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Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the beginning of the Trail of Death, the forced removal of 859 Potawatomi people in 1838 from Indiana on a two-month trek to Kansas, a completely different landscape. They were promised homes, and there were none.
41 died along the way.
41 died along the way.
I didn't learn about the Trail of Death growing up. I didn't know that the trauma of forced removal sits in my body and reminds me every year that things are not as they should be.
They are resilient, but they suffered, forced onto land they knew nothing about, where more died.
They are resilient, but they suffered, forced onto land they knew nothing about, where more died.
Tomorrow, if you have the time/energy/space, please remember with me, grieve with me, pray if you want.
Light a candle.
Whisper out loud that things aren't as they should be, and promise that you'll work to repair brokenness and decolonize where you can.
Light a candle.
Whisper out loud that things aren't as they should be, and promise that you'll work to repair brokenness and decolonize where you can.
And to take it further, find out who inhabited/inhabits the land you live on. Honor them. Learn their stories. If they are stories of removal and genocide, lean in and make room for grief.
We heal when we grieve.
We move forward when we name & acknowledge.
Together.
We heal when we grieve.
We move forward when we name & acknowledge.
Together.
I don't want to be alone in this.
And I don't want others to be alone in their grief associated w/ misogyny/colonization/white supremacy.
We've got work to do, and Twitter can be a gathering and sending-out place.
Our solidarity with one another must lead us to care and to act.
And I don't want others to be alone in their grief associated w/ misogyny/colonization/white supremacy.
We've got work to do, and Twitter can be a gathering and sending-out place.
Our solidarity with one another must lead us to care and to act.
