Decolonizing My Big Mouth

I am not close to decolonizing this big mouth of mine, y’all — for realz!

I don’t use the term woke about myself, nor others, frequently. There’s something self-congratulatory in it. Who told me I was woke enough to know who the flip was freaking woke? Do you get a certificate for it? Woke or not, my shit can drift far from on point. I flock things daily and maladies escape me, reminding me how hard it is to weed the mind’s internalized supremacies (not just White).

Reflecting on a class discussion, I mentioned perhaps breaking off to powwow in our groups about a number of items. As I went on, the room quieted. A student (I believe the only White-passing cis-male in the cohort) gently spoke up, informing me the group didn’t use that term as a casual reference to so sacred a Native American cultural tradition. It took a moment to register what was being said. I was blank and asked what term he meant.

“Powwow,” he repeated, almost in apology he bore the explanation.

I was mortified.

I’ve been called-in around that word many times. I study Ojibwe culture and the language. I fully understand the significance of powwow (niimi'idiwag in Aniishinaabe). It didn’t stop that word escaping my lips and falling flatly on wide-eyed MFAs, that included at least one Native American person. I was dumbfounded, but accepted what had transpired, aware I had to make immediate amends. I spew-sprayed words that felt like excuses, finally simplifying, “I’m sorry.”

I could have let it go, but it felt so wrong suddenly to even be before these brilliant eager young people who’d leant me space to instruct them. Just like that I was the student, I’d gotten a wrong answer, and my perfectionist reared and mocked me. My near seven-foot frame shrank to nothing.

My flavor mental illness registers small things (it was an innocent error) life-threatening disasters. I can actually handle disaster. (See recent posts on my mountain car accident). Still, I gotta wonder why that word won’t get out of my vocabulary. I see how it triggers. I resist. I resent I have to consider it. I resent ever being imprinted with it.

We collectively navigated that awkward moment (for me, Earthshaking), and ultimately, the group accomplished amazing work (We devised a 20-scene Cinderella in about twenty minutes with no one directing). They gave beautiful feedback. I felt I had been of service. Perhaps writing about it, will help me move beyond it. Maybe this is my version of White Girl Tears (which is also offensive). I’m gonna put my ego on ice and try this again next time.

— Notorious Pink