Stomping down the street like somebody stole my bike. Hair sticking up fiercely, like weeds growing through sidewalk cracks-resisting. Saying we were here first.

Yeah, well so were the Indians-I mean Native Americans…I mean American Natives…I mean the indigenous…I mean…people. Labels are the easy way out. They seethe with oppression and domination. Just like when she called me a nappy-headed bitch. Well…she didn’t say it, but that’s what her eyes said. They did. I know they did.

I’m self-conscious and offended by my consciousness. Sometimes I wish I knew less, felt less, was less. But no. I’m very much here. Alive. Present. Salivating. I spit on the ground.

Off with this hair tie, out with these bobby pins. Out and upward with the mane.
The wind caresses my hair and tickles my skin. Breezy. All breezy. Exhilarating.