Our stories are a continuation of the stories that came before us. Let's take the time to understand and know them.
(Image by CERULEAN, an undaily visual journal) Permission Details DMCA
My adopted uncle was murdered before he could teach me much about his culture. So now he's dead and I don't know, didn't learn. That's how it happens. #Indigenous
Thinking of my Uncle Henry a lot lately.
My mom was his biggest champion, inviting him to live with us when he'd been kicked out of everywhere, fighting with everyone to see him, to love him, and to listen to him. My uncle was understandably lost, alone, conflicted, afraid to be himself and afraid not to be himself. My sister and I loved it when he sat on our living room floor to make bannock but we weren't ever entirely comfortable around him. Too many people looked at him wrong. Plus, my mom loved him fiercely because she had to. She couldn't just relax and love him because loving my Native American uncle meant fighting for him. So we loved him too, but with a feeling of responsibility we didn't understand.
I felt conflicted. As a niece who was interested in her mysterious uncle, I wanted her to keep him alive and to tell me more. But as a selfish little girl, I wanted her to stop fighting for him now, to let him go, to just watch me and my sister sing and play.
My sister and I learned how to love fiercely, too.
And we also learned how to love comfortably.
My adopted uncle was murdered before he could teach me much about his culture. So now he's dead and I don't know. But I can try to learn.
And I do.
I love you, mom.
I love you, Uncle Henry.
I love you, messy messed up world.
I love you.