Uninvited

I was born on the stolen lands of the Lekwungen and W̱SÁNEĆ nations.  For most of my life I lived and worked on the stolen lands of the Musqueam, Squamish & Tsleil-Waututh Nations. Today, I live and work with gratitude in the qathet Regional District, on the kwekenis territory of the shíshálh Nation All my ancestors were uninvited settlers.

I am a 2nd-generation descendant of a life-long indentured Chinese woman (my Grandmother), who at 15 years old was included in the dowry given to the man that married her older sister, and before her own 20th birthday was shipped over to Canada by the man that bought her (my Grandfather) and impregnated her with the girl they’d have killed at birth had she been born in China (my Mother).

My Father’s white-skinned parents emigrated to Canada to avoid being killed in the 2nd-world war.

As a human who isn’t male and doesn’t identify as male, and as my Grandmother’s emigration to Canada occurred within the context of her own slavery to my Grandfather and the centuries of patriarchal misogynies woven in and through the cells of her and my and our DNA, I acknowledge how genetically uninvited all my maternal lineages are – here and there, then and now.

As also the descendent of white-skinned people whose emigration to Canada was motivated by a biological compulsion to survive genocide, and to avoid the cultural extermination that swept across their time and place and lives, I acknowledge how genetically and geographically uninvited my paternal lineages are – here and there, then and now.

I am the half-blood remnants of these my ancestors, disconnected and unwelcome, and conceding always to all those with rightful claim to any space my life occupies, and each shallow breath I take.

Like I imagine my ancestors did in their own migrations and survival, I make every attempt to reduce my own life to the quietest whisper possible.  Through years of social justice work and activism, I have learned my fair-skinned cells are deafening testaments to thousands of years of hardship and injustice here.

By age 13, I was a permanent ward of the court. Today, I am no more financially or situationally secure than when I transitioned from state-care to homelessness at age 19.  I have given my adult life to non-profit volunteerism and work, serving people in need, and advocating for the rights of oppressed folks all around me.

My own wounds fueled my dedication.  Despite my own "drop-out" status, I personally made it from the street to executive-grade work and directors' seats on boards, because I believed I was "helping people" - or even, that my work had some kind of humanely worthwhile value.  At the time of this writing, in 25 years of this work I have managed only to move myself from abject poverty to working poverty.

I would happily remove myself from all the uninvited spaces I occupy - I would truly go in a heartbeat. But where would that be? What exactly does one do when no land anywhere invites or welcomes them, here or there, then or now?

On behalf of all my ancestors, all I can do is breathe apologetic whispers over and over and over again.