Don’t call me exotic. I am a Blackfoot woman; I have long dark hair, dark brown eyes and high cheek bones. Like the women before me I was taught with my head held high, because I am a daughter of the generations who came before me and the grandmother of those who will come after me. I was taught to love myself, respect my body. I was reminded that I am the manifestations of hopes, prayers, dreams and aspirations, someone prayed for me and someone asked for someone like me. I was taught that I am equal to everyone and everything that surrounds me, no being is above me, and no being is below me. I am but an intersection of the web of connections of the universe. I carry with me traditional knowledge passed down to me from my grandmother, mothers, aunts. I was taught how I should be treated and respected from my grandfather, father and uncles. But don’t call me exotic. In addition to all the things listed above I also bear the scars of the abuse bestowed upon the Indigenous people of North America at the hands of the “Founding Nations”. I know that to some people I am not a human being, I am the manifestation of the spoon fed, propaganda that people in this country learn about First Nations. I am the noble savage who is at one with the earth that surrounds me, talking to the animals and the earth, expert huntress, who can guide you to find your power animal and spirit guide. I am the barbaric savage; a thief, a criminal, a drunk, a poor mother living on welfare with 5 kids none of which I look after who will rob you blind if you aren’t careful. I am the uneducated, poor Native woman who needs a white woman to stand up for my rights because I cannot stand up on my own and cries out “Sisters in Solidarity! Thank you my white sister!” tears of gratitude pouring down my face. Don’t call me exotic. To so many men out there I am Pocahontas; copper skin, painting with all the colours of the wind, conversing with Grandmother Willow with a hummingbird and raccoon, who saves the heroic white man from being murdered by barbaric savages. I am nothing more than a play thing for them to live out their fantasy of fucking a Native woman. I am “easy” always willing to give it up to the white man, to bring him ecstasy and make his wildest dreams a reality, in exchange for a bottle, or another hit… forget the fact that I have my undergraduate degree, a job and am doing quite well for myself. I am the dirty secret affair that you don’t want the neighbours finding out about, the woman he is so madly in love with yet will never bring home to his parents. My exotic beauty, hypnotizing him, enticing him to dominant me, break my spirit, show me my place, remind me who is the boss around here. But please, don’t call me exotic. Forget that in Western history my people were taken to Europe placed in zoos with chains around their ankles, living in cages while signs with slogans like “Exotic” brought in spectators. Dying of diseases, their bodies discarded like trash; disposable beings. Forget that our women were kidnapped taken across the ocean and sold into sex trades. Forget that our women were denied motherhood at the hands of Dr’s and forced sterilization. Forget that our women were raped, beaten by priests then forced to watch as the nuns killed their newborn baby to hide their crime. Forget that there are over 500 missing and murdered Indigenous women in this country, all because this culture, this society has dehumanized Indigenous women, Indigenous people.
Allow me to remind you of this history before you call me exotic. Allow me to remind you of the reality that I live in before you decide to pay me the compliment of being exotic.
-PN
