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I remember the days of innocence, living on nothing but the thought of having fun.  When getting hurt was only a part of the game I was playing and tears were only used to get something I wanted.  When all that was good for me tasted so bad, and Superman was my career pathway.  When the thought of a spanking was worse than any bogeyman, when my mom could heal any wound and fix any problem with a kiss.

I remember being too young for this and too small to do that, but trying anyway.  When doing nothing was my job and getting dirty was a hobby.  When girls were dirty and a dog's lick was a sign of friendship.  When my duty was to question everything and raising Cain was a must.  When candy was a food group and cartoons were an education source.  When toys hurt more to break than bones and youth was my alibi.

I remember the years I've spent alone and the way I grew up.  When my mother's job was to drink and my father's job was not being a father.   When a beating from an adult figure close to me was unavoidable and hiding the hurt was the hardest thing to do.  When alone was a natural feeling and having nothing was all I had.  When having someone to watch my home games was a wish and waking up every morning was a goal.

I remember watching my mother waste away and getting pictures of my father in the mail.  When love was rarely seen and alcohol was a relative.  When Christmas was a day to see Santa, but I couldn't, and my birthday was just the day I was born, that's it.  When a mother's touch left bruises and being ashamed was a part of my everyday life.  When filling with rage was normal and crying was a pastime.

I remember when I said I'd never turn out that way and slowly realizing my choices.  When living that way scared me to death and facing the truth was inevitable.  When going to school was eight hours of freedom and spending time with my family involved alcohol.  When achieving was never done and fending for myself was the only way to survive.  When abuse came to be in all forms and time alone was a healing process.

I remember when emptiness was always there and a reliable parent was not.  When growing up without a father made me a man and growing up hating my mother made me want to love her more.  When running away sounded simple and being happy was a dream.

This is all that I remember, of course.  How could I forget.

Does God Love Me.

By Ronald Torpey

"Does God Love Me?". When I Laid there on that cold floor with blood running from my face, did he

even care. Was he with me and my brother whenever we were beaten. Did he see what I saw when

my own mother rose her hands in anger towards me. Did God hear me when I asked him "Why, why

does God let this happen to us?". Did he try to make others understand why I am who I am, that I

can't help being me or did he just stand back and watch anger break my spirit. Where was he

when alcohol killed my pride and took away my love of mother and life. Where was the mercy when

I was beaten for protecting my brother and where was that light of security when alcoholism crashed

through my life and punished my youth. Was God there when I had no one to hold me, when I

cried for food, for a hug, for someone to come and make it all better. Why wasn't God there when

my brother had to defend himself from angered alcoholism, why couldn't he have at least sent me

there to help my brother. Did God care when the county threatened to separate me and my brother.

Or when strangers would hang out at our house and take out their own drunkenness on us, was God

around when we were hurt by people we didn't even know. I always ask myself "Does God Love Me?".

Truth of the matter is, yes he does. How else can I explain why me and my brother are so close,

and why we both live with love and respect for our mother. Thanks to the Creator, our God, my love

for my brother is strong, my spirit is strong, and my mother is sober and there when I need her.

Lem-Lemsh toopya, I am thankful.

The Creator is always there and he loves all of us, no matter what.

ABORIGINAL SIN
by Leonard Peltier

We each begin in innocence.
We all become guilty.
In this life you find yourself guilty of being who you are.
Being yourself, that's Aboriginal Sin,
the worst sin of all.
That's a sin you'll never be forgiven for.

We Indians are all guilty,
guilty of being ourselves.
We're taught that guilt from the day we're born.
We learn it well.

To each of my brothers and each of my sisters, I say,
be proud of that guilt.
You are guilty only of being innocent,
of being yourselves,
of being Indian,
of being human.

Your guilt makes you holy.

Let's talk taxes, NOT!

Post Compact Blues

This could happen to you.  Don't hold your brain cells hostage!

Po Folks Be Us

It's what's for dinner

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