The Anger

School was cancelled again today. Not for me, but for Luke… lucky, lucky Luke always benifiting from the weather’s failures. Not me. Oh No! Because Luke happened to be home I couldn’t quietly sleep in, skip class, be ashamed and lie saying I went… nope, I actually had to go. It is really sad that the only time I make it to an early 8:30am class is when my poor boyfriend gets a snow day and offers to drive me. 

So I went to that silly Society and the Self class I mistakenly signed up for in a delusional “I can make this work! Motivation! Rah Rah Rah” last-semester-of-my-degree lapse in judgement. It was fine, sitting there listening to the discussion of all those Social Sciences and IDS keeners, nursing a cappuccino (mistakenly ordered, MOCHAccino dammit!) when suddenly the talk turned to racism and even more specifically, native-focused racism. My stomach leaped up into my throat and my hands sweated bullets. I glanced around nervously, like any second someone would pounce on me pointing: “I found one! Here! What does she think?” 

The sad thing is that I wouldn’t even know what to say. I have been living my whole life for one half of me. The caucasian, upper middle-class, martime-canadian side of me. I spent my youth getting mocked without even realizing it… why would they call me an Indian-Giver and expect me to reconsider generosity? Why do they laugh and say, “Well of course you give the best Indian Burns!”? Why would my last name be a constant source of humilation for the unenlightened parents of my high school boyfriend? I have spent my entire life fitting in, but being called out randomly as being different. 

And yet, I hear the racist term “Wagon-Burner” and I become enraged. There is an entire half of me that I barely know or understand. An entire half of who I am that I have no idea how to get in touch with or develop.

All I have is the anger.


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