Half-Breed: Split Feather, Forked Path

I wasn't trying to make a statement;

I just said that I lit a candle on the solstice,

and that I had a sage bundle drying in my living room.

All I said was that I pour offerings to two sides of my being,

that a raven feather and an eagle feather

both hold reverential power to me.

That my dreams feature drums and stone circles,

and that I see the Creator in the Pagan gods that I was taught to love.

-

"You can't be Native, you're white."

"You can't be Pagan, your Grandfather was tribal Chief."

Statements made like honoring one

would negate the other.

Like I can choose my genes,

my heritage,

my ancestors.

Like my blood can simply choose one or the other,

when all I said was

I've learned to honor the paths of both,

find where they intertwine,

and find guidance and peace in both.

-

To some, I will never be "Mi'kmaq enough"

without the oppression of brown skin

without the permission of carrying a band card.

They ignore the generational trauma,

in lieu of pale skin.

To others, I will never be a "true Pagan",

because I was taught to honor life

through tobacco, sage, sweetgrass, and cedar.

They ignore my practices,

and deem my ancestors "too brown"

to lace fingers with the pale gods that they deem superior.

-

I learn to braid in sweetgrass and mugwort,

pray in whispers and fire,

to honor the bones I was gifted with,

to cherish the lives that travel through my veins.

-

Still,

some days the split in my chest aches,

like a tree struck by Odin and Creator.

I cannot split my body.

Divide the Native from the Pagan.

Or choose one side or the other,

to appease their demands,

that I "just pick a side."