I Remember You

Hi.

It’s been a hundred years.

And if I’m entirely honest, this isn’t even really me. I mean, it’s me- me, Kellie. But, a hundred years ago, something wonderful used to happen, once in a while, when I decided I had something worth saying. I had…

A voice. Separate and definitely not equal to my mundane daily. Something lovely and true, and honest and good. I used to be able to make people fall in love with me; I used to be able to make people understand exactly what I wanted them to understand. And I was better at it than you are.

So what if my voice might have been a bit of a cunt.

I loved that voice. I loved the timbre with its ideas and stories that represented the best of me. Somebody I wanted to be; someone I wanted to be remembered as.

I came by it honestly. My father, aniishanabe, was an honest-to-god storyteller and my mother, white, was a beautiful, hopeless romantic. And I let that define my entire youth. I believed in love and in stories. Love and stories fed me.

Could I do that..? Could I *be* that way again? I have no fucking clue. But man, the timing seems important. It’s mid-May, 2020, I’m on unemployment and can’t leave the house. I could probably convince myself I was being paid to write with little motivation.

For all my solipsistic declarations, I cannot entirely believe god has done all this just for me.

But maybe he has.

And maybe I’m running out of time.

Okay so here’s what I’m thinking:

- It’s been a long, LONG time since I’ve tried to do this. Over the course of my life, I’ve actually felt myself shedding things it didn’t find relevant anymore. For example, I got an office job and forgot how not to be lazy; for example, I started to work with a group of people who didn’t speak English and I lost my words.

No, that’s not right. (I wish you could see me, arguing, anguishing in a dark room with myself, saying- ‘no, no that’s not right.) I can see what I mean, feel what I mean- what I want to describe, in my head. Clear as day and as succinct. But the problem is- it’s been so fucking long since I’ve tried to connect to anything, I haven’t needed the means to show others those pictures in my head or the flavor of my emotions. So it’s possible, I’ve lost the means to do so or, even more upsetting, I no longer have things to connect to others with.

- I don’t feel like a part of anything. I don’t feel any sort of deep connection to the substance around me. I enjoy shallow, saccharine emotions because those are the easiest to share between strangers. I find everyone one-tracked and unfaceted. Every single opinion I come across bores me with its ignorance and hypocrisy. Conservatives infuriate me and liberals sicken me. Everyone is an expert and no one has a thought that wasn’t drummed up by someone else. We’re all looking for quick and easy (digestible) sentiments to get us instant gratification, our next like and share, and some sort of credibility in a world that tells us it’s not our fault we’re useless and at the same time, doesn’t think much of us.

I used to think- how can anyone be anything without some sort of conflict? Some adversity in their life? Where are all our foes? So I’ve had to think it’s entirely personal responsibility. The cost of admission on this ride is that I try to leave it in better condition than I found it. But it’s lonely here and I don’t know if I’ve made the correct conclusions.

- What if… what if I was never good at this; what if I could never do the things I thought I could do? A surprising amount of people know I’m no good. That I’m a garbage human- a sexual deviant with several deeds that earn me a spot in hell. Someone who walked away from what was right and good simply because she was lazy and incompetent. I’ve been baptized in the shame of things I’ve done; instead of being washed away, there they stay, flashing with every step I take forever. I have done things that utterly repulse me and I will never be able to change that. It’s very bold of me to find all of my opinions superior to people who are far better than me.

Tl;dr: It’s possible I’ve lost the ability to write, it’s possible I have nothing to say that matters to anyone, and it’s possible that I never had the ability I pretend to have.

If this is your first rodeo, you might not know I raised on an Ojibwe reservation in northern Minnesota. I danced in cemeteries on the reservation and raced with forest spirits- supped on manoomin with possibilities and adventure galore. I was constantly waiting to be inspired by all the beauty of life. And so it went for 20 years, give or take a decade.

And then one day, my mother called. The majority of the content of our conversation was irrelevant save one throwaway comment near the end. Out of nowhere, my mother reduced my father and told me his father was from northern Finland. (I shouldn’t say reduced but I haven’t dealt with this yet and I fucking feel reduced.) Suddenly, I went from the perfection of knowing exactly who I was to mucking around at an eighth blood quantum. The whole idea of my life has been a lie.

I’m not a manic pixie dream Indian at all.

I’m just regular. With no native magic to recommend me at all.

Despite this… I feel a little burning bit of pride in the back of my consciousness and can’t entirely let go of this idea of who I was always supposed to be. A little nurture over nature, maybe? And my spine stiffens. And my resolve is set. And so the only conclusion I can come to in my current predicament is this:

I might have a hard time pulling my voice back from my personal depths of obscurity and I might not have things to say that will resonate with anyone. Hell, it’s probable that I couldn’t even finish a project if I tried.

But if I don’t try- well, then I was nothing but a chamook after all.