A true and just portrayal of Indigenous longing and struggle.
I feel my toes curl in my moccasins. My left sock is damp from the moisture on the cold nights grass sneaking through the hole in my moccasin. I scold myself for not taking the time to sew on a new sole.
I think of all the times I sat at home working on papers, writing resumes and cover letter, or just watching T.V. when I could have been sewing, or practicing Cree. And then I remember the countless days of leaving at 6 am and coming home at 11 pm too exhausted to do anything. One of my jobs was teaching other people to make moccasins, it seems I’m always helping other first. It’s a struggle to survive and do the work you love in the city, or town or anywhere really.
I love the feeling of my shawl sliding over my shoulders, being pulled tight under my beaded…
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