Earlier this week I had the opportunity to watch the screening of “Awake: A Dream from Standing Rock”. Sitting in that auditorium, it was impossible to not feel the pain that permeated through the audience. Tears fell and chills were communally felt. Images of our brothers and sisters being shot with rubber bullets, covered in pepper spray, and hosed down with cold water in below freezing temperatures not only caused many to gasp, but caused all to feel the burns, the cold, the bruises. Everyone in the room was transported to Standing Rock that evening and we traveled on the prayers stated by tribal leaders during the evening’s inception.
While the entire documentary was impactful, there was a moment that affected me more than any other. Aside from the obvious human rights violations we were watching, aside from the political stance I am accustomed to taking with my fist high in the air, aside from the desire to continue organizing, supporting, documenting, and fighting… aside from all of this and more, there was one moment that affected me more than any other. This moment was wrapped in the following statement made by the narrator of the documentary: “This is more than the next front line. This is my home. I was born here”
Tears filled my eyes and chills consumed me. I immediately thought of my mom.
With all of the work being done for Puerto Rico, the efforts being invested in sending items to the island, educating others on what is transpiring (and has been transpiring) politically, organizing in the diaspora, and ultimately praying, focusing, and investing in the reconstruction of the island, I forgot something that is so simple and yet so profound. This isn’t just about my cultural roots, the home of my community, the land of my people… this is about the birthplace of my mother and father. Regardless of how personal the plight of our people and our island is to me, it will never compare to what it means to them.
I remember my mother explaining to me that when she was made to leave the island as a teenager, she didn’t feel welcomed in the states because she wasn’t from here. Then when she returned to the island, she didn’t feel as if she was completely welcomed back because she had left.
In a matter of weeks, we return to nuestra Isla Del Encanto with suitcases full of supplies for our brothers and sisters, a plan on reaching communities that are not receiving the level of aid other communities are, and spiritual tools to feed the spirits of all we can.
But on a personal; in a matter of weeks, I take my mom back home and hold her as she sees a landscape that doesn’t mirror her memories.
Luz, Amor, y Àsę.
©Dr William Q Ross 2017