Heart Berries

My words lay still like shadows on the page, but they are better than nothing

I remember that motherhood is mostly bearing shame to dress my children, to feed them, and to spare them the things I wasn’t spared.

My mother’s looming spirit guides me some days, telling me that nothing is too ugly for this world. I am not too ugly for this world.

I don’t think I can forgive myself for my compassion.

It was then I realized I was partly my father. I hurt you because I felt justified. You deserve a body without violation.

I can hear my aunt’s voice, telling me that if my security depends on a man’s words or action, I’ve lost sight of my power.

She taught me that I didn’t own things. I really liked the idea of possession. We don’t own our mothers. We don’t own our bodies or our land—maybe I’m unsure. We become the land when we are buried in it. Our grandmothers have been uprooted and shelved in boxes, placed on slabs of plastic, or packed neatly in rooms, or turned into artifact—all after proper burials. Indians aren’t always allowed to rest in peace. I want to be buried in a bone garden with my ancestors someday. I’d like to belong to that.

me. I think self-esteem is a white invention to further separate one person from another. It asks people to assess their values and implies people have worth. It seems like identity capitalism.

I think self-esteem is a white invention to

In white culture, forgiveness is synonymous with letting go. In my culture, I believe we carry pain until we can reconcile with it through ceremony. Pain is not framed like a problem with a solution.