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Wednesday, June 7, 2017

America's Throw away Indian Project; A walking death


Artist: Davêd Joaquên
"Return of White Buffalo Woman"

http://www.twohawkstudio.com/gallery/return-of-white-buffalo-woman/




I have walked by my computer a thousand times since I have decided and publicly declared to tell my story.  I walk by and look at the screen as if it is whispering my name and the keyboard is also whispering, beware, don't listen to it, don't do it.  I continue into the other room.  My fingers feel like a thousand pounds right now.  I have no way of telling my story without hurting someone.  Isn't that strange?

I am an adoptee and the only other people in the world who will understand me without another word is another Native American Survivor of the Adoptee program.  I do not write this for pitiful sake.  But it will illicit pity in you.  I don't want your pity, but a part of me does.  It is a little part deep inside me that says if you feel pitiful for me you actually heard me.  Because when you look at the stark facts of the adoptee program, it is truly a dark and ugly thing.   It is a walking death.

I want you to imagine your community you live in.  I want to picture your neighbors and their families.  I want you to imagine their homes and all the dinner parties you have attended at their houses, the birthday parties, the Chivas. I guess I need the reader to imagine any kind of gathering attended at another's home and in your own home for the purpose of this excercise. I want you to imagine all the children that are friends with your children.  How you have taken your children on play dates.  I want you to imagine your entire town, large or small and try to think of it as a tribe or better yet, your own tribe.  You have your own leaders, healer, hunters, bead artists, carvers, builders, gardens, everything, every talent, contained within your village.

Now I want you to imagine the government barging into your home and taking your children from your custody because they just do not like the way your town lives, the way your language sounds, and they want to take all of your property and they do because they want to.  I want you to image your graveyards where generations of your loved ones and ancestors have been buried.  The most sacred grounds any culture has, the ground to honor it's past.  This government, they don't give a shit about your graveyard either.  The either build over it or maybe they dig it up in one hundred years and take the bones and put it in a museum for your grandchildren to wonder if it is you sitting behind that glass.  That adult grandchild who is himself a grandparent, knows in their soul that the bones behind that glass contain the same DNA that is within their own bones, but they can never return those sacred bones to their sacred grounds because what was once the place where your town was for hundred, maybe thousands of years is completely gone and a new culture of people are living on it.  This adult grandchild who is now a grandparent himself can not ever have those bones return to the family for burial in their new location of consecrated grounds because the law won't allow it unless one can prove you're a direct family member of those bones.

I can not write anymore.  this truly is the most difficult thing I have ever undertaken.  I have to describe to my reader how it feels to me.  In doing so, I have to walk through all of the emotions I have put to rest.  It stirs in me an anger, and a pain so deep.  I have to process.  When I feel inspired again, I will return.  But for now, imagine your children are gone and your property is gone, in fact, your whole town is gone and you are nowhere.  You have no idea where you are.  It might as well be the moon you are on. The only food you have is the rotten food the government is giving you and the only thing to drink is the alcohol the government is giving you.  You are on the moon, no child, rotten food, with only a poisonous substance to drink.  Stay there and look at the emptiness around you and try to imagine how that feels.  Now stay there every day until I write again.  Stay in that place until I return.


I may never return.

Julie


1 comment:

  1. I have to add now, in case one reads the comments, the last statement is for effect. Of course I will be writing more.

    ReplyDelete

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