This piece contains graphic language. Please know, spirits of my sisters who have lived or live this life that I mean this only as a form of respect and that I burn tobacco to pray that you will be free one day. Spirits of my indigenous sisters, who have been taken by predators in this country and other countries, blessed be you and rest.
Rita Joe
(In honour of George Ryga’s character from the play The Ecstasy of Rita Joe)
Never shoulda told ‘em I heard voices – they said it was my head but – I know it is the spirit of my ancestors and they are angry with my –
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKIN’ AT?
I AIN’T NO WHORE !
YOU COULDN’T FUCKING AFORD ME, BITCH!
-angry with my habits…I tried, you know, to quit the booze and the dope but it helps out here –
KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS
OFF MY SHIT!
-at night when I am trying to stay awake cuz if you sleep here, you’re fucked!
We are being hunted out here, I’m telling you, I had lots of friends go missing or die cuz no one gives a fuck about drunk Indians anymore cuz they got our land all ready.
FUCKING COPS
DON’T CARE IF WE
O.D.!
But, you know, I never wanted to be here – I wasn’t born to snort pills and suck cock –
I had dreams once, too. No one says they wanna be a crank head when they grow up or take punches from rich men –
PICK A FUCKING COLOUR,
ANY FUCKING COLOUR.
They all want to take from me what they get at home for free – with a side of …
Tried to tell the cops about my dad
my uncle
my pimp
but we don’t count out here – our cunts don’t count cuz we get high and we drink and we fuck for money.
I STILL FUCKING MATTER!
WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN’ AT?!
Best friend went to the pig farm, eh? – that Picton farm – I know it. Someone said they found her DNA. That’s how you know they got you – the DNA.
Coulda been me, eh? Coulda been any of us here cuz the fucking cops don’t care that the voices in my head is my great-grandmother telling me to watch out for uniforms –
cops
and
clerks
and
priests.
So, anyways, thanks for the money, and not tellin’ me how to spend it cuz the nights are long here and life is short here for us Indian bitches on the Downtown East Side.
KEEP WALKIN’, BITCH!
THIS AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ CIRCUS!
One day, I fucking tell you, one day I’ll get outta here and go home – to the prairies and look to the big skies again – get away from these fucking mountains that hold me in…like jail…I fuckin’ hate jail…
I’m goin’ home one day cuz that’s what I dream about when I hear great-grandma’s voice.
(c) R. L. Elke 2016
Statistics. How do we stop people from being statistics. Numbers don’t mean anything to anyone. They’re just numbers. Got to make people feel. They don’t want to, unless it’s a pretty love story with angels and forever nonsense. Unapproved feeling is run from. Who cares? The Rez needs to care that most girls are running AWAY from something not to something. The “world” needs to realize they are people and not nameless, faceless pieces of meat to fuck, in so many ways, it boggles the imagination unless you look at it, see it, feel it.
I like the dual threads and the harsh difference between their messages and their language. The entire piece has heart.
Perhaps we need to show more of the heart instead of the anger and pain. Perhaps.
Thank you for sharing.
I thought a long time about the anger piece. I also thought about the constant reporting/commenting on our people like there is nothing beyond the “disease” of alcohol or drugs or poverty or…..
I fight, constantly, between the drive to talk about our resilience and deep, powerful history and the frustration with the ever pervasive, never-ending impact of colonialism and the attempt to beat the spirit out of us with bibles and bottles.
I remember the first time I read The Ecstasy of Rita Joe. I wanted to see it. When the investigation into the missing and murdered indigenous women started, I wanted to direct it. When the prompt came up, I immediately thought of a combination of the play and a woman I made eye contact with on a corner on East Hastings, one night on the way home from a concert. I meant no disrespect to her and she thought I did. She screamed a lot during that short light. It stuck with me. I hope, on some level, somewhere, she receives my words and honour.
I am going to free my anger eventually and write from my peace, my pride. I will. I need to.
This is really great. No romanticizing natives here, which is fantastic. Not only was this a great idea, but you were able to write it in a way that is heart wrenching. Well done.
Thank you. I wasn’t sure how the language was going to go over but in the end I just had to go with what the story was “telling” me.