Indigenous diaspora
to be out of place yet in place
a displacement
causing a mind-body-spirit dis-ease
with symptoms no doctor can identify
there will be no diagnosis of an illness
due to being placeless today
The spectrum of diaspora doesn’t cover this
the experience of reconfigured landscapes and loss
while you are forced to stand by and watch
has no fancy concept to back it up
no diagnostic description under the DSM
so we fly under the radar yet again
You see,
there are stories just beneath the city streets
that your bones are trying to remember
there are trail ways laying just behind those barbed wire fences
that you just can’t reach
there are ancestors bodies in these manicured landscapes
that have mixed and mingled with the earth
knowing this, you try to listen closely in these trafficked spaces
holding breath, keeping silent
knowing that a blood memory might be trying to speak
These losses accumulated result in a type of trauma known only by the dispossessed
something intangible that you don’t have the words for and don’t know how to grieve
The landscape continues to shift
gets a facelift according to Eurocentric definitions of beauty
These acts
redefine connection to land to that of owner to property
We know that these waters had dominion over themselves
long before man ever had the audacity to plug up the rivers with dams
or the stupidity to turn the potable into poison
Water has a long term memory
every place tells a story
There are still attempts at the erasure of our history
by the continued writing of stories overtop of our own
In the form of buildings and pavilions
through roadways and oil rigs
through the creation of structures that act as a testament
of our absence
Out of place in place
I watch as history repeats itself
I am only 29 but 1867 still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth
My mind is still sharp you see but
I am rapidly losing my place-memory
I weep over empty berry bowls
There are more bushes elsewhere
Someone will surely cry
but not the bushes where I first plucked bulging berry
placed it in my small mixed blood mouth
and tasted home
tasted land
tasted connection
Where I brought my son
so he could eat more berries than he would ever place in his bowl
boasting berry blues and reds on his hands and face
as he stood in place, in place
Maybe this is just an Indian girl dilemma
Mourning the loss of berry bushes
the loss of access to river to lay offerings
the loss of place to pick medicines
Out of place in place
What is the word for that in your language?
My Grandmother reconfigured her identity
to adjust to shifting maps and dreams
I will do the same
to give my son the best of me
Give him new memories in old places
so that he will not forget
the taste of home
the taste of land
the taste of connection
all jumbled up in his little mixed blood mouth
because no matter the changes that come to pass,
there are some stories that refuse to be forgotten
In Spirit,
Helen K
Oddly, there is a growing psychological literature that tries to get at all of these pieces. Maybe there will eventually be a diagnosis, or at least an agreed upon term for the experience, other than “trauma”.
Reblogged this on VIRTUAL BORSCHT and commented:
So true of the Ukrainian experience: colonized, enslaved as serfs, invisibles and dead souls, displaced and psychologically unsettled.
This is amazing. It is exactly what my heart was looking for but I didn’t have the words. Thank you.