Carving Space

You don’t know me.

But I’ve always admired your work. You share your culture with grace and passion. You post on social media to empower and educate.

Growing up as a brown person in North America, I’ve received the best and the worst of words. I’ve learned silence. I’ve learned shame.

But when I finally began to hear about the hidden history of colonization, I learned sorrow. I am not indigenous, but I listened to many gracious elders who taught anyone who was willing to learn. Blanket exercises. Smudging. Stories.

I am horrified by the attempt at cultural genocide through residential schools, shamed by the casual racism in ugly jokes, saddened by the unjust appropriation of land, and enraged by the systemic racism in our healthcare and education system.

So when I discovered your social media platform, I couldn’t understand your grace. Indigenous people across our nation have been oppressed, reviled, and pushed down - and yet you are still willing to share your wisdom with us who are complicit in ignorance. Who knew that a series of one-minute videos chronicling your craftsmanship could evoke such a desire for deeper understanding?

I am humbled.

You don’t know me, and I haven’t shared your struggles.

But I see your triumphs. When you posted about getting accepted into an education program, I whooped for joy. I’m not indigenous, but I am desperate to hear more indigenous voices in policy and education. I want to see indigenous perspectives represented in every curriculum document, textbook, and lesson plan. I don’t know your struggles, but I know you struggle to be heard for who you are, and not what people say about you. I don’t want to understand your history through the lens of the colonizer but through your eyes.

When you speak, you lift us all up. You speak generational wisdom. You celebrate indigenous traditions and regalia. And you help others understand what is and isn’t appropriation with grace and kindness.

Because of you, I’ve learned about jingle dresses, ribbon skirts, and beadwork. I’ve learned about dances and community. I’ve learned about being unapologetically proud.

Why is this so important to me? Why do I feel the need to pen this open letter?

Because your voice is a healing balm, and your public persona is a call to action. I watched the oka crisis in Ganaoque, the lobster dispute in Atlantic Canada, and the Wet'suwet'en rail blockade through the window of national news. But where was the voice of the oppressed?

When one voice is heard, it is seen as a complaint. When there are a hundred voices, it is a protest. When will we hear the ocean of indigenous voices and commit collectively to truth and reconciliation? So, when you proudly display your creativity and success as an indigenous woman, I see you take centerstage. You may be one voice, but your success lends others strength.

You don’t know me, and I don’t really know you.

But I want to. From your public posts, I have gathered bits and pieces of your identity. You are a mother. You are a student. You are an entrepreneur. You are an artist and a storyteller. You are carving out a space for the lost ones, for those who have been crushed by cultural genocide, for those who need a vehicle with which to express their identity, and for those who don’t know enough but who are eager to learn (like me). You are a warrior.

I want everyone to know your name. To hear your voice. To appreciate your art.

You walk between two worlds. And you change them both.

You don’t know me, but you inspire me.

Please support local, indigenous artists, entrepreneurs, and businesses, such as 4 Generations Creations at https://4generationscreations.ca.