a collective blog by indigenous women photographers
I remembered that I come from people who are storytellers. Artists. Lovers. Foolish friends and mischievous family. We are drenched in the survival and reclamation of generations past, and by our very act of breathing, laughing, loving - we are claiming our rightful space for our descendants. We are here.
My sister and I were once in the Child Welfare System so the death of Tina Fontaine struck me personally. If it wasn’t for my mother choosing to change her life around by becoming sober, the system could have likely failed us too.
... it is important to me to find books for my daughter that she can relate to as an Indigenous/Nehiyaw Iskwew.
#ColtenBoushie will not be forgotten. His loss is felt across nations. He’s our ancestor now. - Jessica Wood
Unlike most other travellers I met, I was Indigenous, and although not Indigenous to the lands I was trekking, I could identify and relate my Indigeneity to the contexts I found myself in. These countries I visited all have long and complex histories of colonial rule, war, and trauma, which I was able to connect to and empathize with due to similar colonial history and traumas within my blood and ancestral land.
This work has to be done collectively. One person could not do it all. That collective mentally is deeply embedded in indigenous teachings as is upholding our sacred responsibility from our ancestors.
However, I know me. I like visiting. I like driving in and throwing my stuff around and making mad plans to fill every spare second, then moving on. I can only survive so long with a million other people. I need my land. I need my trees. I need my space.
I know Alba is the most sacred thing in my entire world but in my effort to share and curate, I forgot to protect her sacredness.
"...all I want is for our upcoming generations to have moments peace just like that with their own songs, prayers, and ceremonies."
My two little sisters are a blessing and a curse. I have memories of their births, though some of the details get a little confused. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night and getting carried out to our old chevy pick up truck but I don’t know if my other sister… Continue reading Sisters
