This is me at 19 with my brand new baby girl. I knew nothing really.. and still don’t. This photo reminds me of all the learning that came and never ended, I’ve been unlearning and relearning and untangling myself for 15 years and there is no end in sight. Painful, challenging and worth every courageous moment. Much like decolonising, my motherhood journey started long before me and will continue for generations to come. I stand on the shoulders of queens as I make myself strong to carry my children and theirs..
I want to write and I’m so scared. I feel exposed. The riot and war that usually lives inside me is now everywhere I look and I know change is coming and it hurts and it should hurt and it never stopped hurting. This is a beginning..
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”
This may bruise but I believe it to be worthwhile. I write not as an expert, but as a learner. In my work teaching Cultural Safety and Culturally Responsive Practice, I notice that my ability to quote theorists, explain complex structures of oppression and pull potent quotes to punctuate my point are all useful tools, but not nearly as useful as my ability to talk about how many times I’ve fucked this up. I notice the relief on the faces of participants when I share that I too am learning. I’m a queer, brown, Indigenous person and this is my professional expertise and I still fuck it up regularly.
I am cis gendered, my queerness is not visible, I do not live with a disability, I am educated, I am a settler on unceded lands, I speak fluent English, I know my ancestry, my body size and skin tone are within a palatable range according to the dominant culture etc etc etc.. and so I have power and with that power comes the responsibility to constantly look around and see who else needs power. Not pretend power, real power. My mentor David asked once ‘What types of power nourish you?’ and now I try to ask myself this question every time I go to flex.
I don’t believe that reading and writing are passive acts. I want to think of this Blog as some ideas and observations that are open to feedback just as I am open to change and evolution. Please participate if you can and I apologise in advance for my missteps, for being culturally clumsy, for my lack of awareness around issues and experiences that don’t affect me directly. I am learning.
For me, the process of Decolonising is structural, internal, relational, political and spiritual. It is a journey of humility and self reflection and I believe it is imperative that we make the distinction between interrogating human worth and interrogating human conditioning. Our human worth is never in question, our humanity is our most precious gift and mightiest weapon in bringing down the de-humanising structures we live within. The conditioning that we have been soaked in for generations is in question. I never asked to be born into this body. I never asked to be raised in a world that values certain lives, ways of being and ways of knowing and devalues others. These ideas are soaked into my being to the point where unlearning is a confusing and painful process.
And so I am on a decolonising journey.. I resist this system and it’s web of untruths. Sometimes my resistance is direct action sometimes it is donating, sometimes it is unlearning, teaching, speaking, listening. Sometimes resistance is making music, making time for creativity, sometimes it is facilitating, sometimes healing, sometimes amplifying other voices, sometimes my resistance looks like understanding my brothers and sisters and fam when they forget that we have been conditioned to fight for scraps at the margins. Resistance is saying sorry and doing better, resistance is constantly looking around to see who needs resources and platforms and support. Sometimes resistance is simply holding my babies close and loving them, sometimes resistance means stopping my rage from hurting my family. Sometimes resistance is walking in the forest, diving into the ocean, resting, loving, holding, waiting. At the heart of my resistance is love. Love of people, love of justice, love of Country, love of ancestors, love of community, love of self, love for my descendants.. When I forget that resistance is an act of love my rage eats at my insides and I mis-use my power. So this writing is resistance, even though I’m terrified that my words could bruise or be misunderstood, I’ll remind myself it is an act of love and click publish anyway. Welcome.
