My name is Sarah Lewis,
and this poem is called Warrior Cry.
I am the warrior cry
That penetrates, swings, slings
Through your House of Commons window
Not uncommon in my bloodline though
I'm the high priestess, the empress
Grabbing glass ceilings on my way down
Turned into a floor
Turned to powwow grounds
[♪♪♪]
I dance and stomp
On top of shreds of the 1763 Royal Proclamation
Buried beneath my feet
Jingle dresses and fancy shawls sweep the red crusted floor
I crow hop, stop, and point to every door
Evicted of opportunity, every timeline,
every generation eradicated
Here is where I stop and pray.
I see my own fractured lineage
covered up with a band-aid branded: reconciliation
My moccasins reveal the mess you made
Crammed onto reservations
Crucifixes and crying eyes
Disguised as a friendly Thanksgiving dinner get together
A dinner reservation we did not make
Had no choice in the matter of
Painted as a special seat by the door
And told to leave before the main course
Leftovers presented on a gold plated platter
And advertised as the special
Starved of culture, freedom, love, our children
How special.
But my ancestors unshackle us daily,
Have prayed for us for millennia
I am your Notre-Dame turned to flames
The firestarter that won't get out of the house that shamed her
A ceremonial smoke medicine flavour
Healing yet spicy
A lyrical physicist, transcending truths through time
And spaces that I now take up
A felony if you dare touch me
Burnt hands will remind you that my blood still boils
And land acknowledgements aren't going to fix that.
Because acknowledgements without change
Is like sorry without action
Assaulting the land
Is an attack on Indigenous women's bodies and communities
This is forced entry to our life givers
Indigenous women nurture our future
Feed our babies with ceremony
Babies that grow because of places like Pigeon Lake
The same place where Cottagers protest our wild rice monoo-min
for being too thick along the shores
for their water skis to get through, of course
The irony of their anger
Having something taken away
As though their water sports trump our livelihood
You scream bloody murder and I scream privilege.
Tired of being labelled radical
Because I want clean drinking water for our communities,
for Indigenous women and men to be alive, to thrive
Yet we're devalued by the blue lives that promise us safety
Tired of being punished because of pigment.
But I digress
Indigenous women
The backbone of the body we've abused
Holding us together
In this rusted gated concrete fused skeleton
They always call me back to my home
My purpose, my power, my displaced body
I forever owe debt to my aunties, grandmothers,
sisters, friends, so
This one's for you
Miigwetch
It's been an honour,
just to see how far I've come in the last three years,
I would not have imagined myself here as--
in Peterborough as first poet laureate
and getting to tell my story and use my voice,
and I think that's what spoken word is about.
It's a form of activism for me and it's a form of resistance.
My existence is a form of activism,
because we weren't supposed to be here.
So I know my ancestors would be proud.
I know my grandmother would also be very proud
that I'm speaking up and speaking my truth.