The most difficult place to live is in the middle.

The family I know, the people who raised me, the people who spent countless hours and dollars educating me, investing in the young girl that became me, this is the only family I know.  They do not want to hear about my feelings of being tormented.  This family gets angry at me at any mention of this torment.  No matter how small the mention is, it never goes unpunished.  Harsh words and the customary accusations of playing the victim, and a lifetime of shutting off this voice hardened me. 

There is more…

The family that I am related to by blood, the people who look like me, the people who threw me away in 1967 because I am female and half white, my tribe, they reject me with silence.  One half of me is Lake Cowichan First Nation, the other half is white.  So this post is about where I live inside.  The place I call the no so soft center.  The center I decided to expose a small piece at a time.  It hurts.  

I am older now and maturity has assisted me in many ways.  I am calmer.  I am quieter.  I am less aggressive.  I have stopped attempting to be Indian to my white family, and I have stopped trying to be Indian to my Native family.  So what am I?  Good question. 

I am the result of a government experiment conducted in 1967.  I am quite sure this program started long before and ended sometime after, however, I am unable to verify the actual dates/numbers.  Why?  Because no one has ever written about it.  Especially the survivors, people like me. 

At the risk of pissing off my adopted family, my white family, I am beginning to speak of this experience I have lived and am still living.  At the risk breaking some tradition or custom or embarrassing my tribe, I am speaking of this experience I have lived and am still living.  Not to purposely anger or offend anyone.  I speak of it only so it will not be lost in the silence of my pain and anger of powerful and intimate and unknown people.  It is time to introduce myself to me and to you.  I am…

½ White

½ Lake Cowichan First Nation

I am going to find my voice, and I will do it publicly. 

BigMamaBlaze

~Great Spirit~ Great Spirit, Give us hearts to understand; Never to take from creation's beauty more than we... http://t.co/syRDLT22QP
— BigMamaBlaze~BMB (@UnifiKshuNaShun) August 10, 2013

Decided to expose the center

Decided to expose the center

Decided to expose the center. The part that is crucified between two identities, two worlds, two cultures, two families, two races, and two sets of standards. The center that is not so quiet. The place that offends the onlooker, offends the listener.

Decided to expose to the world. The not so soft perception of my modern duality. Decided to no longer live in silence. An attempt to explain how I feel, ultimately how I see.

The campaign for ending violence against women is to break the silence. Shall there be a slogan, a campaign for society to begin to acknowledge and account for the stolen generation?
It is a moral dilemma for society to assign accountability for something not necessarily committed by this generation, but, the victims/survivors are still here. Who is accountable to them? Can we break the silence for them?

She is gone.  She is a ghost.  She was my mother's sister.  This is all I have of this generation, of my mother.  I never met her.  But then again, I am pretty sure I have never really met myself.

Maybe I will be able to show you what I see.  Just a little bit at a time.  I dare not release too much silence at once.  The world would not understand.

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Take action...Matt Damon

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BigMamaBlaze Top Secret Public Journal entry

I heard someone the other day say they were sick of "Indians" and their crying around about history.  They went on to say that "America" has given enough land to the "Indians" and now they have Casinos and a bunch of money, that Indians needs to shut up, better yet disappear.

I ask my local friends, is racism just a figment of my imagination?

I wish you could walk in my shoes.  I wish you could experience the looks I get, and experience for yourself what it is to an Indigenous woman in this town and in America.

There is nothing romantic about being an Indigenous person.  It is difficult, painful, frustrating, and requires an extraordinary amount of discipline.
It is painful every day, to pack around memories of the horror stories of my history and that of my people.  It is not a faucet I can turn off.

I must be quiet with my pain.  I fail miserably some days, at the "being quiet" part.  Believe me when I tell you, I can feel the hatred of others.  It feels like bees stinging me.  I'm just saying...

As I age I realize how strong I am.  To have come to my late forties and I'm not in prison nor do I have a criminal records of any sort.  I am not addicted to alcohol or hooked on drugs.  I am not homeless.  I have survived many tragedies and even more misunderstandings.  I have produced intelligent children who are balanced and mature.

I believe it has been a gift in many ways, this cultural dichotomy.  I was not given a clean womb to grow in.  My mother was called home to Creator when I was an infant.  I was stripped of my cultural rights by my own people because of the era in which I was born and because I am a woman.  I was buried in a foreign country's legal system as an infant and locked away from my heritage and rich culture.  I am first generation off the reserve (Canada terminology, American calls them reservations).  I have been torn in half from birth and my journey has been consumed with learning how to stitch myself back together.

I survived my youth.  I have survived years of anger and sorrow.  I am approaching becoming an elder (in Canada we are First Nations, In America we are tribes) in my culture, because we tend to die young, I am already an elder.  I feel calmer.  I have a deeper understanding of why I was separated from my Nation and country, family, and culture.  I grow closer to being a whole person with scars and longer a broken person.

I will share this as well, I have better days than others.  Some days I lament at the lack of knowledge many have about my race and our history.  I may feel this way for days or weeks.  When I come through those feelings, I inevitably feel like a warrior with a cause to share, to educate others of my journey and that there are thousands of people still alive that are just like me.

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