So Much Beautiful Space: Clearing the way for a new narrative

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My being is not synonymous with struggle. My being is not interchangeable with the sound of something breaking under the weight of itself. An internal cracking. My body is not a site for research, a war to be waged, a village to be pillaged. Sometimes I lose myself under all the statistics and pathologies that are placed on top of me. They are bricks on my chest. One seems harmless. A truckload full means that I am struggling to live a beautiful life.
I am buried under the weight of a violent colonial state and trying to remember what a blue sky looks like. I am trying to remember what it was like to be a baby bouncing on my Asu’s knee while she sang songs to me. I can vaguely remember being so small I had to strain my arm to place it out the backseat window to catch wind in my hands. I remember hiding from the moon on a car trip between two northern towns. Every time I peeked up, there she was, the moon. Swelling and radiant…and stalking me. The audacity of that summer stalking moon. I played hide and seek with her. I giggled, she blushed. I remember what that level of innocence and wonder felt like. It was plump and soft like a northern native babies cheeks.
I remember when red was just a colour and not the colour that reminds me of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women. When red didn’t remind me that women that look like me or look like my Aunties & grandmothers have the likelihood of encountering extreme violence. This constant reminder of our perceived fragility and real danger is the elephant that follows us into every new space and relationship. The elephant stalks these days and the moon stays where she hangs. I was at an event today that had long velvety red drapes that crept down from the walls to tickle the floor. Red. The elephant tapped my shoulder. Fuck off Freddy. I named the elephant Freddy. I have nothing against the Freddy’s of the world but if you so choose to name your own elephant, know that Freddy is taken. The walls, oh right, yes. They were red soft things that hung down like the arms of an octopus if the octopus was dead and limp and red and covered in velvet. Freddy cleared his throat and pointed to the colour. Yes Freddy. I imagined the walls swallowing me whole. I disappear in the room. I blend into scenery. I feel my own fragility. I want to feel beautiful and lush and full of good medicine.
I am trying to get to the place where I can write love stories for the sake of writing love stories. I am emerging into a space where I can soon pluck something beautiful from the sky and place it on this page. I heard a woman say that her daughters are looking for themselves in books and in media. Her daughters are looking for a reflection of themselves that isn’t touched by deep trauma because they have lived good lives. I don’t know how to relate because my life has been trauma-ridden and healing centered but I know that I felt it when she said it. I know that I too, want to read something beautiful that reflects the life that I live now. I want to transform into a beautiful narrative. Or rather, I have been transforming into just that. I have emptied stories out of me to get to this new and familiar place where the sky is blue and the moon follows me around again.
I told Freddy to fuck off.
There is so much space now.
So much beautiful space.

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