She tells me my people are not well then she
tells me I cannot buy her healing powers, that they
must be given. She tells me I am cursed. That we
are all murderers. That we do not understand how
to live from the land and assumes we never have but
she is wrong. She does not know me. She does not know
how we to were pulled away too quickly and with a violent hand
that shook the soil of native land from our roots
leaving us starved for the nutrients of the earth of our
forefathers. I want to tell her, woman, you are not so different.
My grandmothers too knew which plants would
heal, which would feed, my grandfather’s too prayed over
their kill with soft blessings and used every ounce
of their hunt and harvest. They too gathered with music
of their hands and voices with ancient chanting I hear
but cannot recreate. Yes, we too have lost our way.
Woman, I know how to teach my son to be kind and generous. I know
how to help him see the beauty and importance in the differences
within humankind. I know how to teach him to listen to the still small voice.
I know how to teach him a gentle touch. But I do not know
how to teach him how to be a white man. How to understand
why people will always see him as a master of slaves,
killer of native peoples, represser of women. I do not know how
to teach him to love himself in spite but not because of his skin,
his gender. How to help him understand why we still wear the sins
of the past and never allow them to be made again. Tell me,
wise woman, tell me how to walk in these shoes because I see,
I see you are wearing them too.
