to be indigenous to north america is to be part of a postapocalyptic community and experience.
—julian brave noisecat
john said happy thanksgiving from inside his office through the closed door and i responded happy native american heritage day. i didn't hear a reply, then he said take some ziwi treats falulu. it's ok if i'm a stranger people who know me treat me good. i called mom—everybody was bummed i didn't make the family thanksgiving zoom-zoom. i said sorry, i feel like a ghost invisible in the room. anyway we have a weak connection issue. she said happy thanksgiving anyway. i said happy indigenous peoples day and she said hahaha. when i was a sapling or stripling i found some beautiful arrowheads and axe heads in a field in deerfield. did i feel the connection, or did i just glean the objects? i felt something more than artifactual. i felt the connection with ghosts. could i have indigenous ancestors. i know i'm a paleface but paleface is not my tribe. renate said all the places she's lived around here were on indigenous trails turned into roads. in miami i felt the life crushed under the pavement. all along i've felt the presence of absence—migrations, ghosts and invisible people. i've felt displaced in the places i've settled. it wasn't forced migration, but subject to forces beyond me. this culture appopriates what was here before and everything since it can including those born into it who don't belong like me. i know what it feels to be invisible, native to a place rendered no place, i still want to be native to some place.
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