How Can I Belong

To belong is a strange concept,
But it’s one that everyone strives for.

To belong in a family,
A friend group,
A school,
A religion.

A culture.

I wish I could say I’ve never had
To want for these things,
But wishes are lies we want to believe.

We define ourselves by what we know,
What we have, what we’re taught,

By what we want.

When you belong to a group,
You share something with those people.
Of all the things that have made you who you are,
There is a string to connect you to those people.

A common interest,
A shared mindset,
It could be a relative or a class,
An activity or a location.

But how can someone belong
To something they don’t know?

My grandmother knew once,
What Indigenous culture is like
But she was one of the last generations of children
To be taught in a residential school.


The first time I was told that story

I didn’t understand it.
But in high school it gave me a sense of dread.
Because the only story I knew
Was the one my mother told me.

And what could have that story meant
When it was only a few sentences long?

Your grandmother went to a residential school
And so did her older siblings.
They say that place was a fun boarding school,
But your grandmother doesn’t want to remember it.

She went to school and came back a catholic,
With the wrong sort of
“Fear in God” put into her.

As an adult she lived in a time of shame
To admit that you were indigenous.

So she had lived, so she would raise.
None of her children were taught
Or shown what it means to be indigenous.

By the time my sister and I came along
It was finally a time to be proud of it all.

But the only thing I knew that made me indigenous
Was the piece of paper my grandmother signed
To tell the schools who I was.


That, and the extra pizza party I got to go to
At the end of every year.

How can I belong to what I have never learned?

In eighth grade my grandmother did the first thing
To help me learn about this culture.
She convinced me to take a variant course
A First Nations Arts and Trades course.

The course had four sections split up over the semester

First was Arts and Technology,
A class we were shown First Nations Art
And were told to recreate it
On our computers and drawing tablets

It was fun, I enjoyed the things I’ve learned.

The next two were not as fun,
Though that could be because
I don’t like being around spinning blades

I was not a fan of woodwork
Nor was I a fan of soapstone carving.
Interesting in theory,
Terrifying in practice.

The last was a culinary class,
And we were told from the start
That not of all it would hold true
To the culture they were trying to teach us.

Still, it was good.

High school was when I had really started to understand
All of our devastating history.
I think that was where the fire started for me.

I developed a passion for the history,
For the treaties and politics that came with it.
I wanted to understand it all,
I wanted to make it right.

But I fear that that was where the fire stopped.
I wanted to fight for that better future.
But I found myself not ready to confront the past.

It takes two to braid sweetgrass,
But the only grass I knew
Was what grew in the backyard,
Greener from where the pool water
Splashed out during the summer.
How can I belong to a culture,
A history,
Or a story that isn’t mine?

It felt like the story
Ended with my grandmother.
In more ways than one.

My grandmother’s skin was dark,
But my mother and my aunts
May as well be pale as the moon.

My grandmother’s hair was dark brown
But her children were all born blond,
Only one who’s hair eventually grew darker naturally.


How can I feel like I belong,
When despite being darker skinned than my sister and cousins,
I'm still the ‘whitest’ of the group?

How can I belong when my interests never align with the groups?

Sometimes it feels like the only reason I belong
Is because just like my Metis ancestors,
They didn’t feel like they belonged either.

They are french or english
So they cannot be native
But they are native,
So they cannot be european.


Always sitting on the fence because no side wants them.

So how can I belong to a group
I feel no connection to?
I can tell you how.

I belong because my grandmother signed a piece of paper every year.

My grandmother who suffered
Through residential schooling,
Who had to raise her children without their culture,
She healed over time and wanted me to know my history.
She signed that paper to give me
As much exposure to it as she could.
She made me take a First Nations Arts and Trades class,
So I could learn about their food and art

And she didn’t tell me about the residential schools
Because that was a story she didn’t need to share.
But she helped me find other stories.

I appreciate the art style,
I even try to follow it when I can.
I’ve learned how to bead,
I’m not very good at it,
But I enjoy it enough to keep trying.

I belong because my grandmother signed a piece of paper
A paper that would encourage me to keep looking.
I belong because I showed up
And I never stopped.

I belong because it’s in my blood,
Not just half, a quarter, or an eighth.
All of me,
And no quantum can change that.

I may not follow all the practices,
I may not understand the languages and history.

I may not belong there,
But I belong in the present.
I belong in this culture, wherever it may lead.

And I will always belong,
For as long as I say that this is mine,
This is my heritage, my culture,
My family.

I have always belonged here.