Another entry in how Canada’s colonization of indigenous land and lives continues on today.
I will not be linking to any media articles for this post. There is enough out there for my readers to find the articles on their own. Be forewarned that what you will read may shock you with how the media is treating this violent death. If it doesn’t shock you, you will understand when an Indigenous woman who dies a violent death, it is “just business as usual.”
People are asking who else wrote about this, who else is talking about this besides the media. Basically, nobody. Typical. In that same breadth, pay attention who stays silent. It scares me.
I am scared. I am angry. I am sad.
Yesterday I received the news of the verdict. “You must have heard by now,” my friend sent me. I didn’t. I just got off the plane. I was on my way to an interview. I checked twitter. Practically silent. I…
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A curious thing happened at an event this past Saturday.
I was at the Latin American Education Network’s—LAEN Toronto’s—annual education conference; the topic this year was “From Dialogue to Action.” I was there to promote Homework Help. Midway through the opening remarks, after setting the table and preparing myself for what I thought would be a routine day of outreach, I was jolted from my reverie by an impassioned speech from the stage. The speaker, Dr. Cristina Guerrero, an Instructional Leader for TDSB, was presenting slides on Proyecto Latin@, a University of Toronto project that analyzed the state of Latin youth education in Toronto. The numbers weren’t pretty and Guerrero made sure all of us in attendance knew.
No trees and birds; no song for the heavens.
Stubborn lines of lungta stretched by stray squalls—
Wishful prologues; polyester in abeyance.
Folds of red gather around the pyre;
Their intoning chants quite mellifluous.
Burning juniper and black flesh recall
Crushed barley that is spread lightly, superfluous.
Ashen fingers light a hundred eight lamps,
As the tips of hair recoil at heat this close.
Saffron shadows sauntering in the hall
Attempt to console the hums of past, future ghosts.
My head was clear though my heart beat in protest.
Amidst the frenzied screams I was at peace.
Petroleum skin flinched in withdrawal;
Vows in situ, I hope to go back to the trees.
The coldest of winter beset by flames
That melts the edges of uncertainty.
Do you hear these shouts that disturb the Wall?
Don’t make scrolls of martyrs yet; please first hear my plea.
A little ditty I recorded, inspired and based off of Dead Prez’s “Hip Hop”.