Something I have always been fascinated by…Native Americans. It’s such a sad thing really that the Europeans came to America and began to slowly wipe them out. The Native Americans really could have taught us so much more about life, nature, family, and beliefs. Except we did what we always did…we had to dominate.
The South African swallow is not native to these parts, and is rarely seen here. This is mostly due to the distance it would have to migrate, which is of course greatly limited due to its innate need to carry coconut shells when migrating.
He looks up at you, and the first thing you can think is that he doesn’t belong here, has never belonged here–is not a native to this strange land, an invasive species of the place where you’ve inhabited the space your entire life, young bold witty naive, so, so naive–and you take a deep breath because his beauty is stunning in your lifeless eyes, powerful where you are so powerless.
im scared . this is a land of other people . what if they don’t enjoy my company what if they moc my appearance ,. i dont belong here . this is not where i was raised and where my family was brought from. “relax son we’re just moving down the street” said my father
I traveled far but something held me in
The thought of forgetting and settling down
far away from where I started
made this native of my own home, start to cry
She wasn’t native to the cold. Her warm eyes peeked out from under here knit hat, her face was buried in a bright blue scarf. Her nose, which wasn’t protected from the wind and blowing snow, was bright red and she kept wrinkling it against the cold. Her hair was light, turned even lighter by the sunlight and heat she was so used to, and braided, It poked out from under her hat and hung over her shoulder, waving feebly in the cold.
I am not native to this wonderful and awful place, and because of that it is both a beautiful and awful place to live. I am excluded from the community, scrutinized and treated with irritaion
I was just a small girl in jamestown when I met one of them. He was a native and just my age. He looked as though he’d seen far more than my little eyes could have possibly seen. “My name is Elizabeth”
A lot of coloradans boast about being native. I don’t know why. Yeah, there’s a lot to be proud of an all, but it’s not like being from somewhere means you have the same traits. It’s not you, it’s how you became that.
He had a native talent for music. From the time he was an infant, he’d beat on the table of his “Baby Tenda” and made guttural, primal noises that sounded like nothing so much as a wild animal in rut.
When I left my native land I was no more than a boy. Crying, shaking in my mother’s arms, I was forced to age with the quickness of a flying missile. War was coming, and who was I to stop it?
Where are my people? Where have they gone?Have they been lose to the words of a pointless rap song. Or just locked in the box that society creates never being able to open the gate. Maybe your lost in troubles of life. Ignoring the things that you know aren’t right.I tell you friend you made a mistake for you’ve let your self be bitten by the poisonous snake.
Once longing to let go, I find myself afraid now.
I am afraid.
And you here makes things so comfortable,
but all I want to do is hide now.
Hide, sleep, find a place where I can breathe.
This is my land. Do I go, or do I stay. I don’t want to make the choice.
I am not native to this pit of despair in which I dwell. I was once happy. Once upon a time, I ran free through the world of love and joy, not focusing on the darkness which clouded the edges of my picture perfect fantasy. But now the darkness is all I see, and it is here I dwell.
The shrill screams of the native beasts haunted me. I could hear their wild, strangled cries through the dimness of the night and as I ran the branches whipped at my face, leaving red streaks of wet pain behind.
You come here and you don’t respect the land. Mother earth has given this great gift and you destroy her. Being a native to this land, I am appalled. Live and leave no trace.
I spoke in my native tongue in a land where no one understood me and I understood no one. I carried on conversations with myself, hoping that I wouldn’t go crazy with the loneliness I felt.
I was born in a starry
and cold night;
there was snow upon my tingling forehead,
warm hand between my sighs and breaths.
You were lonely
the first time we met;
your thoughts melting into mine.
*
I should have let go all the memories, maybe?
once you’ve threw everything away
you can re-start another life;
but there would always be a couple of things
which will stay with you forever, I think.
Like the first snowflake
or your touch on my bare skin.
I just watched 32 short documentaries about native Americans, cowboys, outlaws, lawmen, soldiers and settlers. This beautiful country I live in saw so much hardship from 1700-1900.I love it’s people but I have always hated the government. Knowledge without wisdom is a kind of knowledge we don’t need at all.
I have gone native for a several decades. Now is the time to go foreign and adopt a whole slew of quirky traits that have no meaning within my native land, just so I can shake things up.
Is what I am not. I am the eternal stranger. It’s a choice. I could choose to belong. I haven’t yet. Am I waiting for a place I want to belong? Just an orphan of the universe
I’m not native anywhere… anywhere I go I’m always a bit of an outsider. People don’t ever get to know everything about me. There’s always a sheet of glass separating us; I can see everything I could offer of myself, everything they could offer me; but I refuse to break through it.
i am a native of discomfort, dissonnace, uncertainty and anxiety. i have spent most of my time trying to figure out—much more time there than knowing. i am a native to questions—much moreso than answers. a native to confusion. a native to darkness and lost and hurting because of it.
What does a native actually mean? Does it mean you are native to the city you live in or are you native to the earth that you live on? Are we all natives or are there only a few? Who were the first natives that walked this Earth? Was it Jesus? Was it the dinosaurs?
The natives hadn’t taken too kindly to the professor’s words, so he stayed in his room for most of the day and didn’t say anything unless it was a request for cookies or tea. I, on the other hand, sat down with a good gaggle of the town’s residents, laughing as one of the children poked at my metal knee.
“What happened to your real knee?” she asked, and I smiled.
“Let’s just say I sacrificed it for a friend,” I replied.
She knew the native language but still had difficulties putting the words together. They were there, in her head, just jumbled up in a mixture that didn’t make much sense. She could not utter a word in front of the screaming policeman.
Her breath was visible in the midnight December air. Brown skin. A distinctive cadence to her desperation. The white boy thought he knew her kind, looking and not looking at the Native American woman who was asking for a ride nobody would give.
Native. Natural. A pure state; like natural sugar that will still rot your natural teeth. I was reading about a paleo diet-the best for us, apparently, is to go to our roots, our prehistoric ones where life expectancy was, if you were lucky, age 20. Where do they come up with this stuff? doubt people even had their teeth back then at the ripe o’ age of 20.
She stared in the mirror, searching through time. Under her porcelain skin, would her high cheekbones, the curve of her chin, her nose, be enough to tell the world the story she knew so well? The story of great grandmothers carrying babies along the trail of tears or of her own grandmother, sent away from Oklahoma on a bus to escape her father, the epitome of the drunken native. Would they see?
The woman stood in a field of wheat, staring into the distance. Straw dug into her flesh, golden weave against her skin. A dog howled at prey behind her, and yet she looked on. He had been gone for too long, gone in a country they weren’t familiar with. Something tumbled inside of her. She rest a hand on a too-swollen belly.
Something I have always been fascinated by…Native Americans. It’s such a sad thing really that the Europeans came to America and began to slowly wipe them out. The Native Americans really could have taught us so much more about life, nature, family, and beliefs. Except we did what we always did…we had to dominate.
indigenous, resourceful, one with the earth,
The South African swallow is not native to these parts, and is rarely seen here. This is mostly due to the distance it would have to migrate, which is of course greatly limited due to its innate need to carry coconut shells when migrating.
“The natives are getting restless, you ready to go on?”
The anxiety strangled her ‘yes’ into an in audible ‘meep’.
He looks up at you, and the first thing you can think is that he doesn’t belong here, has never belonged here–is not a native to this strange land, an invasive species of the place where you’ve inhabited the space your entire life, young bold witty naive, so, so naive–and you take a deep breath because his beauty is stunning in your lifeless eyes, powerful where you are so powerless.
She was a native to this land, before they took it all away from her. Before the dark knights in their dreary clothing kidnapped her.
I feel so native, surrounded by these people.
im scared . this is a land of other people . what if they don’t enjoy my company what if they moc my appearance ,. i dont belong here . this is not where i was raised and where my family was brought from. “relax son we’re just moving down the street” said my father
I traveled far but something held me in
The thought of forgetting and settling down
far away from where I started
made this native of my own home, start to cry
She wasn’t native to the cold. Her warm eyes peeked out from under here knit hat, her face was buried in a bright blue scarf. Her nose, which wasn’t protected from the wind and blowing snow, was bright red and she kept wrinkling it against the cold. Her hair was light, turned even lighter by the sunlight and heat she was so used to, and braided, It poked out from under her hat and hung over her shoulder, waving feebly in the cold.
I am not native to this wonderful and awful place, and because of that it is both a beautiful and awful place to live. I am excluded from the community, scrutinized and treated with irritaion
I was just a small girl in jamestown when I met one of them. He was a native and just my age. He looked as though he’d seen far more than my little eyes could have possibly seen. “My name is Elizabeth”
When the house was secured and search, it was found to have a native of the indian tribe living in there.
A lot of coloradans boast about being native. I don’t know why. Yeah, there’s a lot to be proud of an all, but it’s not like being from somewhere means you have the same traits. It’s not you, it’s how you became that.
oppression
division
sacrificed
exchange of territory, goods, culture
tradition washed
He had a native talent for music. From the time he was an infant, he’d beat on the table of his “Baby Tenda” and made guttural, primal noises that sounded like nothing so much as a wild animal in rut.
When I left my native land I was no more than a boy. Crying, shaking in my mother’s arms, I was forced to age with the quickness of a flying missile. War was coming, and who was I to stop it?
Where are my people? Where have they gone?Have they been lose to the words of a pointless rap song. Or just locked in the box that society creates never being able to open the gate. Maybe your lost in troubles of life. Ignoring the things that you know aren’t right.I tell you friend you made a mistake for you’ve let your self be bitten by the poisonous snake.
Once longing to let go, I find myself afraid now.
I am afraid.
And you here makes things so comfortable,
but all I want to do is hide now.
Hide, sleep, find a place where I can breathe.
This is my land. Do I go, or do I stay. I don’t want to make the choice.
I am not native to this pit of despair in which I dwell. I was once happy. Once upon a time, I ran free through the world of love and joy, not focusing on the darkness which clouded the edges of my picture perfect fantasy. But now the darkness is all I see, and it is here I dwell.
The shrill screams of the native beasts haunted me. I could hear their wild, strangled cries through the dimness of the night and as I ran the branches whipped at my face, leaving red streaks of wet pain behind.
You come here and you don’t respect the land. Mother earth has given this great gift and you destroy her. Being a native to this land, I am appalled. Live and leave no trace.
I spoke in my native tongue in a land where no one understood me and I understood no one. I carried on conversations with myself, hoping that I wouldn’t go crazy with the loneliness I felt.
I was born in a starry
and cold night;
there was snow upon my tingling forehead,
warm hand between my sighs and breaths.
You were lonely
the first time we met;
your thoughts melting into mine.
*
I should have let go all the memories, maybe?
once you’ve threw everything away
you can re-start another life;
but there would always be a couple of things
which will stay with you forever, I think.
Like the first snowflake
or your touch on my bare skin.
living in the place where you belong felling that you are misplaced everywhere else but willing to discover what waits for you outside.
I just watched 32 short documentaries about native Americans, cowboys, outlaws, lawmen, soldiers and settlers. This beautiful country I live in saw so much hardship from 1700-1900.I love it’s people but I have always hated the government. Knowledge without wisdom is a kind of knowledge we don’t need at all.
The Natives had to hand craft tools to servive enemys.
Searched for food and hand crafted tools.
I have gone native for a several decades. Now is the time to go foreign and adopt a whole slew of quirky traits that have no meaning within my native land, just so I can shake things up.
Is what I am not. I am the eternal stranger. It’s a choice. I could choose to belong. I haven’t yet. Am I waiting for a place I want to belong? Just an orphan of the universe
I’m not native anywhere… anywhere I go I’m always a bit of an outsider. People don’t ever get to know everything about me. There’s always a sheet of glass separating us; I can see everything I could offer of myself, everything they could offer me; but I refuse to break through it.
i am a native of discomfort, dissonnace, uncertainty and anxiety. i have spent most of my time trying to figure out—much more time there than knowing. i am a native to questions—much moreso than answers. a native to confusion. a native to darkness and lost and hurting because of it.
She told him he was a native son.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“You were created by the sun, the moon, and the stars, and were put on Earth,” she answered. You put here to learn, explore, and enlighten yourself.”
What does a native actually mean? Does it mean you are native to the city you live in or are you native to the earth that you live on? Are we all natives or are there only a few? Who were the first natives that walked this Earth? Was it Jesus? Was it the dinosaurs?
The natives hadn’t taken too kindly to the professor’s words, so he stayed in his room for most of the day and didn’t say anything unless it was a request for cookies or tea. I, on the other hand, sat down with a good gaggle of the town’s residents, laughing as one of the children poked at my metal knee.
“What happened to your real knee?” she asked, and I smiled.
“Let’s just say I sacrificed it for a friend,” I replied.
She knew the native language but still had difficulties putting the words together. They were there, in her head, just jumbled up in a mixture that didn’t make much sense. She could not utter a word in front of the screaming policeman.
Her breath was visible in the midnight December air. Brown skin. A distinctive cadence to her desperation. The white boy thought he knew her kind, looking and not looking at the Native American woman who was asking for a ride nobody would give.
Native. Natural. A pure state; like natural sugar that will still rot your natural teeth. I was reading about a paleo diet-the best for us, apparently, is to go to our roots, our prehistoric ones where life expectancy was, if you were lucky, age 20. Where do they come up with this stuff? doubt people even had their teeth back then at the ripe o’ age of 20.
She stared in the mirror, searching through time. Under her porcelain skin, would her high cheekbones, the curve of her chin, her nose, be enough to tell the world the story she knew so well? The story of great grandmothers carrying babies along the trail of tears or of her own grandmother, sent away from Oklahoma on a bus to escape her father, the epitome of the drunken native. Would they see?
The woman stood in a field of wheat, staring into the distance. Straw dug into her flesh, golden weave against her skin. A dog howled at prey behind her, and yet she looked on. He had been gone for too long, gone in a country they weren’t familiar with. Something tumbled inside of her. She rest a hand on a too-swollen belly.