Zhaaganaanishnaabewibii’ige: Thoughts on Writing

Words are everywhere, I once heard a writer write.  Words are inside of us, outside of us, beside us, and through us.  They’re over there.  They’re right here. 

I have since spent my life writing with the words that are everywhere.  Some of the time I am right.  Sometimes I am wrong.  Sometimes I write on the white pages in my printer, like now.  Sometimes I write on sand, like in teachings.  Sometimes I write in dirt, like in dance.  Sometimes I write in mind, like in song.  All times I have been writing.  Like it has always been, for me, and for others.   

Today, here, now, I will write about myself and think about what it is that makes me write, and what it is that makes me right.  What do I write about, I think to myself.  I write about the past, and refer to the future.  I write about me.  I write about you.  I write about us.  I write about hurt.  I write about abuse.  I write about anger.  I write about pain.  Hold on, I write.  No one wants to read that.  I will write about something else.  I write about recovery.  I write about sharing.  I write about love.  I write about healing.  Hold on, I write.  That’s not right.  That’s not true.  Those words are not separate.  All of those words are words around me.  That’s all my story.  That’s what’s right.

I will find the answer to my problem if I get back to writing, right?  Right.  Right here in language is where the answer must be.  But for many of us, it is this language which we have.  It is right for us, and so we write in this way. I’ll try to find a connection there.  That is the right story, because it is what I know. 

Take what I am doing right now.  I am writing in English.  In Anishnaabe I would call this Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  But I just wrote in Anishnaabe.  In Anishnaabe I would call this Anishnaabewibii’ige.  I am Anishnaabe, though, and here, today, I speak Anishnaabe English.  I guess I would write in Zhaaganaanishnaabewibii’ige.  Right? 

Look for the words around us, I write, even if you have to name them.  You might not always be right.  Often I feel as though I am writing to try and not be wrong.  Often I feel as though it is impossible to be right, anyways.  There must always be a right if there is a wrong, right?  Therefore, why try anymore.  But still I write.  I will continue to write until I feel right. 

Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right.  Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right. Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right. Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right. Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right. Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right. Write. Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Anishnaabewibii’ige.  Right.

Gaawin. No.

He was right… there are words everywhere on this white page.

But I choose the words I write.  That is the only thing that is right, after all, because it is a matter of defining me.  I will find the right way to be, because I decide when it will be right.  I am writing about pain but I am also writing about healing.

I am writing about where we learned right and wrong.  About how they are so different.  In those schools where we learned about righteousness.  To do this, though, I can’t be right.  I am too angry about what has happened to us.  I want to write about how those places took us away from our lands and our families and our language and our lives and replaced them with anger and hatred and abuse and violence that we continue to perpetuate in our words today and our children who will continue the cycle that we have been taught in our battle to win over whatever we have left like hungry wolves fighting each other for an old piece of meat we scratch and claw each other for what we need when what we should be looking for other words other places other paths other ways to define ourselves instead of looking only at the words we have been given we have the power to define ourselves by naming our place with the words around us that we have the power to have but we have to choose to make schools for ourselves not in buildings with wood paneling and stucco but with words words words words words words words words words words words.  Words. 

We must find our own words to survive.  We must find our own words to survive. We must find our own words to survive.  We must find our own words to survive. 

Or we will always try to find ways to be right.  And we will never be.  We will always be told that we are wrong.  And that will be the only writing we will do.

And so I write.  I write about the past and I refer to the future.  I am proud that I am able to write and find the words all around me, like it has always been done.  I write on this white paper, today, but I write in my own ink.  I write so I can never be right.  In Zhaaganaashiiwibii’iige.  Yeah, that’s right.

©Niigonwedom, 2005