I arose from the earth that split through the concrete
The bastard child of two worlds
I played war as a girl with the pieces given to me
My fragmented identity
did not match the Eurocentric definitions of rights to privilege.
Nor could I shapeshift
to fit into the popular portrayal of the noble savage.
My desirable image,
relegated to a dusty history book and staged photographs.
This is what real Indians must look like
So what am I? I asked
My father told me of his youths aspiration
To collect his first welfare cheque
Breeded and bound to poverty
He broke that first link that held us back
Shovelling pig shit and breaking sweat to dig us out
So that we, as children could be replanted, in fertile ground
He sat my brothers and I in a row
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