The cry of my ancestors wake me at night. I’m not of one kind but of many. My make comes from years of tears, joy, loss and growth. We began on the land decades ago. We where free to fish, gather, grow and birth. We respected where we walked and cared for the hurt living. We know that there is life in everything that breathes. People, plants and animals working together. I’m made of a mix and not one hundred percent but I’m still part of it. My grandmother raised me like her flowers. We spent hours in the park, garden or forest. Picking through flowers, plants, insects, reptiles and fruits. We would take a cloth bag and a plastic bowl. We where often ready to bring a hurt animal home to help them get better. If a baby bird fell from its nest we would carefully put it back. If a pigeons wings where hurt we would help it heal and put it near where we first found it. All this the remnants of what was and what my grandmother was taught as a little girl. I was never told by my parents why my grandmother slathered my hair with natural oils and put into braids. I was never told why I wasn’t allowed to cut my hair short. All I knew was that it was something my grandmother did.
Now as an adult I know. I know why. My parents feared the hurt I would experience so they began changing how I dressed. They cut my hair and kept me away from nature. I embarrassed them and apparently myself by being too distracted with helping bugs, animals and plants during recess at school.
Today although it hurts to hear my ancestors. To remember the stories, to dream and to heal. I’d rather remember.. because everyone else forgot. I want to recall with out the hurt. I hope from now on we can all just be kind.
Dedicated to orange day. Please remember.
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Untapped Writer 