the Native American people (Plous, 2002). My goal is to deconstruct this trauma, and ultimately make this generational pain and neglect end with me. My son, and future generations, deserve a fresh start without having to question their worth or identity based on their hardships their ancestors faced.
While enrolled as a graduate student, I took a class solely based on the fiction pieces surrounding the genre of Native Americans. Not only did I realize the importance of this genre, but the lack of representation. There are not very many pieces of fiction or nonfiction literature that relate to the struggles of Native Americans and their families. Prior to this class the majority of this genre and my understanding of it related to historical accounts. However, being involved in a class of mainstream fiction literature related to Native American topics inspired me to write my story. My biggest inspirations are drawn from Leslie Marmon-Silko’s Ceremony, I found an admiration for the tradition of storytelling and from Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine, I discovered a passion to express the same idea that we are all intertwined with each other. Families, small towns, and secrets are what make these traumas resurface generation after generation.
- i. Stacey: My father, and ultimately the man who raised me.
- ii. Phillip: My biological father.
iii. Brave Heart, M. Y. H., & DeBruyn, L. M. (1998). The American Indian holocaust: Healing historical unresolved grief. American Indian and Alaska Native Mental Health Research, 8(2), 60–82.
iv. Plous, S. (2002). Understanding prejudice and discrimination. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
Revisions
Originally, there had been a lot of anger in my writing. All of the things that I had experienced during my youth had become a haze over the true hopes of the story, which ultimately was healing. I started some of this work, more specifically the work revolving around my biological father, in my undergrad in hopes to discover more about him that I did not know. During my early 20’s was a time in my life that I had freshly experienced this pain and abandonment. I was writing these stories with so much emotion and resentment that it blocked the full potential of the piece and felt immature in nature. As I have aged, and had a child of my own, I have come to realize that these stories needed to be more than just anger. It needed to be a source of relief for my son, and future generations, from the trauma that had been tormenting our family. Whether it was drinking, the use of illegal substances, abuse or neglect, I did not want Hendrix to experience that struggle. When focusing on revisions, I wanted to incorporate as much of Native American storytelling as I could. In this aspect, I tried to have the poetry to mimic this representation. I realized quickly that a lot of that included the close personal relation to nature and the land around us. In comparison to that, I also wanted to include the societal pressures and treatment to amplify how big this understanding of generational trauma goes and how difficult society makes it for minorities to prosper.
Process description
Initially this project was intended to be solely nonfiction. I spent a lot of time considering how to incorporate these separate nonfiction pieces as one solid piece. I found it important to tell my story in a manner also incorporated that of my parents. Unfortunately, this did not work. In revisions my goal was to try to keep my voice strong, while including their story. This never quite molded together effectively. So, in thought of still trying to tell this story in a progressive nature, I added poetry.
All of the poetry stems from my Native American culture, the hardships we have faced, oral traditions, and a relationship with nature. I thought incorporating these foundational aspects into my work would help break up the different transitions between my discovery of my biological father, and my understanding of my parents. Including the poetry also helps keep the tone of understanding and strength in moving past the traumas relevant. My goal changed from the beginning of this progress, and in it has been therapeutic in understanding that my parents may have not been the best parents, but they are human. They have made mistakes, and yes, have hurt me tremendously, but ultimately for my own, and my sons, sake it is important to move forward and remove ourselves from trauma and build a more meaningful life.
Acknowledgments
For Hendrix,
“Listen, baby, it makes me happy you want to know, but learning about your heritage is a privilege. A privilege we don’t have. And anyway, anything you hear from me about your heritage does not make you more or less Indian. More or less a real Indian. Don’t ever let anyone tell you what being Indian means. Too many of us died to get just a little bit of us here, right now, right in this kitchen. You, me. Every part of our people that made it is precious. You’re Indian because you’re Indian because you’re Indian,”
― Tommy Orange, There There
To my parents,
“We all fuck up, it’s how we come back from it that matters.”
― Tommy Orange, There There
Table of Contents
The Woman with Two Spirits. 15
Grandmother Owl in the Moon. 17
Trauma Ceremony
“I will tell you something about stories . . . They aren't just entertainment. Don't be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.” – Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony
You never notice how much extra time with the ones you love that you long for as you age until it's too late. As a child you cling to something secure, safe and sound. Recently this concept of a “normal” home in terms of the ideal family was brought up to me and I couldn’t find the words to express what that means to me. Sitting in my kitchen, sounds of my son singing head, shoulder, knees and toes echo from the living room. My husband is watching him, beaming a smile that always graces his face since the birth of Hendrix nearly two years ago. Maybe it was the sound of music, or the noise of the TV finding me in the 1970s style kitchen of our first home together. When I closed my eyes trying to think of good memories of my childhood, I see vivid images of my parents sitting on the navy blue sectional; my mother’s legs sprawled across the armrest, dad in his maroon recliner and the preview of 2009 American Idol broadcasting on the TV casting flashes of lights across their faces.
“Jordan, are you almost finished with your homework?” Dad said.
“Almost, I have one more sentence to write.” I said.
“Hurry up,” my brother, 10, yelled, “I want to watch this before we have to go to bed
Writing has always come easy for me, whether it is educational research or a personal narrative, my voice extends through my fingers. It may not always come to fruition, or be the best material I am capable of, but I am comfortable with it. So when I finished my homework, I closed my notebook proud of the completed assignment and snuggled on the couch next to my brother and sister.
For the longest time, I kept my personal voice hidden. It has taken me years to open up and be confident in my own voice. Yet, after the birth of my son, Hendrix, I have felt more power in myself than I have ever felt in my life. I don’t know if it is the need to protect him from any form of danger, or the want to be the best mother I can be but I want to move past the traumas of my childhood. I knew that the way my parents expressed love for me was different from what was natural. Years of therapy has deduced that they were all distant, and didn’t give me the affirmation I needed. I was separated into this void of otherness for the majority of my life and for years I would cling to them, constantly needing their approval and love. To prove my love for them, I focused heavily on school. I got good grades, kept up with household chores and played every sport imaginable. Performing the expectations of the perfect eldest daughter became as natural as Louisa in Encanto lifting boulders like rocks, effortless.
My mother has held the expectations of an eldest daughter flawlessly for most of my life. She has perceived this strength that was insurmountable to surpass. When thinking of her, I see this petite woman, barely standing over 5’2. Her short blonde hair flows right above her shoulders and her eyes glisten a Disney Frozen blue. I do not look like my mother’s daughter. In fact, most of my life I have been asked if I might be her younger sister. When I responded no there was always a shock and awe released by the questioning party. “How could you have come from her?” and “She doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter your size,” would follow in different variations. My dark, coarse hair lands around the middle of my back, curly and thick. I stand five inches taller than her and am thicker in nature. I surpassed her shoe size in the third grade, and breast size in the fifth. In appearance and presence, I have been a trespasser in my family for 14 years. A fraud, a sham. My identity was false and my existence felt unwanted.
I haven't always felt alone or like a visitor in my own home. There was a time that I was happy as a child, and naïve to the world around me. I remember the sound of laughter in the kitchen as my dad swung my mother around in a ballroom dance. I do think they loved each other once. Before my dad’s drug addiction and my mother’s inherent need to steal, they were good parents, and good people.
So when I found the picture book of my birth father in my parents’ storage closet at fourteen, this change in my emotion and security became misplaced. Anger grew and time went on without me. 10 minutes, 30 or maybe an hour passed. I couldn't tell you how long I was frozen in time. Time seemed to stand still, but for once I felt like I could breathe. In.. Out… In.. Out… Looking at his face, cross referencing the baby in the photo to known photos of myself, I could finally claim my own skin; the puzzle fit. Once the discovery wore off, uncertainty sat in. After all of the evidence, my insecurities were confirmed. I am not Stacey’s daughter. My identity was gone at that moment. I no longer felt like I deserved the title of coach’s daughter, the eldest of three children meant to bear the weight of the pain crashing under the pressure of the unknown.
Immediately I started an investigation of my own. I dug through picture book after book and could not find any other photos of him. Every day I would watch my parents' cars leave the driveway. I sat by the window for ten minutes after confirming their departure, and giving myself the security to snoop. I spent the majority of my time that summer hidden in the closet digging through the past. The haze of dust from opened ancient family artifacts would dance in the sun sneaking through the windowpane. When five o’clock rolled around I tucked everything back into place, and went back to playing my role.
Months went by with this picture hidden in my pocket and his image ingrained in my mind. He was all I saw, the oil black hair, brown skinned, mysterious man. It took months for me to work up the courage to show him to my friends. When I finally showed his picture to my friend Lizzie she said “No way is that your dad? He looks black!” After moments of convincing and showing her the evidential baby photos, we decided then that I was some long lost orphan.
During the early 2000’s the popular movie of the time, and Lizzie and I’s favorite, was The Princess Diaries. So it was determined, I was the new and improved Mia Thermopolis. In The Princess Diaries, Mia, after being raised by her single mother, discovers that she is the heir to the country Genovia. She spends the movie in turmoil trying to decide which part of her life she wants to remain in. After she found out about the passing of her absent, unaware of her existence, father, she went to spend time with her long lost grandmother. Now, realistically I did not want my birth father to have died some tragic death.
Yet, the fairytale ideas that swarmed my world seemed to comfort me. I considered in great detail that I was this secret heir to a secret country and a hidden throne. I tried to convince myself that this was the truth, and maybe that would explain why he wasn’t around in my life. It would give justification for his absence. It would explain why he did not love me enough to stay.
After I admitted my knowledge of the photo to my mother, she sat me down in my parents’ bedroom on their waterbed. As she told me the truth, I sank further and further into the water. Emotions surrounded me in waves as I fell deeper into the bed. To my surprise, I was not like Mia Thermopolis, and I was not a princess to a foreign throne. I felt betrayed by Disney, because television had a good way of romanticizing tough situations. Yet, even if I could begin to explain, there was no romanticizing the pain that my mother's face expressed. Her forehead was scrunched, and her brow began to furrow. The crystal of her blue eyes began to cloud with tears. As I watched her struggle to find the words, I had forgotten to breathe, and had to gasp for air to prevent myself from suffocating.
As she bent her head, she said “His name is Phillip Pebeahsy, and he is your father.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I was speechless. Even though my gut had told me this a couple months prior, actually knowing it for a fact was devastating to my world view. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but my mother did her best to comfort me. I asked a variety of questions from “How did you meet?” to “Did you love him?” But the moment I asked “Why did you not tell me about him?”, she clammed up. My mother paused; a gasp of air broke from her throat, dry and brittle. It took her a moment to recollect herself and continue. Even after she was composed, every word echoed in her voice, shaking with uncertainty. I am not sure where this passive trait was learned, maybe from her mother, but it significantly changed who I am and how I deal with things. I crave conversation and explanation. I have to talk things out and feel the gravity of the situation. Good or bad. So when there was no solid explanation besides “we didn’t think you were ready for it,” I felt betrayed. My choice to know the truth was taken away from me. How long would they have made me wait until they actually told me the truth? Could I have gone my whole life without knowing?
After the discovery, my demeanor around my parents changed. I felt like a prisoner, and I wanted to escape. I was at war with my emotions. My mother could sense the shift in my demeanor, and as we were packing up things to move to follow my dad's coaching career, she handed me the beat up green photobook as a peace offering.
“You can have this if you want.”
“Thanks, Mom, “I said.
To make sure the only physical connection I had with him wasn't lost in the move, I packed it with my immediately opened items. This box consisted of a couple days’ worth of clothes, some of my favorite books and all of my keepsake trinkets. I am a memory hoarder. I keep all things that remind me of people, places, things and feelings. I enjoy the good nostalgia that I get when reminiscing about the past. This photo found its place among the memories of my youth.
This alienation of my identity did not happen until my teens. After discovering the truth behind who my biological father was, I felt uncertain of my own worth. I dealt with my fear and abandonment with anger. How could a parent let their child ever feel this way? All it took was one look at my son, one tiny little cry, and I thought, I would die for him.
It didn’t occur to me until later in that life that to deal with the disappointment that they brought me that I had to separate them from the identity of parents because ultimately, first and foremost they were people. And sometimes people do shitty things. They neglect, betray, and constantly let you down. So what do we do with those that bring us down? We distance ourselves and stop holding them to standards they can’t meet.
The Woman with Two Spirits
Inside me there are two spirits
and they are constantly at war.
One who belongs to the woman that lives in the brick corner house.
White picket fence bordering the corners, giving life to the rose bushes.
A solid structure to grow alongside. She has beautiful blonde hair
That rests gently above her shoulders, dancing in the morning breeze .
She speaks softly , and asks for permission to feel.
She wears long flowy dresses, hair up in an tightly kept bun and
Keeps herself presentable for the unexpected guests.
In times of hardship and worry she internalizes her trauma.
Keeping sweet little secrets, Whispering thanks and wishes of tomorrowland.
Her days are passed with children and laughter. Keeping the
Happiness in her pocket, ready to ignite it. Flame in hand.
The other woman lives on the outside of town, in a factory made home.
Her hair is braided with health, strength and wisdom
passed down from her ancestors.Flowing and skimming the mid of her back.
Whisking in the wind like the cattail surrounding the tree outside her window.
Sounds of rez dogs fighting in the distance keep her calm at night.
She shows power in her voice, and silences those in her path.
She wears beaded earrings that she made herself, a black shirt
And completed by her ribbon skirt resting at her ankles.
When they see each other on the street, they make no sound.
There are no hello’s or how do you do’s.
No casserole made to be shared together after a loved one's passing.
No long conversations on the phone sharing theories after a first date.
Inside me there are two spirits
And they are constantly at war.
And the one who is winning is slowly killing the other.
Grandmother Owl in the Moon
The night’s eyes are constantly watching you.
As the stars dazzle in the night sky, she starts
Creeping closer and closer as you cried.
Picking bones from her teeth with talons soaked in
The tears of children who have lost their way.
Sometimes Brother Crane will help
When you’re trying to cross the river.
But only if you remove the louse from his feathers
Break the parasitic creature in your mouth
And hold tightly as the long legs lead you across,
Guided by the water to shore and safety.
When all you’ve learned in this world is
Fight or flight, all danger and demons
Look the same. Grandmother Owl hunts you down
Like prey, tormenting you as the sun sets
And the night falls quiet.
Deconstructed Love
“Right and wrong were shades of meaning, not sides of a coin.”
― Louise Erdrich, Love Medicine
Thinking back on my childhood, as a brown haired, freckled, junior clothes wearing elementary aged child, we never had just one solid place to call home. During my school years, we moved from Oklahoma, across the state of Texas and then back to Oklahoma to follow my dad's coaching career. 3 schools, 3 houses and 3 fresh new starts. All deeming me with the title “Coaches kid” before I even started school. This title held weight within itself. I had a love for the game, and enjoyed spending Friday nights watching him achieve victories from the stands. Even now, thinking about it. I feel this tinge of nostalgia rush back to me. I miss the musk of sweaty pads, the sweet taste of yellow Gatorade on my tongue, and the unity felt amongst those boys. I was proud to be his daughter, and would fight anyone who sported a frown at his expense.
I never really understood after that day why Stacey never talked with me. The conversation was held between me and my mother. Once he returned home that night there was no discussion about what happened further. So this growth of resentment and anger towards him and my mother began to grow. All I needed was reassurance that he still loved me. I felt that I had dishonored him by uncovering this truth, and I spent the next couple months trying to work through those feelings.
In my hopes to suppress these intense feelings I began reading. This discovery of unknown, yet familiar, worlds is when my love for literature began to grow. I found every J.K Rowling and Sarah Dessen book I could find and read them cover to cover. I learned about true friendship between Harry, Hermione and Ron in Harry Potter, what abuse in relationships looked like between Rogerson and Caitlin in Dreamland, how to cope with death in The Truth about forever, about addiction in Lock and Key, and in the relationship between Harry and Sirius Black in the Prisoner of Azkaban, I found that home isn't always a place, sometimes it is a person. When we first arrived at a new town, things were always optimistic at the beginning. New place, new identity. But after a while, and many late nights of arguing from my parents, I wanted to go to the only place I truly felt secure.
This little slice of heaven is set on a 10 acre plot north of Lake Lawtonka in Meers, Oklahoma where my Papa, Leon, and Meme, Janis, lived. In the summertime, we would sit on the porch swing, listening to Papa’s Jeff Foxworthy tapes and relax. The sunset would always linger above the tree line for an hour, and then gently sway itself to sleep. For as long as I could remember we did that. Papa and I, partners in crime.We never really had serious conversations. I didn’t talk about my emotions dealing with my parents fighting, or any concern for the future. We just sat there together, enjoying each other's company.
In the mornings, after many hours of late night cartoons, and scaring myself straight with Courage the Cowardly Dog I’d roll out of bed. The room my brother, sister and I normally stayed in was deemed the NASCAR room. Shortly after Dale Earhart died, to help my Papa cope with the loss of his favorite driver, Meme decked out the room in his memorabilia. As I walked into the living room, the smell of fresh baked cookies lingered in the air. Papa was always in his usual spot. The blue recliner had his rear permanently pressed in it.
“Good morning lazy head, Meme has some food for you.”
I smiled, I always smiled when he was there.
Even now I can close my eyes and see him. Sprawled out on the chair, relaxing in his basketball shorts, shirtless, hairy, farmer tanned chest and all. His trusty sidekick Kipples by his side watching John Wayne Westerns on tv.
I don’t know if it's the gap in time that I have been without him, or the fact that I have had to live in a world without him. But I tend to romanticize the relationship. My papa was a stern, hardworking; rub some dirt in it kind of man. Yet, for some reason any interaction with his grandkids; he went weak in the knees. He was hard on us, but he loved us. I knew that for sure. I never once second guessed his intentions.
Even now, when I take my son to visit Meme I get the mystical, freedom feeling I got as a kid. Maybe it's the sound of the water rippling on the creek bed, the pine cones lined along the fence or the garden in the backyard that did it. But being there with Meme and Papa was home. It was a place that made me feel welcome, and when people asked where I was from. “Oklahoma '' is what I would proudly boast.
We were in the same house, with the same navy blue couch. My siblings had stayed in Oklahoma for the remaining couple of weeks left of summer. I was planning my outfit and swimsuit for a pool party I was invited to. Being new to school, this was important to me. I wanted to make a good impression, fit into the crowd. As I was putting the swim cover over my suit, I heard a loud crash and my mother screamed. I can’t describe the scream in terms other than pure pain and agony. I ran out of my bedroom door and she collapsed on the floor in the front room.
“Ca-ca-call your dad”, she cried, “tell him there is an emergency and he needs to come home.”
I ran back into my room, and dialed his number.
“Mom is hysterical, she won’t tell me what is going on until you get home, but it’s an emergency.”
After my dad was able to get her to sit up and have a conversation between sobs, she cried “My dad is dead.”
I don’t remember what the remainder of the conversation was about, all I remember was my dad pacing around the front room talking on the phone and my mother in a fetal position crying. After a moment, I was brought out of my pain ridden trance.
“Pack your bags, we have to make a flight soon, so hurry. Try to help your mom if you can.” Dad said.
“Okay, I will.”I replied.
After I had packed my bag quickly with the essentials, I went into my parents room and found my mom folding her clothes into the suitcase. I asked her if she needed help, and she smiled sweetly and said no.
Soon, the time came and we loaded into a family friend's truck and headed to the airport. Fear didn’t hit me until we went through security. I AM GETTING ON A PLANE FOR THE FIRST TIME AND MY PAPA IS DEAD. Flashes of the school lessons over 9/11 filled my mind. I am going to die today, I thought, Nothing about this is right.
I was then pulled forward by my dad, leading both my mother and I who were in complete disarray towards the boarding gate. When we reached our seats, looking out the plane window, it was pitch black outside so the lights of the airport sparkled in the night sky like fireflies. My parents discussed that my dad's sister Shannon and her husband Jim would pick us up in Dallas. The flight from Houston was only about an hour and a half flight, and we should arrive at my mom's parents around 2am.
By the time we were in the air, I came out of my daze to realize that I was still dressed in my shorts, bathing suit and mesh top. I immediately became embarrassed and tears started to stream down my face.
My dad, noticing my discomfort, attempted to make me laugh, “What’s wrong babe?” He asked.
“I look ridiculous, I am still in my swimming suit and look like white trash.”, I cried.
“Oh, don’t mind that. Maybe people think you are off to some exotic vacation.”
When we landed in Dallas, my aunt and uncle met us at the luggage area. They shuffled us into their car, and drove us homeward. On our trek to my Meme and Papa's house, we stopped to check on my siblings who had been discreetly moved to my dad's parents’ house giving my Meme the freedom to mourn. When we arrived, my siblings were asleep and my parents decided it was best to leave them there and retrieve them in the morning.
It was a weird sense of acknowledgment of my maturity that they agreed that I could come with them to check on Meme. When we arrived at the house, cousins, uncles and aunts had placed lawn chairs on the front yard prepared to stay as long as they needed to console my family. Meme was in the house, cleaning the kitchen, panicking that there were people at her house and it wasn’t to her hosting standards. My aunt Jenna was in the kitchen, trying to convince her that she needed to rest. After some time, she returned outside and joined the rest of the family.
Stories were told, and laughter returned to the house, if only for a brief moment. When the sun started to rise, everyone decided it was best to go their separate ways and let us rest. I volunteered to sleep with Meme for the first night without him. I admit now, that it wasn’t only my concern for her but my own selfish needs. I already missed him. I wanted to smell his bed, lay where his head was and dream of waking up from this terrible night. After that, all I remember was rolling onto my Papa's side of the bed, and the red flashing lights of his alarm clock reading 6am.
The next morning stung even more. You could feel the energy in the house that things changed. I couldn’t walk in the door, and smell the fresh baked cookies. Papa was not sitting in his blue recliner. There was no Papa. There was only an empty recliner that everyone refused to sit in.
When asking my mother and aunts years later about how my Papa reacted when he found out my mother was pregnant in high school, they told me he cried. He got out of that blue recliner, walked outside and stayed outside for hours. When I asked what he did, Meme said. “ He was sad, he didn’t want your mother to have a child so young. He walked up and down the driveway crying for hours.”
The sting of my mother’s youthful mistakes and the recent loss of the man I loved. How could he not have wanted me? Now, as a mother, I understand. You want the best for your children. You want them to grow and be strong and happy. He knew what having me would do to her. How she would struggle and how she would hurt. He was hurting for his baby as he traced his steps along that gravel drive. A couple days after that story, and after he passed, I walked that gravel drive. The sounds of the creek, the wisp of the breeze in the trees took me back. Instead of him crying for me and my mother, it was me retracing those steps longing for him.
No masquerade could hide my pain or the brokenness in me. His death put things into immediate perspective. It is a strange thing to consider, the awareness of death. But I think he knew his time was coming. In his room that my meme had decked out in NASCAR decor everything placed cleanly and perfectly on his desk. The bill ledger, the life insurance policy, all the important numbers and a card with my name on it.
This, unaware to myself or my mother, stated that I was an enrolled member in the Apache tribe. This gave me a claim to my heritage that my step-mother and father had claimed I had, and it was my last parting gift from the man we loved.
After we got settled in Wharton, I convinced my mother that I needed a Facebook to connect with my friends from our old town. Hesitantly, she agreed and helped me create one. I searched and searched for the name Phillip Pebeahsy on Facebook, and could not find him. I pried for more identification in hopes to find him.
My mother confessed that he had married someone he dated after her name Kari. By luck, she had a Facebook so I sent the request. To my surprise she accepted it within minutes and a notification ping echoed in my silent bedroom. She messaged me, and it sent me into a panic. I refused to open it until I found out more. I spent hours, late into the night, going through every post and photo posted. Once I concluded the investigation, finding that my father had fathered three more children, I decided to respond.
The messages were full of anger, and contempt. Years of pain, and my lack of maturity got the best of me. Kari spent time trying to convince me that my father didn’t have a choice in abandoning me. She told me of his physical and sexual abuse in foster care, his lack of parents and guidance.But, I wasn't satisfied. My phone dinged again.
“We were waiting for u to reach out to us bcuz we couldnt reach out to u.”, the message said, “U came up during the summer and ya’ll had the firework stand. I heard u were in town so i made phillip take me and jaden over there so we could see you.. Ur meme walked straight to phillip and told him not to say anything to u cuz u didn’t know him.”
After months of back and forth of blame placed on either parent, and their ill written youth, we decided that when I returned to Oklahoma for summer vacation that we would finally meet. For the first time in my life, I was dreading summer. Summer was always a time of peace for me as a child. Our parents would ship my siblings and I off to our grandparents for the entire vacation.
My dad’s parents lived in Cache, Oklahoma and my mother’s parents lived about a mile from Lake Lawtonka and 5 minutes east of the Meers Restaurant. During the middle of our stay we would pack all of our stuff into our suitcases and head to the other set of grandparents for the remainder of the summer. Although the two families only lived less than 30 minutes from each other, they were separated by the Wichita Wildlife Refuge. When my papa would pick us up from Cache, and head through the refuge at a mere 30 mph, I always fell into a trance. Some days, we could convince him to stop and explore. We spent a lot of time in nature discovering worlds outside our own.
On the day of my meeting with my biological father, I couldn't get out of bed. Fear filled my head, and tears streamed steadily down my face.
“You don’t have to do this today if you aren’t ready,” said Meme, “He will understand that you need more time.”
How could time change this? 14 years. 14 years of lies and these unsettled feelings.
“I need to go,” I replied, “I need to know the truth.”
But what would that truth entail? His lack of care for me? His desire to be rid of me, before he even knew me? I was scared, terrified to hear that I was not enough.
“Where do you want to meet him to eat?” She asked.
“I’m not sure”
“How about we meet at Burger King, nothing fancy, so if you decide that you aren’t ready or want to leave at any time, it won’t be such a public place.”
“Okay that is fine,”I said. Still trying to work up the courage to attend this meeting.
At 2pm we headed up the road to the restaurant.
We are told from a young age that you will remember the big life changing moments. Perhaps it was the emotions, but I don’t remember much. I do remember watching my dad and his family walk in before we entered. Counting the steps they took as they walked in. One. Just leave.Two.This is a waste of time.Three.He didn’t want you anyway.Four.Five.
After I saw them sit down in the middle of the building , I finally got the courage to walk in.When we walked in, he stood up and immediately hugged me and all I remember was crying. Tears streamed down both our faces. He kissed me on the cheek, and kissed me again and again.
I don’t know what it was about the embrace or the ‘I love you’s’ but I thought, This is who I am. I am his daughter. His blood. I am home.
This is America
A backboned society lead by the dead fathers of this country,
Slaughtering tribes, generations of people who lived
And nurtured this land. “Those people”, they said.
The Merciless Indian Savages that echoed as
100 Million Indigenous people were murdered.
A Nation born from genocide,
Promoting the “Land of the Free”And “Home of the Brave”
Has nothing of value to offer those whose ancestors died
Defending the sacred land created by The Great Spirit.
Families separated from their homelands,
Traveling thousands of miles to inhabit the red dirt.
The unforgiving soil, brittle and desolate.
Reflecting on the bloodshed, and tears cried mourning the lost.
Aching for the wholeness to return, and the freedom to roam.
America will never be proud,
Unless someone protects the indigenous boy from being held down,
Children yelling the slurs of their parents, grabbing scissors and
chopping off his hair. Strands falling slower than tears,
Disrespecting years of growth and a heritage he was proud of.
America will never be safe,
Unless indigenous daughters are protected from those
Who mean them harm. So they are not stolen from their homes,
Beaten, raped and murdered. Mothers fearing the next look
upon their daughters face would be the last.
America will never be great,
Again.
Love Medicine
“Society is like this card game here, cousin. We got dealt our hand before we were even born, and as we grow we have to play as best as we can.”
- Louise Erdrich, Love Medicine
We have been affected by the chains of society,
Holding us tightly to the damaged past.
Chains that have long corroded, holding us silent,
Forcing us to conform to a white washed narrative.
We have become stiff with bruised wrists and broken spirits.
Our culture hidden by the layers of oppression and
Topped with the cherry of assault. Slurs of
“Those people” begging to be replaced by
The brave,
The strong,
The resilient.
Where the outspoken indigenous daughter
Fights hard to wade in the toxins of trauma,
Keeping her head barely afloat, but constantly
Reaching out with her limbs, grasping at anything
Solid to move her forward in the tide, and
On to a better life.
Loss of Culture
“The Old people used to say that droughts happen when people forget, when people misbehave.”- Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony
I soon found out that in the late 2000’s the Apache tribe was a spectacle of embezzlement, and a lot of members, when they turned 18, had the opportunity to jump ship to any other tribes they were affiliated with. I took this as a sign, and was convinced by my step-mother, and Gaku (Grandmother) that joining the Comanche tribe would be more beneficial.
My Gaku’s father, Charles, was a full blood Comanche, and her mother, Darlene, was ¼ Comanche and ¾ Wichita. This was information that I soon learned to spit out like wildfire. I never understood the concept of blood quantum until my feet touched the Oklahoma red dirt. When I lived in Texas, there was no concept of how much of myself I had to prove. There were no regulations set aside to determine how much of me I was. My father had not been a member of the Comanche Tribe, and I had to prove three generations back that I was in fact not an imposter.
My skin is an olive brown, but light enough to pass as my mother’s daughter. For the longest time it has been my own source of camouflage. When I am uncertain of who I am, I can choose. Who do I want to be? Although I am a lighter copy of my father. I resemble a lot of the physical attributes of my Gaku and “normal native women”.
During my senior year in college I began working at the Comanche Nation Higher Education building. This opportunity was welcoming at first, I felt proud to be involved in the government of my people. I felt proud to be Indigenous. I was ecstatic to make a change in my community. However, on the second day of work, an Elder in the tribe walked into the library.
“Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
“Hello sir, I am the new librarian. Is there something I can do to help you?”
“The new librarian? You have got to be kidding me. Who is your supervisor? You should not be working here, taking my people’s job. You do not belong here.”
In a panic, I told him my supervisor's name and ushered him in the direction of her office. For the next twenty minutes I cried in the bathroom, considering quitting. It wasn’t until another Elder, who also worked in the same building, came in to comfort me. She reassured me to ignore him, and that he was ignorant. Her kindness helped, but it didn’t stop the aching in my heart. What proof did he need? Did he expect me to walk around wearing my CDIB card?
After that interaction I was enraged with a new kind of fury. Yes, my skin reflected more of white than brown. But that did not change the trauma my family suffered, or the pride that has instilled in me by becoming closer to my heritage. In some recent research, I have discovered that my Gaku attended the Ft. Sill Indian School, which was active between 1937-1980, and one of the 44 Indian Boarding schools in the state of Oklahoma.
Ranging nearly 100 years prior to 1871, the United States’ communicated with Indigenous tribes a selection of treaties. This agreement in place stated that the tribes agreed to release millions of acres of tribal land in order for protection by the upcoming county. These treaties are considered to be the “supreme law of the land.”, and are intended to be the foundation of Tribal law and tribal communication with the Federal Government. These treaties impact the 574 federally recognized Indigenous tribes. (BIA.COM) In hopes to colonize the savages, the men of Ft. Sill and members of surrounding tribes agreed that it would be best for the indigenous youth to accept the way of life that would be welcomed by society.
As an Indigenous nation, our elders, our families, our Gaku’s were taught to separate ourselves from their heritage. They were told to forget the medicinal practices that healed so many warriors before them. They were told to not practice spiritual rituals and resort to the surrounding Christianity around them. They were told to not speak their language and learn that of their foreign neighbors. So when my Gaku became an adult, she did not practice the ways of her people. She did not instill this history in her children. She became a lost soul, a savage left wondering if she would ever feel whole that echoed for generations to follow.
Mother Nature
There is no amount of time that would ever be enough
To thank the woman who loves us as a mother should.
Her Love sprinkles seeds, showering us with affection.
In the spring, her kindness grows flowers,
Decorating our life with brilliant colors.
Her summers are perfect playtime companions
filled with grandchildren’s laughter.
In the fall, her leaves present a pallet of
Orange and golds. While pumpkins offer
A smile to weary travelers bringing in the cold.
Her winters are full of snow angels and hot chocolate,
With children nestled next to warming fires.
There is no amount of time that would ever be enough
To thank the woman who loves us as a mother should.
Speaking with the Stars
It’s easy to have faith in the stars.
They sparkle radiantly, lighting the
Paths of worry and heartache.
Guiding us to hope, holding happiness
By the hand and returning us home.
We spend countless hours
Knees bent in prayer
Honoring the Creator with gratitude.
Cleaning with smudge smoke in waves
Mimicking the nearby creek.
We will dream of moccasin held feet
Dancing on the wings of a summer breeze
Roaring alongside the embers of a fire,
Hot and steady.
We will sing the songs in a rhythmic pattern
Collecting the beat of the drums.
Telling the old stories, letting our ancestors speak
Projecting the language of our homeland
Keeping the voice alive and well within.
Biological Father
The older I have gotten, the closer we have become, and yet until now, I have never asked the tough questions regarding his childhood. I have found that with the trauma he faced as a child, he has had a tough time trusting those who are closest to him and he has every right to. Even with the saint of a woman my step mother, Kari, still has a tough time dealing with these lifelong emotions. I never imagined I would be writing about the traumatic past of my father. As a daughter, you only see your father as a strong and hardy man, and don’t get me wrong he is the strongest man I will ever know, but hearing his story and the pain that he has encountered has been hard to bear.
He is the oldest son out of four boys, and the fourth oldest out of my grandmother’s seven children. My grandmother lived a reckless lifestyle, and sometimes this would cause her to ignore her responsibilities as a mother. My father never fully developed his relationship with his mother, and caused his foundation as a child to be shaken. Besides being placed in the foster system at an early age, he also became a father at the age of fifteen. I am his oldest child out of four children. Although I have not known him my entire life, he has made an abundant amount of effort in building a relationship with me now. He understands how important the relationships with his children are and I am thankful for it. He holds no resentment towards his parents and shows amazing strength in overcoming this hardship.
When it came time to interview him, I unpacked my belongings and placed them on the kitchen table in the middle of my father’s house, the house that has been a part of my step mother’s family her entire life. Across the room my younger brother, Philip, was playing a video game and Kari was in the kitchen making us a meal. My back was to the hallway but I could hear my father’s footsteps approaching. Hey baby, he said. I felt relieved just by those words. I had been nervous about this conversation and I could tell by the tone of his voice he was ready to move passed this.
“Hey dad, how was work?” I said calmly.
“It was long,” he answered, “I am glad to be off.”
“I guess we could get this started,” I said digging through my notes, “Trey suggested that I should ask you this question first: What question would you like to be asked, or what questions would you like someone reading this about the foster system to know?”
He paused for a minute to think.
Once he decided what he wanted to say, he said “That this is coming from one person’s perspective and not a judgment on the whole foster care system. I don’t know many people who went through things like I did. I mean, I know my brothers went through things, but not as much as I did. They experienced a little.”
I thought to myself that it was honorable for him to say that, and I said “Okay, tell me about the beginning. At that point in time did you all live with your mom?”
“Yeah. I think Herbie stayed with one of my aunts, I stayed with one of my aunts and Preston and Tim were babies so they might have stayed with my mom. We were together, but you know we were sleeping in various places. That’s where I’d be at her sister’s house and Herbie would be at her other sister’s house. I guess that is when they were babies still, but when they were old enough we all lived in the same house.”
“I know you said something about Grandma drinking a lot, would you like to talk about that?” I said nervously.
“Yeah, ever since I could remember she would drink smoke and do other things. She was always looking for a party. It didn’t matter if she had kids; if there was a good time out there she was gonna go to it.”
“Is that why you were taken away the first time?” I asked.
“Yes, I was four or a little bit younger and I got ran over by a car. I remember after I got ran over, I was stuck under the car and the driver got out of the car to look for me. He didn’t find me until he bent down. He was a drunk driver just driving through town. I spent quite a bit of time in the hospital, because I had a cracked pelvic bone. So, I was laid up for about six months. Then after that our house got burnt down, that might have been another reason we got taken away.”
“Grandma didn’t know where you were the day you got ran over?”
“No, we were having a big ole party in the house and like I said earlier she really liked to party. I don’t remember much but what I do remember was in the ambulance I could see myself”
“Like a reflection?”
“-like I was sitting on top of the back of the ambulance looking down on myself. Someone reported it and we were taken away. Then when she passed her qualifications to get us back we returned. But the uncleanliness is got us taken away the second time.”
“Tell me about the reason behind the second time,” I said.
“When we were in school they could tell that our uncleanliness was a problem. I remember one time that we were in gym, we were doing something that involved taking your shoes off. Well I probably hadn’t showered all week long and it was Friday or Thursday, something like that and I took my shoes off and tried to take my socks off but they were stuck to my feet. They were crusted around my feet. So, I guess the PE teacher said something to the Principle and I think that is one way they found out was because we weren’t very clean.”
“When you got put in the system, did your mom visit you at all?”
“I don’t know if it was the DHS or what but they did get family visits set up, but the family I lived with in Lawton, they never would let me go. It was just my other two brothers that would meet up. So, it was up to that family that I was with that always was putting on fronts trying to control everything.”
I asked him “Is there any memories, or anything you want to talk about? Good or bad.”
“Uh, most of it was all bad. It was from name calling, to hitting to beating to kicking. I mean anything they wanted to do they would do. If I wasn’t doing anything exactly like they wanted you know I was getting punished for it. Uh, I was sweeping off the back patio one time and the foster mom came out of the house and the patio goes down about fifteen steps. I had my back to the door so when she opened the door she hit me in the back and I swung around to see who it was and the broom hit her in the face. I heard her say a few curse words and the door closed, but then it opened backed up and she had a flyswatter switch in her hand and started beating on me. I got close to the edge of the steps and fell and got knocked out and woke up when it was dark time,”
He paused for a moment and continued, “There was this one time I was scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was a Saturday night, the night that the foster parents would go out and the foster dad came in there and I guess where I was at by the sink scrubbing was in his way and he came in there kicked me in the head. I woke up later still on the floor and they were gone. The physical abuse was the worst in this house. They had one kid that would always look out for me when I was getting a beating. He would always tell my foster dad ‘hey don’t you see he’s had enough, don’t you see all those bruises?’ So I would run away. The first time I was there for six months before I ran away. But the cops took me back there. I dunno why, I guess nobody else wanted me,” he says laughing, “ no other home to go to I guess. The cops would find me walking out on the road in the middle of the night, ask me where I came from and what I was doing and take me back home after they caught me. That ass whooping after running away, every time it was worse.”
“Were you able to tell anyone at school, anyone that you trusted?” I asked.
“Yeah, but that wasn’t until 5th grade, 6th grade my friends started to notice that I would come to school beat up with a busted eye or something. It was finally until then that one of my black friends came up to me and started talking to me about it. That’s when I started smoking weed.”
“In the 5th grade? What? How did you get it in the 5th grade?”
“From my friend, his brother was a dealer. He was like man I know you get fucked up all the time , I don’t know what you do to deal with it but you should try this. I did my best to hide it from my foster parents. I thought they almost found it a couple of times. But I hid it in places I thought they’d never go. I’d be up late at night maybe one or two, and that’s when I would smoke. There’s been a lot of bad times when I got beat, there is this one time I got work over pretty good and I knew my foster dad had a 38 handgun in his top dresser drawer, so before I went outside to smoke I went in there and grabbed it and stood over him, thinking about it you know, but I put it up and smoked and it left my mind after that.”
“Was there one that was worse in any other ways?”
“Yeah, the one out here when I lived with the Judy Akers, the mom used to mess with me. The one house that both I and Timmy stayed with. Yeah, I stopped that from happening to him. He was under ten, and I was twelve until about the age of fifteen. She was 38-41. She hid it from her husband, and would mess with me. I was with the Akers when your mom got pregnant. They were bad over there, since the mom couldn’t get pregnant and I got someone pregnant. My foster mom would just be real jealous and crazy when it came to your mom.”
“What was the scariest thing that ever happened?”
“Uh, the family in Lawton. The step daughter to that family, she was married to their son, she was messing with me. She was 28 or something like that. You know, she would do things… and they had a daughter that was younger than me. So we started doing things, and they found out. My foster dad grabbed me and choked me, threw me. I mean you talk about an ass whooping, that was an ass whooping, kicking me in my nuts, he almost killed me. It was the worst beating I’ve had. That day I got taken from the house was right after I got beat. I heard the doorbell rang, and I went to answer it and it was my social worker. I had switch marks all over my face and all over my body, it was just by chance that she came by.”
“Now, that was the last time you had to be there for good?”
“Yeah, thankfully that was the last time. I think the reason that she came is because a couple weeks earlier I had gone to school with a couple of black eyes. The principal called me in and asked me how I got them. The parents told me to tell anyone who asked that I got them playing basketball so I did. The principal asked how I would get them in both of my eyes, and tried to interrogate me good to where he knew I was lying. I think he was the one that called my social worker. If there had been more adults I could trust I might have said something. A way to be more anonymous and less judgmental. Counselors are supposed to be more open and aware but it wasn’t for me. If I would have spent any amount of time with them they would have noticed that I wasn’t being treated right. When I was at that home at Lawton, I would act out in a bunch of ways. I remember burning down that gas station in Lawton. I would always get in fights at school, acting out what would happen at home. When my foster parents found out it would be worse at home. I don’t know how people didn’t put all my troubles at school and with cops with my treatment at home.”
“Are there any other suggestions to the state that you think they should be doing?”
“It’s just tough, I think the system is good. I hear about kids in foster care being good for them, but there has to be some way to filter it and stop the abuse. They need to be not interrogating, but questioning the kids about the home situations and not just one little question about how things are going. And if a kid answers the same question with it’s fine every time, there should be more awareness that something is wrong. They think everything is fine just because you tell them but they don’t know that you have been threatened not to mention anything to them about your home life. They parents would always make threats; I know it was like that for me. They would say if I told them anything I would get it when I got back home. If they thought I said anything I would get my ass whooped.”
“Do you think there is enough screening-?”
“No, case workers should be a whole lot more involved. They never asked me questions. If a kid never talks, or shows any kind of emotions, you need to realize this. They’re not being a kid.”
“Trey talks about you all the time, about how nice you are.”
“It don’t come easy. You gotta see a lot of terrible things first. Well, I have held onto things, but it’s no good to do that. You know you’ve lived a hard life, but there is a reason to leave it in the past. It made me strong enough to be here today.”
Homeland
You wonder why we’ve lost our way,
Walking aimlessly in the dirt wondering the plains
Voiceless; the spirit has hidden, but not left us
Quite yet
To call her back we must relive our worth
To touch the bare grass with the twist of our toes
Rubbing lines into the dirt
Wandering, hopeful of a rebirth
Mouths full of sugar, slurs and sadness.
Repent. Refresh. Realize.
Grab your regalia, dance to the stars of the night sky
Welcome back the earth and its welcoming embrace
It has forgiven us before, when we once lost our way.
It has helped us grow, adapt to the change of the modern world.
But it cannot be forgotten, all the glory and wisdom it has given us.
We are from the earth, and for the earth we are grateful.
No Longer Nameless
One day the Great Spirit collected swirls of dust from the four directions in order to create the Comanche people. These people formed from the earth had the strength of mighty storms. Unfortunately, a shape-shifting demon was also created and began to torment the people. The Great Spirit cast the demon into a bottomless pit. To seek revenge the demon took refuge in the fangs and stingers of poisonous creatures and continues to harm people every chance it gets.
-Numunuu Creation Story
The Numunuu, Comanche people, are a group of resilient warriors despite the hardships, the heartache and the lingering anger left from generations passed. The storms of this country don’t faze them, being that of their own blood they welcome the danger willingly. Almost eager to prove their strength and earth rooted loyalty to the land. The genealogical information passed down from my Aunt Kay has determined that my family is descendants from the Wild Horse band. Wild horse despite his best efforts to remain a free Comanche knew and agreed that the fight to remain independent on the land was becoming more difficult as the years grew on, and the white men of Ft. Sill had become too powerful. Maybe this is where the loss of identity started? Generations before we were born, we were told to remove our ancestral roots and dissolve any remaining heritage and language.
When my Gaku, Grandmother, was young she experienced this uncertainty at a very early age. After a night out, her father Charles and mother Darlene fought, and to some cruel twist of fate resulted in the death of her mother. The children at the time were sleeping on the porch and witnessed everything. This event, perhaps a form of revenge from the shape-shifting demon, affected my Gaku and her siblings drastically. As the years rolled on, to cope with the traumas of her youth she fell victim to more poisons of the shapeshifting demon-alcohol. She had my father and his siblings young, and even though she loved them, her trauma was too overwhelming and affected her ability to be a mother.
When I was born, my father was not involved in the native culture. He did not have contact with either of his parents and had been in and out of foster care.He spent most of his childhood in a world of turmoil and abuse. The stories he told me over the years have proven one thing, despite the hardships, he focused greatly on his family. His brothers were those who were closest to him, and even to this day their bond remains loyal to each other. For most traditional families, when the children are born they are given their “true” name. Something sacred that holds them close to their families, and their tribe. This namesake has been lost in my family over the years, and the separation between self and tribe has grown apparently larger.
I didn’t know my Native American heritage, or my father, until I was 14 years old. My parents had me at a young age, and when their relationship fell victim to the poisoning of the past, they separated. One summer, when looking for craft supplies for an art project, I stumbled across a green photo book with this reddish-brown skinned man in all of the pictures. The one that caught my eye was a picture of two people with a baby. The man was wearing a jet black shirt, his hair was greased back and his smile was a welcoming kind of wide while holding the baby alongside the woman. Reality struck me like a bolt of lightning, as if I had just then developed some sixth sense of knowledge, the woman was undoubtedly my mother. I scrambled around to find another picture book, the half completed book of firsts from my first year of life. I frantically turned the pages to find a baby photo, and once I did I laid the photos side by side in a line up, interrogating them as if they could speak for themselves. Do the checks look the same kind of chunky? Yes. Do they have the same skin color? Yes. Does this look like me? It took some time for me to come up with this conclusion, that I was in fact the baby in the photo. Up until this point in my life I had always felt off, and not the off that makes you sit uneasy for months at a time. My off-balance nature rested solely in the energy I felt around me. I felt out of place, and I never knew why until this moment. Even though this photographed evidence gave me some glimpse into the forgotten past, I decided to keep this secret for months. I wanted to hold this close to me, close to the emptiness I felt for many years. Unknowingly something that has been tormenting our family for generations.
When I was introduced to the native culture, I was overwhelmed; I experienced a culture shock to say the least. I had been raised in a predominantly white household when living with my mother, and everything about my newly found native family was different. They loved to gather, and celebrate regardless of the occasion. They didn't hold any resentment for wrongdoings in the past, and loved each other so deeply that I could see it when they spoke to one another. They were in fact their own tribe, their own nation of warriors, saviors and those searching for answers. In my life, I had never met a group of people that welcomed me so easily into their lives without much explanation. As a child, I needed this. I needed to feel this sense of belonging to something greater than me.
Every generation, From Wild Horse to my Gaku to me, has lived in this loss of self-state for the majority of our lives. However, for all the hardships, all the nameless babies, our family has persevered. Even if I have been distant from my heritage, like the Numunuu, our family has outran the fangs and stingers of the creatures that aim to harm us. We have, through our own family names, depended on each other to move on. Our hopes are to create further generations that have a sense of purpose rather than the loss of identity in a white washed world.
Although I may not have a “true” name, I carry many others. Rodrick, Hunt, Pebeahsy, Mackey, and now Mom. Each name symbolizing a sacred time in my life, a rite of passage. Our family has come a long way, and with the love and support of each other has moved passed the lost voice, and found our sound within each other. My hopes for my son, Hendrix, is to know who he is, know where he came from, and that each loved one bore the pain of the past, fought like hell against the shape-shifting demon to bring him a namesake to carry and love him so.
Keeper of the Flame
“But it left something with him; as long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they could all go on.”
― Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony
The wisp of the golden-brown hair falling gently
Against your brow line ignites the hue of your eyes.
You are made of fire, lighting a spark
Of change amongst the immovable mountains of bitterness.
The regrowth of familial connections rested solely on your smile.
I feel the weather shifting, it will change for you.
The calculation predicting the ease of rebuilding this was false,
And I falter. My patience begins to wear thin, and a storm begins to escalate.
Struggling daily to rehabilitate a relationship after destruction has
Become a challenge that I bare only for you.
When my relationship with nature becomes agitated,
And blustery winds fill my voice, it shakes you to attention and
Burdens you to shield your ears. “Momma don’t say bad things” you cry,
As you run to me demanding a hug, calming the rage that is rising.
The sound of rain echoes off the window pane, soothing us both into a trance.
Your eyes have just closed, as you snuggled tightly against my chest.
I hope that I comfort you in love, as fiercely as you make my heart swell.
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