An ode to Native women

According to 

my family, my culture, my teachings

women are the water carriers

the odemin pickers 

the sacred, fasting for ceremony

Native women are the beaders

the teachers

the singers

the leaders

showing our communities how to

walk through life purposefully.

With heartbeat drums

handmade earrings

and braided hair

Anishinaabe kwe carry life generationally;

led by grandmother moon

and mother earth

to their children they pass down the teachings.

In tea time

and smudge breaks,

my aunties’ stories bring healing;

their laughter, a force to be reckoned with

proof that we’re still here, enduring.

I come from

a long line of strong women

who survived, against all odds

nookoomis, nimomma, me;

to mother earth

and to Native women

It is you to whom I owe everything.

                             Upholding my responsibilities means

being my mother’s keeper

as she is the keeper of me

but I cannot uphold my duties to her

If I am denied my becoming.

It is a cruel reality

that too often, we become

sisters in spirit

another red dress

a body murdered or missing;

women who never grow old

targeted for our existence.

Every Native woman 

should have the chance to become

a beader, a singer, a healer, a leader

a daughter, a mother, an elder, an auntie;

but each kwe that is taken early 

is a sacred gift denied her sanctity.

I have the privilege

Of not being murdered 

Of not yet having gone missing

so until every kwe is brought home

and returned to loving arms

I will not stop speaking.

Search the landfill

and do not let their names

pass in vain:

Morgan Harris

Marcedes Myran

Rebecca Contois

Mashkode Bizhiki'ikwe.