The Fighting....

WANDA!!!!! Is all I heard. I sat waiting for the hub bub to settle to see where the voice had come from. I see a head peek from around the corner. "Did you see that? They're discriminating against Chippewas, they missed two fouls!", my brother-in-law points out to me, "doesn't that make you mad?" I sit for a moment wondering what the heck he is referring to, then realize the football game on t.v., I take a deep breath as I am not in the mood for a discussion, which is only his ploy to try and get someone to argue with him. "Yes, Steve, I am deeply infuriated by this," I answer in my most monotone voice, "I have a low self-esteem because of it, the more and more I think of it, I hate myself more..."I actually said it with a straight face, I am in shock. My father-in-law, Bill, sits across from me in pure disbelief. "Really, Wanda?" he asks. I crack a grin, because I cannot believe that they believed me, I am a good actress. I just don't want to have this pointless discussion, but Bill will not let it rest. "I don't understand, how can you be offended 150 years later, the circumstances are different.

My point is that 150 years ago things were different then it may have meant that you were a strong and powerful fighter, but now 150 years later we as a people are not longer the savages you were refering to, it keeps prolonging the stereotype.


I have been procrastinating the days and weeks away trying to get something written for this event, brilliant ideas and thought and words are popping through my head. Colorful prose, flowery words try to work there way into my head and my writing. Recently I have been working for 10 weeks to write my epic tale that I have been wanting to write for 4 years, which, much to my chagrin is a search for me, how hokey and self-indulgent is that. Who cares about me and my pathetic life? Frustration has now set in. My phone rings and distracts me from my current plight. A friendly voice encourages me to write about my frustration and hopefully the culmination of my agony. Firstly, my phone was stolen. A 750 Palm Treo, my link to the world when not logged into my computer. Some piece of shit walked into the locker room while we were on the ice during our hockey game, and stole several PDA phones. This is all they stole, as there were purses hanging on hooks, as well as a regular flip phone just sitting in the open and there they stayed in the locker room. I was frantic when I discovered it missing when I got home. I prayed that someone had picked it up and everything would be ok. I cringed when I discovered that others were burglarized as well. All my phone numbers, all my contacts were gone, how would I find anyone when I needed to? That information was some connection I had to these people. My fear is that people would not remember me. I am never remembered, I am the shadow in the room, the wall flower at the party, sure my contacts still have my number, but now how will they know I exist without me having there’s.

My latest frustration is that an email has just been sent from my account, moments before I returned home. The only way I found out was that I received 3 emails clearly from me. I looked at the email and opened the headers to see the names and where it went. From the email, I deduced that it went to my entire address book, but could not be sure until I opened my sent mail to see 4 emails there clearly FROM me. Then, I rushed to get an apology out to the first 1/4 of the emails, only to discover that some people didn't receive it, luckily they have good spam protection. My guilt set in to think that my email address which is 10 years old, has a decade worth of contacts, some recent some not and now they have ALL received an email from me telling them about this wonderful electronics store that I found and you must absolutely visit it. I feel guilt because I am a pack rat and never delete anything, so some people are wondering who the Fuck is this? and why are they telling me about this? So I've ruined my reputation in cyber world to people I knew long ago. I already know I'm a spammer because years ago an online group denied me as a member as my email address was on some "most wanted" list as a big spammer, and once you're on that list it's over for you (so they tell you in an attempt to scare you, but really it does nothing but scare the victim, because I highly doubt that someone already doing something illegal will be bothered by that idle threat. In between writing, I am answering email from friends who are wondering what the heck I am sending out. There are understanding and kind. So I tried to apologize to everyone because I feel like a douche bag, but I've realized people are not nice and it is reaffirming my dislike of people. I would say hatred, but that's such a strong word and I don't want to put that energy out there. I wonder why this is happening to me? I don't talk to a lot of people, and when I do, I try and be helpful, so now thousands, ok, I didn't have that many contacts, a few dozen people that I've contacted for some reason or another are getting an email that says buy this wonderful junk, and then an email apologizing for it. So what do you do? Should you do? Some of these hundreds of people may remember you. My first thought was to send an email explaining the situation and hoping they understand. So I do this, but then think of it. Some of these people are wondering who the freak is and have no patience or understanding. I know this would be my first thought, but I would reconsider the wording so I would seem like a selfish ass and attempt to understand the plight of this person. As much as I love technology, I truly do hate it right now, as well as the people who selfishly exploit it. I wonder how people can be that self-serving and have total disregard for their fellow human. I'm not saying that it has to be all rainbows and gumdrops, but what the fuck, since when have you and your life become more important than me and any one else’s.

I never thought my world would be so tied up with technology, but it is. For the longest time I avoided to be dependant on an electronic organizer, but I eventually relented and came into the twenty first century and now four years later I am regretting that decision. I am saddened by this dependency. My life revolves around my "friends" on myspace and facebook, anonymous arenas where you reconnect with old acquaintances and attempt to fall into your old life. With networking sites and virtual avatars you can become whatever you've always wanted to be. But at some point when reality bursts your bubble it throws your world into a whirlwind. It's one thing when the mean girls target you in high school, it's another when this cyber bully, who are cloaked in the anonymity of the world wide web, reached into your address book and sends a personal email out to all your online friends. In my case, 10 years worth of collected emails. Which is really sad and pathetic because my memory is long and I remember most of those email addresses, I just got lazy and haven't cleaned out my address book.

Which brings up another question, how do you do that? Because at the time you're emailing back and forth with, so you save the address, but at what point do you deleted it? Because as life goes, things just fade and you stop connecting to people.

Ok, it's now 4pm, 3 hours 15 minutes after my world again was intruded. I have calmed down some, eaten some cheese, had some wine. There is nothing I can do. My feelings vacillate between despair and anger. It's such an awkward place to be. My husband is home and I can finally vocalize the anger I have been feeling since 12:45 this afternoon when my privacy was invaded. Every racial slur, every swear screams out of me. Things that were only in my head early now shake the walls. At some point I have decided to visit the website that I have been pimped out for. They have a contact us button, I can't resist, really what do I have to lose now, they've already used me as their cyber whore, I have nothing to lose, they've poked themselves into my life, I don't care whose life I threaten.

I started this class in search of a story, in search the tiny Indian girl inside me. I use this latter term because when I was in college my cousin was in love with rap music and that could not be farther from her reality, so she always joked that she had a little black woman inside of her wanted to break out. My search for identity has now extended to the reality I thought my online life was. Online I am the person I truly want to be. I am slick, I am cool, when I hit the jukebox with my fist music spews. I am still a nice person, and my philosophy of do onto others still exists, but the impersonalness of it makes life easy. I talk a big game, but still hide when someone "important" (whatever that means) emails me; I avoid it and don't open it, in fear that they can see me thru the computer. So I am still in search of my buckskin and feathers and will hopefully be able to understand who I am at the end of this endless feeling journey.

Wanda sits at the edge of the world, her legs dangeling off the edge. She is dressed plainly, long grey shorts hang below her knees, black shoes with red socks, an oversized grey top hangs from her tiny shoulders. The world is a huge flat polygon, looking down at it, you can make out the continents and latitude and longitude line, like you're looking at a map. She stares off into the white, blank that is the sky. Tiny braids hold her long dark hair back, not a strand out of place. She hums a little. Why is she here?

The Epic

I have wanted to write this epic tale for years now. Taken this class and that, in search of the quick fix that will pull a show out of me. My first attempt, although it was an interesting story, I did not love it and I cringed everytime I sat down to write on it. My next class was filled with writing, and I enjoyed it, but I found myself not writing stories as much as diary entries that centered around ME. And as theraputic as that was, that's not what I wanted. I wanted to write a one-person show, and as self-centered as my class writings were, they did not seem appropriate material for a show, they felt like the laments of a self-indulgent narcissist. So what to write? I sat with this thought in the back of my mind, in the hopes that brilliance would strike.

conversation with mom

you can't fix everybody, do what you can in general, it's not your fault.
Daddy grew up in poverty and felt bad when he was poor and didn't want his family to grow up like.

he drank b/c he felt bad, he tried to fix everybody and he couldn't

what did i miss out on by not living on the rez? is living on the reservation make you more indian?

my reservation didn't have much culture while I was growing up, there was nothing to show me, except the bad things that I did see

they have to want it, to be better for themselves

feel bad for what i have, education, money, not living on the reservation, why do I feel bad if I have all this, I should be going back to the reservation and try to help just one kid

they had structure at one time, and the arrival of the white man was their

why do i want to be indian, b/c i want to show them that you can better yourself and


The year is ending and I wonder where the time has gone. It is already December, I have now been on my own since October of last year, July if I was truly honest with myself. I had tons of hopes and dreams, and a lot of big talk of the things I would do, but here I sit, on my couch eating bonbons (figuratively of course). I have been wanting to write the extravaganza for years now. My first thoughts were so I could stick it to them, you know to show those wannabees what a real indian is. There in was my dilemma, how could I chastise these people who knew more than I did and so wanted to be a part of a group that I was already a member of. I didn't want these white people reducing what I am. It's bad enough whenever you turn on the television, or a new movie comes out about us, we're still wearing buckskin and roaming the open plains, or the movie is set in modern times, yet unrelatable to the rest of the world and it gets limited play. As a child I wanted to show where indians are form and what their world is like. As a child, there was nothing really indian about my life. It was pretty regular. Sure I was the brown little smiling face in all of the school photos. What do you expect, not a lot of my people speak french. Here I was surrounded by these white little faces. The innocence of childhood, no one cares what colour you are a kid.

When I walk into an "indian" event I see a rainbow of people who call themselves indian, from the whitest white to the darkest brown. We're not like other cultures or ethnic groups, we come from a variety of backgrounds, different tribes, heck my people's land is North America. To me indians are brown, I mean it's only fair right? Why should these snowflakes be allowed to call themselves indian? They can walk through the world un-noticed, un-bothered, people may wonder what their background is, but never have the nerve to vocalize it. I am darker, even though a friend told me I wasn't "that dark", I'd like to think I'm a nice latte colour, and because of the region I live in when there are other brown people around and they need help, they look to me and say something. I wish I could help them, really I do, but why do they assume I am like them? I'm not, just because you're brown, I'm brown doesn't mean we share anything