constellations of scars
by Monique Bedard (Aura)
The dots were disconnected and they never made any sense, but the Constellations of Scars mapped all over my body tells my story
| multiple stories.
“Do your forgiveness work,” she says. Even when I am lying lifeless and limp, with too many thoughts at the top of my head. They collect along the ceiling of my mind like helium balloons with nowhere to go, waiting to burst or deflate. I unlatch the skylight to release them to Creation and let them go to rest so we may all have peace.
There is no calm before the storm as lateral love is continually torn, right from my heart that’s meant to be safe inside my chest, but they turn that love into hate that spreads viscously across their bodies and their faces. This is what holds me back from going home and connecting to what my spirit needs to know
| Longhouse.
There is so much to learn as I mourn the loss of knowledge and language and story.
It is through the pain of re | moval
dis | connection
dis | enfranchisemen
t
and de | nial
that I am diss | ed and
dis | missed again, and again.
Gravel digs into my knees as I am begging to be heard, pleading to be seen, asking to be recognized, clawing tirelessly at the multiple layers of these identities.
I turn to my past to see a little girl who is lost and knows nothing but the screams and the pain of her innocence being ripped from her spirit, knowing that her story is about to change. When she looks further down the road, she can see her grandmother lying flat amongst the grass
| alone.
It was not her fault that her children were ripped straight from her arms as they disappeared into the dusty gray cloud of the unknown. She reflects on being a lost little girl as her parents were forced to sign those papers that robbed the family of all that they knew. They were no longer allowed to be Indigenous to this land. Who they are was erased from their story and replaced with a dollar sign and a single piece of land cut straight from the earth and placed within her hands. As dirt falls between the cracks of her fingers, she can feel the pain of being severed from her own identity. They are the only ones who know the land just like the back of their hands because they are
| one, two, three.
The lines are no longer there. The lines that tell their stories are replaced with smokestacks and pipelines that poison our bodies and the land.
She remembers the same form of violence inflicted on her body as the memory flickers through her eyes and is projected onto the back of her brain like the scene of a grainy old film where she was forced to buy a ticket. It is the memory of that not-so-innocent death that she was not supposed to witnes
s
| witness this.
“It was an accident,” they say.
She was just a “stupid fucking ‘Indian’ that had one too many drinks,” they say.
“She tumbled down the stairs, step after step after step,” they say.
| brain dead.
A single cord keeping her alive and her daughter is forced to decide. The memories she had are no longer alive and playing in her head, and her own personal truth is no longer able to survive.
But we know
| we know.
The truth outshines a lie but the liars refuse to figure out why. We are left without the answers to our questions and now no one talks. The silence is slowly killing us as we try to speak out loud, no words escape our mouths just big gasps for air as we try to remember her. She is the strong woman who lives on through her children and her grandchildren that she would never get to know.
She is there, within that little girl as she looks around and sees Creation gently scoop up her heart and tuck the tenderness safely within her chest, giving her a little nudge to go on. Her journey is not easy as she trudges through the heaviest mud on Earth that collects on the soles of her rough feet.
The veins of the earth below grab her tired worn-out body and try to pull her back in. She attempts to forget the ugliness she felt and for a moment thinks about sinking her body back into the earth. The memories are pulsing through her blood, making them more ingrained in her body with each breath she takes like the handprints she once left in the cement
.
It is cold down below, but she feels the warmth of the sun spread across her face and she carries on. She can feel the strength of her ancestors rushing through her blood, reminding her that she is a survivor of all that has been done. She is here because they survived it all, and her heart screams as it is feeding from the strength above and below.
She now understands what needs to be done.
She grabs her heart with her tiny soft hands and squeezes too tight. She cannot bear the pain, but she knows she is alive because she can feel. The warmth of her hands spreads through her fingertips and she begins to create. She is unsure of what it is, but she puts trust in her bundle to be safe
| ready to let go.
She looks back, and the constellations of stars fill up the Longhouse behind her with her bundle safe in the middle. Her ancestors are there to remind her that they know exactly who she is
| they see her.
Creation is unearthed from the center of her heart as blood drips from her hands she begins to understand. She can feel the Constellations of Scars slowly turn into each and every single star, helping her body make its way back to her heart and her mind. She is no longer numb and starts to feel a pulse
| heartbeat.
It is the sound of all the women who give life to this earth. We must protect one another and push love through our hearts and scream
| “NO MORE!
”
No more stolen sisters, no more stolen land, no more hate. We hold each other’s hands as we rise. Rise for our children so they know their own strength as we breathe in and out like the tides of the waters, connecting to our grandmother. Exhale as this medicine washes away all the pain so all that remains is the resistance in our veins that screams out to those who will listen.
