Rebuilding memories.
Rebuilding the ladder that once made our childhood.
The goal was to climb the ladder and reminisce on the times we had as children.
My friend and I reminisced in the past as soon as we climbed to the top,
sitting in the trees while beams of sunlight burned through the branches of other trees, hitting our faces with glowing rays that reflected off our skin.
We had only sat for an hour or so until we climbed back down, meeting my father at the bottom of the ladder. 
Three of us stood and looked at one another, my friend and I began to walk home, that's when I realized my father began to climb up the ladder.

We returned home, happy we were able to rethink our past and the pleasant memories we once had as kids.
Grateful for our childhood.
My father had spent four hours in the trees, the ladder was originally his. 
When he entered the house he had tears in his eyes. 

There is a girl who sits at the edge of the classroom. Her long brown hair is in a braid down her back and she pushes her glasses further up along the bridge of her nose. She is called smart, intelligent, and even perfect. Numbers come easily to her, as do books, and she can do her work well. Her math tests are all 100%, she turns in her science readings on time, she writes three-page literature responses. And so, those who do not understand, think that she is perfect, that she doesn't make any mistakes. That life itself comes easily to her, that she is always in control. And yet here she sits in the back of the room. She has pulled her knees up to her chest as far as they can go. Her right leg, which is wedged between the desk and her body is starting to lose feeling, but she doesn't care. She needs to make herself as small as she possibly can.

The beach has long closed
nothing but the stars
and the waves
for company.
I sit up high
in the lifeguard's empty chair.
Buried in the sand
are the remnants
of my friendship.

you found the edge of the tape 
as I sat on the floor 
surrounded by cardboard boxes 

labeled 
"kitchen" and 
"dining room" and 
"peanut butter" for some reason 

we made piles 
on our cracked linoleum floor 
stained from years of coffee 

and the mud you dragged in on your boots 
you refused to take off 

"take" and "leave"

the take pile still far too big 

full of sweaters you insisted you still wore 
and my rain boots from the year 
I fell in love with the color orange 

that was the year I ate 
over 400 clementines 
you kept track 

and you switched from cigarettes 
to cigars 
for the "aesthetic" 

in the leave pile
there were mainly socks 

we had a lot of socks 

all filled with holes 
from that one time we moved our dresser 
up to the attic 

I remember it perfectly, I was sitting on the bench playing with the loose ends of my scarf when a little boy in a snowsuit walked up to me.

    “Can I sit?” he asked. 

    “Oh, sure,” I said and moved to my left.

    “Thanks a ton, my legs are tired.”

    He spoke softly but with intent like he thought out all his conversations before he had them. His voice was high and he was short. His boots dangled a foot from the ground, not even close to touching it. 

    “I’m James,” he said, looking forward at the kids on the playground.

    “Hi, I’m Kathy.” 

    “Cool. How come you’re not playing with them?” he asked and pointed toward some teeter-totter kids.

    “I don’t know them. I don’t know anyone.” I answered, “What about you? How come you’re not playing?” 

(I wrote this piece under the mentorship of Rajnii Eddins, thank you)

One day bullets will resign from guns,
rise up and say no to being spit out and
breaking and entering a body,
we're done with being used.

One day bombs will cut their lines
and blow out their fires, saying
we will not sacrifice ourselves to murder.
We will no longer slave against our own chains.

There will be a day when guns are brought to jail
and bullets to therapy, than sent home again
with a newfound knowledge of love.
When bombs decide they'd rather be
lawn decoration than artillery.
When spears accept their identity crisis
and pursue being arches married couples walk under.
When arrows are broken and made into a fire
where everyone is welcome to toast their cold toes
and cook their shared dinner.

There will be a day when soldiers lay down

Edleburg was a happy town. It rested on cliffs at the foothills of the great mountains to the north. The looming shadows cast by the mountains were woven into daily life, as common as the grass and the sky. Throwing a dark veil over Edleburg until noon when the sun escaped the jagged peaks. Some would say that the mountains were slowly pushing Edleburg over the cliffs to the sea below. If one were able to climb the lonely trail to the high peaks of the mountains, they would see that the town itself was trapped. Completely surrounded by jutting rock on three sides and the ocean below. The mountains, though there were many, had but one name. The people of Edleburg called them the Snake Mountains. Coiling around the town and stretching much farther in the East and West. A chain of mountains resembling the body of a serpent, slithering up the coastline. I for one believe that the mountains were called the Snake Mountains for a different reason.

Indigenous languages have been on the verge of extinction for decades. Through efforts from the government, they have become almost obsolete in modern society. But thanks to resistance and the will to continue tradition, Native people have kept their languages alive against all odds.

Though the percentages of fluent speakers are low in many cases, the number of immersion schools, like Waadookodaading immersion school in Wisconsin, for instance, and also classes being taught to young people around the country, seem to be bringing about a new generation of speakers.

So to any Native person reading this, try and be part of the new wave of speakers. Don’t take the easy route and give up on your language. If you have the means, go out and learn. I can’t say it will be easy, but it will be worth it. The ability to speak your Native language is the ability to see the world as your ancestors did.

If only I could reach a little farther
And work a little harder

 If I could find bravery
They wouldn’t worry about me

If I could be wise
I wouldn’t cry at all the goodbyes

If I could trust
My heart would burst into fairy dust

If I could get hurt and get back up
I would be as bright as a buttercup