That dancing in/of past, present, and future is a shaking, is a way of transforming this place we are caught up in, this place of knowing only one way of knowing, of forced worldview, of bunkers on mountains, of concrete levee, of rising heat, of 1000 dead trees, of nothing in promise, no sound of bee or bird or place to fish or carry on, for career, for nothing real, for what you have been sold, for a future you. This is land. This is water. This is air. This is Lenapehoking. This is for you Carlina Rivera, Council Member District 2, Mannahatta, Destroyer of East River Park.
The whole world waits.
Do you remember that time I told you the story about the tree?
It was a very heavy tree. It was cut down or it fell down and I found it, I brought it here, to you, for you. I thought you would like to remember how a tree smells.
Do you, remember?
Do you remember when you came to build this (monument) this (concrete levee) and found our bones in the ground?
It wasn’t always like this; these bones used to be mine and we were always running around (all over these hills). It’s sort of hard to imagine right now because there were so many of us! Feasting and dancing, talking and making things. There was this one time, we caught so many salmon we had a huge party and there was so much laughing. We were all gathered, right over there.
Do you remember that story?
The one I told you about the tree? I’ll tell it again. It was a very heavy tree. I found it, in the basement of this building, a pile of dirt that used to be a tree. And I brought it up—for you, remember? But it was so heavy, we just had to pretend?
Slow and steady breathing from the corners of my eyes.
My legs felt strong. My chest felt heavy and like it wanted to go down. I stood, my chest tipped and curved forward. I kept having to pull my neck back into a more comfortable alignment. Then nothing, then the jostling. The ground felt very humus-y and moist, which is maybe not what it actually is.
The longing and the pulling. There was an actual pull toward west and also down, like the floor was tipping even, even though, well, maybe it does slope. And there was something in the distance and a knowledge of that distance—a measurement which came in the form of an imagined shot. Bullet traveling. The ground was forest.
A tipping slope.
A conversation with the enemy.
How do you know we didn’t want it this way? Stuck and dying? How do you know if we even ever loved anything you took away? I didn’t want these kids—they were loud, laughing all the time, and running around, playing like deer—and swimming—all the time swimming in that clear, beautiful, shining river. What a mess—their dirty, little feet! How do you know I ever loved my sister, my brother? And my fire, my home? Always full of relatives and relatives of relatives, eating and joking. See these chairs? This is where they sat. All the time, their butts on these chairs, resting their elbows on my table, slapping it every time a joke made them laugh, leaning their chairs back just a bit and rocking back in for a snack. How do you know I’m not glad they’re gone? And the fish, so gorgeously red and plentiful. I used to watch then jump up their falls, their entire bodies surging with their might. How do you know I miss them or not? This bit of cake I made from this box is suiting me just fine. Would you like some? There’s plenty, and maybe it makes me happy, sharing cake with my enemy, watching you stuff your mouth full standing in the rubble of my own home, still smoldering logs outside where there used to be trees, a brown, stinking river, and silence because everything is dead. Except the sound of your drills digging through death, through genocide, through extinction, through oblivion. Sweet oblivion. Maybe I like that coarse, crumbling, etching sound: hot, empty, loud, and not a drop of rain.
Do you remember rain?