cherokee

My arms are so red skinned that they look like they've been dunked in kerosene, and left with swirling, spinning burns, brown and vermillion. Heritage is a word I've never felt comfortable with, until the sun comes out and my Cherokee skin glistens in sweat and pride, showing the world that I'm not just an awkward white girl, but someone who is native to this mass of land. Who's family was tortured, and forced to move from their home by men in blue coats. A peaceful being who is connected to nature more than most. I show them that I am beautiful, with warm, weathered skin like my father's, and a womanly voice like my great-great-grandmothers. I have lines on my face that show pain and survival, and rough, gnarled hands that show that I am a hard worker. I have loving, brown eyes that can give looks of welcoming and looks of defiance, like many of my ancestors before me. I have an extraordinary connection to the earth, as the rest of my family has, for generations, since the beginning of time.

I have spent my life in the sun, shade, and the waters of Vermont, soaking up the nature around me, letting it nourish my heart, and give me what I need to love.

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