The skin stretched across my palms is thin
Almost see-through
Everything we ever wanted never came to be
We can’t go back
Everyone I ever wanted has moved on to another place
Some – on to places that I can’t go (yet)
And some – on to places where they don’t want me to follow
Others just pretend I’m dead
And others – just a grey hound ride away,
Just aren’t there anymore.
Nobody is the way I remember
And yet everybody is the way I remember
- By Sarah Scout
I had hope before I met the Mormons.
Before I met Hazel
or Colin or Tara -
I had hope in the darkness
of Florence’s Foster Hell;
as you may know it as
Florence’s foster home.
Did the moon give me hope that night?
The Light from the moon light
reaching all across the cold, hard
frozen landscapes of the reserve.
My eyes adjusted to the night
and I smiled at the light
That night,
I smiled at the light.
-By Sarah Scout
by Sarah Scout
One day
The wind, land and sky
Will crumble and die
The sea will dry
And the birds will not fly,
The rain will not fall
The sun will not shine
“But why?” you’ll ask the Creator,
and he’ll say “because it’s all mine.”
Our existence will be gone
Just toward the end
Blind in the darkness
With nothing left to mend
Locked in without faith
Swallowed by fear
Never ever knowing
Why you were here
As the years pass by
You struggle and fight
Having everything good taken away from you
You know this can’t be right
Standing up proud
Standing up strong
Learning acceptance
You strive to live on
Come back sun
Come by sky
No more fear
Because your faith will never die.
By Sarah Scout
——–
I decolonize
I decolonize
I decolonize
because I realize
that I was given eyes
to see
ears to hear
blood to be
the human being
that I choose to be
a First Nations woman
who has the right to live in dignity
and beauty
who dares to think
to speak
to say
that the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms
can your God Forbid
apply
to even someone
like me
Don’t get mad at me for what I’ve become
For you created me
You gave birth to the darkest part of me
And that is what I am.
Arms too scaley to hold a baby.
Eyes too black to be seen.
Your baby is in the landfill.
And snow white is in the subburbs
snorting white shit up her nose.
And me?
I am in the garbage of my sister’s house
With your body’s scent still on my skin,
Down, down below.
Down down below.
The message came across the broken waters and wires
The kitchen floor opened beneath her feet,
Until she realized she had been there for hours.
She had realized she had been there before.
Below and before, she stayed there,
Till she didn’t feel anything anymore.
She stayed there,
Until she didn’t feel anything anymore.
- By: Sarah M. Scout -
some days I feel like a rez dog,
exhausted from travel and wander
appearing out of no where to rest in the shade of my sister’s SUV
looking scrappy enough to the point where she can’t even look at me
is she dead?
the indians wonder as they walk by and stare
who cares!
they rightly conclude,
For she is just a Rez dog
and we’re going back to the harbour
If I am not, what is the ‘right’ kind of Indian then?
The acceptable Indian vs. the unacceptable Indian
The Indian ghost in the assimilated shell
Haunting myself
Haunting Olympic plaza
I am still there
Floating around
Praying
Smelling the cedar that was placed there for us
For protection
By her
Who knew
Long before any of us did
What was to come
Haunting calgary
Haunting remand
Haunting Victim, Pattison, martin
Haunting Primary Investigator, adaikin
Haunting cells
Assimilated jail cells
Holding us in
Holding us under glass
Holding
Contained
Don’t let us slip out
Don’t let us be free
Don’t let them steal your joy he said
He warned me
I will pray for you
He spoke of the curse
Was assimilation my curse?
Or was it my true Indian-ness?
Not the right kind of Indian I guess.
Not the right kind of assimilated Indian I guess.
Not the right kind.
They have no ears to hear my words though I speak
They have no eyes to see my face though I am looking right at them
They have no hands to shake mine in fellowship
In warmth
In friendship
They would rather put cuffs on my hands
They burnt his.
And cut hers off completely.
They always go after the hands.
I wonder why that is?
No room.
No room for me.
No room for you Sandy.
Stanley
Lucian
Mom
Kara
No room.
No space to share
No space to speak
No space to sit
On a bench
With my feet up
Feeding a duck
Who was hungry
I am not the right kind.
I am the wrong kind.
The wrong kind of Indian.
Maybe they were too
All 50,000 of them
All 500 of them
Maybe WE were the wrong kind of Indian.
When will there be space?
When will there be room?
When??
When will there be hands to shake?
Ears that hear?
Eyes that see?
When??
Is stephen harper the right kind of Indian?
Honoured guest speaker
Or…that’s right…honored “Chief” speaker.
How come I can’t be Chief?
My name is Sarah Marie Scout.
I was born on January 14th, 1981.
If you ask my name
Are you asking to know who I am??
Who are you??
