"Native"
An original poem reflecting on the concept of "native" San Franciscan.
What does it mean to be “native” on stolen land?
When our streets are paved with the stones of lands we took from, building industrial gods we pray to, what does it mean to be “native”?
Pride to dust when I look at the streets we named after our generals who beat drums to death marches echoing down Market street with legacies-turned-history of vice grips on necks, torches held, consuming souls like candy.
I’m gonna die San Francisco like I live San Francisco, but I’m not “native...”
We may be suffocating - choked out and knocked out on our ass because the economy says so. Because the landlord says so.
“Because I say so.”
But we are not “native.” Never have been no matter what truth to power bullshit we condescend to rationalize.
Because truth doesn’t speak to the bones under concrete when we say we’re “native.” Bones of people. People erased with legacies of (sub)Mission in our minds because we’re holding the torches too.
So, I ask myself what does it mean to be “native” on stolen land?
About the Creator
Galen Tsongas
I am a storyteller and social scientist here to share messages of hope. Hope rooted in the real spaces we occupy - dark ones. Seemingly unsurmountable ones. But places that demand radical love and optimistic strength.
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