Our Stories, Our Voices Read online

  Lewis Hine was one of the first activists to ever wield a camera. He photographed children in factories, coal mines, seafood canneries. He learned the names of newspaper boys, noted the heights of farm workers, recorded the wages earned in mills. He snuck into these industrial complexes, sometimes posing as a fire inspector, a postcard vendor, a Bible salesman. He risked threats of violence and legal action, but that never stopped him from documenting these realities of injustice. He recognized the wrongness, and he did something about it.

  He helped change the course of history.

  * * *

  Toward the end of my senior year, I was summoned to a small room on campus for a video interview. Some of my classmates were working on a DVD that would be distributed to our graduating class, a memento we could keep tucked inside our yearbooks.

  The interview was short, straightforward.

  I told them my name was Christine Day. After graduation I was going to attend community college and pursue a degree in nursing.

  Not long afterward, I remember this exchange I had with my partner:

  Mazen and I were at his house, seated in the kitchen, sharing a plate of hummus and labneh drizzled in olive oil. In between bites, I told him about how excited I was to graduate, to start working toward my two-year degree in nursing.

  Mazen broke off a piece of pita bread and then paused.

  Something about his posture, his body language, made me ask, “What?”

  He looked at me and said, “Is that really what you want?”

  “Um. Yes?” For some reason, his question confused me.

  He just kept staring. And I had this sense that he saw something I couldn’t see.

  I asked him, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  And he said, “What about your writing?”

  * * *

  My final graduation requirement was simple.

  I had to prepare a capstone presentation of my best work and achievements. And once again I had to announce my future career path, my plans post-graduation.

  I had a binder filled with relevant artifacts and information. The original test results were there, saved from my sophomore year. My career plan, detailed passionlessly in my lazy handwriting, was tucked between all these other files: essays, poetry, short stories, reflections on other creative projects, like the Lewis Hine documentary.

  The creative writing. The documentary. They kept resurfacing. They kept coming back to me.

  As a high school freshman I took a class called World History & Geography. It was taught by a well-meaning white man, who often held his coffee thermos like a goblet and paced around the room, announcing due dates like a stage actor performing a monologue. He used his class time to introduce us to various, fascinating regions. I don’t remember much from the course as a whole, aside from concise little snippets: a PowerPoint presentation with photographs of Machu Picchu, which my teacher dreamily described as a destination he’d love to go to; pop quizzes focused on religions practiced across the Middle East and Asia; blank maps of the African continent, which we were tasked to fill in.

  One day, I remember my teacher mentioning something about the Nez Perce Indians. I don’t remember the full context of the lesson. I couldn’t say for sure if he addressed them in the past or present tense. I don’t remember anything about it, except for this: when he pronounced their name, he said, “Nay Pierce.”

  Now, I was only fifteen years old at the time, and extremely shy. But the moment I heard him say this, I felt my cheeks burn bright red, while my bones turned to ice.

  He wasn’t saying it right. I knew he wasn’t, because of what my mother had told me about my heritage. My maternal grandmother was Upper Skagit/Nooksack, a Coast Salish woman, indigenous to what is now northwestern Washington, and southwestern Canada. My maternal grandfather was Blackfeet/Nez Perce, a Plateau man, indigenous to what is now eastern Washington, Idaho, and Montana.

  Before I could stop myself, my hand shot up, and I cut off his lecture. “That’s not how you pronounce it.”

  There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. I don’t think I had ever interrupted a teacher like that in my life. And I’d clearly caught him off guard; he looked almost alarmed by the sound of my voice.

  “It’s Nez Perce. That’s how they say it.”

  “Hm. I don’t think so.” He frowned a little, clearly confused by my outburst. “The name Nez Perce was given to them by the French. It means ‘pierced nose.’ And to my understanding, those two words are pronounced ‘Nay Pierce.’ ”

  My palms were slick with sweat. My heart thudded hesitantly inside my rib cage.

  “I’m a descendant,” I said. “My mother is full Native American.” For some reason, I felt compelled to add this, the fullness of her blood quantum. “She comes from four tribes, including the Nez Perce.”

  Again, I remember a silence. This awkward shift in the room’s power dynamics.

  In their own Sahaptin language, the Nez Perce call themselves the Nimíipuu, which translates to “The People.”

  * * *

  The senior capstone presentations were scheduled in random locations on campus. Mine was assigned to the same classroom my World History & Geography class had been in.

  I walked in, dressed in black slacks and a silk button-down shirt, my binder tucked under my arm. My parents, sister, and partner were all there. And so were a handful of other seniors, along with their own parents and supporters. Plus, the capstone supervisor, my former video production teacher.

  As the presentations began, I thought about my time in high school, how I spent it. I reflected on the choices I made, the ones that felt right, the ones that didn’t. I thought about the times I spoke up, and the times I shouldn’t have remained silent. I thought about the paper with my two-year nursing plan, the speech I’d prepared on my notecards, and this space I was sitting in. And I reached for that safe, content feeling I had, when I claimed I wanted to become a nurse.

  But it wouldn’t come. That feeling no longer existed.

  Maybe it never had.

  And when my turn came, I thought: Screw it. Here goes nothing.

  I cleared my throat and began my presentation.

  I told them my name was Christine Day. After graduation, I was going to attend community college and then probably transfer to a four-year university. I was interested in creative writing and would like to write books one day.

  * * *

  I got my first tattoo that summer. I walked into the boutique parlor, introduced myself to the smiling artist, and showed her my lavender dream catcher.

  The dream catcher was a gift my parents had given me when I was a toddler. It had hung in my room all throughout my childhood years. At this point in my life I didn’t think of dream catchers as appropriated objects. All I knew was that this particular one was symbolic of my home, my background, my adolescence. There were things about the early chapters of my life that I never wanted to forget.

  So I paid the artist to create a drawing of it, which became a stencil she pressed against my back, which she then inked into my skin.

  * * *

  I spent two years in community college. They were wonderful. I loved it.

  I cherished the freedom that came with selecting my classes, many of which were challenging in content. My grades improved drastically from my high school years, and I started to feel more comfortable and capable as a student.

  I took plenty of writing and literature classes. I immersed myself in the humanities. I drafted short stories and chapters for projects I imagined could be novel-length someday. I spent hours alone with my thoughts, dreaming up metaphors, spinning characters and plots.

  * * *

  Mazen and I were in his car, passing through some residential neighborhood. I remember the opaqueness of the zinc-colored sky. I remember the rhythm of the windshield wipers, the teary streaks that smeared across the windowpane. The billowing warmth of the heat vents; the closeness of our car seats. I watched his profile as h
e drove, admiring the concentration on his handsome face.

  And then, out of nowhere, I said, “I’m gonna do it.”

  He glanced at me, one brow arched, curious. “You’re gonna do what?”

  “Write. I’m gonna do it. I’ve been researching the publishing process lately, and I’m not going to wait until I finish school. I’m just going to start trying now. And I’ll keep trying, no matter how long it takes.”

  Mazen smirked. He looked out at the road ahead and placed his hand on my knee. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

  * * *

  From that declaration onward, I started writing all kinds of drafts.

  My first full manuscript was written over the course of two years. It was some odd variation of a dystopian young adult novel, which was what I’d mainly been reading around that time. And it was horrible.

  My second attempt was a supernatural, contemporary retelling of Wuthering Heights. Or at least, I pitched it as such, despite it being an extremely loose interpretation. And it was awful.

  My third attempt was about a teenage girl whose mother hires a paranormal reality TV crew to investigate their house for ghosts. And it was garbage. An actual, steaming pile.

  My fourth attempt—I haven’t given up on that one; I don’t think I ever will.

  In addition to my (many, rejected) manuscripts, I drafted other things, too.

  I produced more essays and stories in my community college classes.

  And when the time came, I wrote statements for my university application.

  Spoiler alert: I was accepted.

  * * *

  My next two tattoos were swallows.

  I returned to the same artist and explained to her what I wanted. I asked her to borrow some of the colors she’d used in my dream catcher, to use them in dapples and shades across their bodies. Other than that, I didn’t have any formal requests. I gave her artistic license to fill in the colors as she liked, to make the birds beautiful and bold and bright.

  She drew the outline and created two stencils that were mirror images of the same swallow. She positioned them over my shoulder blades, high enough for the tips of the wings and tails to curl over my shoulders. The birds looked like they were soaring inward, their beaks pointed toward my dream catcher.

  Swallows are popular among tattoo enthusiasts because these tiny birds always know how to return home. No matter how far they go, they have this uncanny ability to find their way back.

  * * *

  I transferred to the University of Washington–Bothell. I declared Culture, Literature, and the Arts as my major.

  I attended a wide range of classes. Most were random, spontaneous. I was exposed to research interests I’d never considered, things I wouldn’t have associated with academics. My horizons were broadened in the realms of literature and art, history and science and society, writing and expression and creativity. These classes opened up whole new vocabularies, alternative ways of reading and experiencing.

  I vividly remember the moment I learned the word “diaspora.” It was something I was intimately familiar with, though I had no idea it could be encapsulated in the English language.

  When my professor shared it in class, I penned the definition furiously into my notes, my hand cramping as I left indents in the paper. The movement, migration, or scattering of a people from an established homeland; the people so dispersed, often by force. In that moment, I felt completely, truly reflected in my education.

  I thought about my mother’s adoption. I thought about how I lived in the Pacific Northwest, the Coast Salish region, my own ancestral homelands. I thought about my deep love for this landscape, as well as the simultaneous, paradoxical disconnect from it I’d inherited.

  “Diaspora.” It conjured a sharp-edged feeling. It plucked at something raw inside me.

  * * *

  As my undergraduate career came to a swift end, I started to panic. More than anything, I still wanted to write books, but despite how many I created, how many I submitted, nothing was sticking. It wasn’t working. And in the midst of all those rejections, college was ending. But I still had so many unanswered questions. I was lost, adrift in a current I couldn’t counteract, all over again.

  I found the program almost by accident.

  I’d been contemplating grad school for some time, debating the merits of an MFA in creative writing, or the possibility of pursuing a master’s in library science. I wasn’t sure how I’d pay for additional schooling. I wasn’t sure which path I wanted to take, now that I found myself at a new crossroads. I just knew I wanted to keep going.

  And then I came across it. A master’s program called Native Voices, located at the University of Washington.

  Native Voices is a documentary filmmaking program, with an Indigenous emphasis. Students are encouraged to engage with cultural, personal, and social issues in their own lives. To research, create, and collaborate in partnership with Indigenous communities.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was perfect.

  * * *

  In the midst of another tattoo session, I told my artist about my new plan. She knew I was about to graduate from UW Bothell, and when I told her about Native Voices, she was impressed, but also a little skeptical.

  “You know, you might be able to create a film like that without having to go to school. Just buy some equipment, submit your work to film festivals, do it all on your own. It would probably save you a ton of money. Stuff like that is so accessible now.”

  I understand why she thought that. But as she filled in my red-violet camellia blossoms, I couldn’t help but interject.

  I told her about my mother’s adoption. Prior to the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978, about one-third of Native children were removed from their families. She was among them. Her relationships with her parents and community were severed the day she was born. This was all part of the Baby Scoop Era, as well as the US Government’s cultural genocide against Natives. I told my tattoo artist about this chapter of American history, which I never learned about in school but lived with every day. I told her I still had a lot to learn. That I wanted to remember these colonial disruptions, but I also wanted to move forward toward cultural revitalization. That I wanted to mend these relationships, return to these communities, and serve them. I told her that was why I’d come to her in the first place, with my dream catcher and those two swallows. They were more than just tattoos. They represented a promise I intended to keep, an oath I’d forged into my skin.

  By the time I was done, she nodded. She understood.

  * * *

  I spent weeks on my Native Voices application.

  I called their information number, to clarify questions I had about the process. I drafted multiple versions of my résumé, my personal statement. I pulled almost everything I had, in hopes that it would work out. I told them I’d made it onto the University of Washington’s Annual Dean’s List. I wrote about my desire to connect with and contribute to Indigenous communities. I wrote about the importance of reclaiming film, of transforming it into a medium of healing. I wrote about the political power and history behind this practice and how I’d familiarized myself with it when I created a documentary on Lewis Hine as a high school student.

  I gave it everything. And within a few short months I received notice that I was in.

  A few weeks later I walked at the UW Bothell graduation.

  I wore my black ceremony robe. I decorated my cap to look like a purple-and-gold clapperboard, advertising the fact that I was bound for grad school, a soon-to-be student in Native Voices. Before the ceremony started, my parents bought me a lei of flowers and my sister gifted me a necklace laced with candy bars.

  I left the stadium with my robe unzipped, my graduation cap tucked under one arm. The fragrant flowers and crinkly candy bars were cool against my skin. My curls were long and loose, deflating from the heat and humidity. My heels tapped against the sidewalk in a brisk, clipped beat.

  Mazen called me. He was l
ooking for me. I tried to describe where I was, but the parking lots were expansive and confusing. I spun around and around, searching for him, explaining everything I could see.

  Finally, I found him. He was coming down the same sidewalk, from the opposite end of the lot. He had a bouquet of red roses and a huge smile, sunshine glancing off his sunglasses. I beamed and ran toward him. And as the gap closed between us, I was certain of every step, confident in the direction I was going.

  * * *

  When I think about Native Voices, I often think about connections.

  I think about our classes, our discussions, our reassurances, our solidarity. I think about my professors, who have supported me in stressful moments and been patient as I grappled with my research interests. I think about Indigenous events on campus, in which the Duwamish people are always acknowledged. I think about the people I’ve met and am grateful for their laughter, their survival, their wisdom. I think about Indigenous identity as a living, changing practice. I think about decolonization as the real definition of progress, and I think about how it looks as an ongoing process.

  I think about how I fit into these communities, this world, these times I’m living in.

  I think about my responsibilities as an artist, a scholar, an Indigenous woman.

  * * *

  My name is Christine Day. I’m descendant from four Indigenous nations and an enrolled member of the Upper Skagit. I’m a graduate student, working toward my master’s degree in Indigenous Research and Documentary Film Production. I’m currently filming interviews to accompany my film, my future thesis. And I’m also working on projects in prose. I still haven’t given up on those.

  I’m a work in progress. I’m young, and I’m growing; I always have been. And it’s taken me a long time to understand this. But listen: You are never alone in these in-between places. Your thoughts, your complex feelings, your unknowable questions—they mean something, and they’re important.