houseless veteran of the wild
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Attention activists: My inbox is full up on creative ways to tell me 'how I chose my own oppression.'
The only thing I 'chose' was to trust white culture,
& as Maurey says, "The results are in, that was a lie."
I call bullshit.
Here's a story about it:
He's gonna be ten this year.
9 now he told me 'Its ok mom. I understand. I know we can't be together because you gotta heal.'
As much as it burns my heart to hear him, at least I got to see his face say it.
It seems he spent 8 reading Calvin & Hobbes & 'getting to spend it like a regular kid'. That's what I hear.
He didn't have to witness how our people tore his mother to pieces for profit & dominance.
'It's ok mom.' He smiles.
That's how regular kids still live.
& he fascinates me because not only is he the seed of me walking but he is also everything after me.
Light of the heavy.
His heart rose to the gravity of a feather & does each day.
At 7 he nursed dew drops off manzanitta flowers as the sun opened his eyes in the foggy hills of Northern California.
The goats we tended surrounded us & taught him how to climb the mountains of our people's negligence.
Free radicals.
6 years old he was fluid like a babbling brook cackling and beat boxing to streams, screamin about bugs.
Fourcorners.
Little buddy. He's such a bright spirit through so much confusion.
We walked it.
When he was 5 we transitioned from city to forest.
From duel emersion to intuitive compass, we found water sources as I giggled through traumatic shock with the best of me.
Then we just walked thinking help us please.
We needed it.
He was up for it.
Whatever you say momma.
Hiking through the trauma together so young, no guiding rods.
Just topographic bitter hints of steep cliffs in sacred valleys & that you can never hike past the white men in any body that wants to buy a mother & son.
4 biking from the zoo to protests to food drives to meetings to bonfires to street organizing a foundation for us in our jump from healing rape culture.
3 I seperated from his father & left being a counselor in the military.
He liked the public pool then & seemed to know it was all changing.
2 he weened from our sweet milk communion & I picked him up from the daycare the day I was assaulted by my patient.
My son's head smelled like a clean that could never spoil. Like evergreen breath. His innocence was so still & present.
I just kept whispering 'its ok buddy. It's ok.'
I ran.
For him.
His first year we spent primarily alone in a 4 bedroom house that we only actually used one room of. We didn't have visitors because his father and I had to work so many hours to keep up.
His life was daycare and breast feeding naps.
We had no family, just jobs, no parents.
& this boy still says ,
'Its ok momma I love you.'
& it's fascinating to me.
May he hear me say,
'Of coarse buddy.
We didn't do anything wrong.'
One.
We've made it so far.
If you have room to help us out please do.
I am rebuilding the transmission in a van that will be a home that will possibly get me to my son's tenth birthday. The van also provides me shelter to dodge the targeting of white supremacist habits of consumption and avoidance.
For those of you who don't know, I am a survivor of military sexual trauma and I am currently in a process of re-legitimizing myself to the state after being gaslighted out of health care for 7 years. My focus in life is learning to tend land and resurrect my indigenous harmony to build humility. I study plants, mushrooms, theater & poetry.
The war may be invisible but the cannon fodder isn't. Help us humanize.
Thank you to every spirit that witnesses my family's grief nuetrally & empathizes with our current juncture. Thank you for your time.
The only thing I 'chose' was to trust white culture,
& as Maurey says, "The results are in, that was a lie."
I call bullshit.
Here's a story about it:
He's gonna be ten this year.
9 now he told me 'Its ok mom. I understand. I know we can't be together because you gotta heal.'
As much as it burns my heart to hear him, at least I got to see his face say it.
It seems he spent 8 reading Calvin & Hobbes & 'getting to spend it like a regular kid'. That's what I hear.
He didn't have to witness how our people tore his mother to pieces for profit & dominance.
'It's ok mom.' He smiles.
That's how regular kids still live.
& he fascinates me because not only is he the seed of me walking but he is also everything after me.
Light of the heavy.
His heart rose to the gravity of a feather & does each day.
At 7 he nursed dew drops off manzanitta flowers as the sun opened his eyes in the foggy hills of Northern California.
The goats we tended surrounded us & taught him how to climb the mountains of our people's negligence.
Free radicals.
6 years old he was fluid like a babbling brook cackling and beat boxing to streams, screamin about bugs.
Fourcorners.
Little buddy. He's such a bright spirit through so much confusion.
We walked it.
When he was 5 we transitioned from city to forest.
From duel emersion to intuitive compass, we found water sources as I giggled through traumatic shock with the best of me.
Then we just walked thinking help us please.
We needed it.
He was up for it.
Whatever you say momma.
Hiking through the trauma together so young, no guiding rods.
Just topographic bitter hints of steep cliffs in sacred valleys & that you can never hike past the white men in any body that wants to buy a mother & son.
4 biking from the zoo to protests to food drives to meetings to bonfires to street organizing a foundation for us in our jump from healing rape culture.
3 I seperated from his father & left being a counselor in the military.
He liked the public pool then & seemed to know it was all changing.
2 he weened from our sweet milk communion & I picked him up from the daycare the day I was assaulted by my patient.
My son's head smelled like a clean that could never spoil. Like evergreen breath. His innocence was so still & present.
I just kept whispering 'its ok buddy. It's ok.'
I ran.
For him.
His first year we spent primarily alone in a 4 bedroom house that we only actually used one room of. We didn't have visitors because his father and I had to work so many hours to keep up.
His life was daycare and breast feeding naps.
We had no family, just jobs, no parents.
& this boy still says ,
'Its ok momma I love you.'
& it's fascinating to me.
May he hear me say,
'Of coarse buddy.
We didn't do anything wrong.'
One.
We've made it so far.
If you have room to help us out please do.
I am rebuilding the transmission in a van that will be a home that will possibly get me to my son's tenth birthday. The van also provides me shelter to dodge the targeting of white supremacist habits of consumption and avoidance.
For those of you who don't know, I am a survivor of military sexual trauma and I am currently in a process of re-legitimizing myself to the state after being gaslighted out of health care for 7 years. My focus in life is learning to tend land and resurrect my indigenous harmony to build humility. I study plants, mushrooms, theater & poetry.
The war may be invisible but the cannon fodder isn't. Help us humanize.
Thank you to every spirit that witnesses my family's grief nuetrally & empathizes with our current juncture. Thank you for your time.
Organizer
Lesley Johnson
Organizer
Portland, OR
