Why I sew, why I run
Why I made “sister masks”
When you wear a mask, think about safety, vulnerability, and your connection to your community.
The masks here are a small offering in the hopes of “no more stolen sisters,” the cry amidst the missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW+) epidemic. All proceeds from their sales have gone to support the work that the Urban Indian Health Institute does to provide COVID relief and incredibly important data collection about MMIW+.
The Navajo word for maternal aunt, shimá yázhí, literally means “little mother.” And aunties sew – at least in my family – and while my sister-in-law was in labor, I began to sew my new niece a quilt. Being a plane flight away meant I would have to fuss over everyone from afar. I secretly believe that the quilts I’ve made for my nieces, my sister, my husband keep them safe in my absence. It’s less about sewing and more about armoring the people I love.
The pandemic arrived; again all I could do was fuss from afar. The pandemic arrived; so did my depression and anxiety. The pandemic arrived; I had so much time, but no capacity to move forward on the projects about which I was once so excited. In my anxiety, I began to sew masks like so many others.
These “sister masks” hope to add some safety and protection into the world. They are made from the leftover squares and bits of precious fabric I used to cover my loved ones in quilts. I secretly believe they’re a bit magical: a shield I have sent to keep people I love safe when I can’t do it myself.
I’m hoping that you too can be safe, and that the any funds raised can help female and genderqueer Indigenous people also be safe.
Why I run
In Diné Bahaneʼ, the Navajo origin story, a pair of twins race the Holy People every four days. They grew strong, and the Holy People congratulated them. I have always loved their races: running manifests your identity as a descendent of the Holy People, running makes you strong in your body and in your spirit, running connects you to the land, running is part of your connectedness to your community.
That my body is strong and resilient, and that it is a gift from my family, that I can run my curvy body many miles feels political as I run across London, which feels like the seat of so much violence toward Indigenous people. To get amped for a run or field hockey game, I crank A Tribe Called Red’s Northern Cree (Red Skin Girl), and say to myself, “I’m still here.”
Each mile fights the Fog (my name for the depression that likes to visit from time to time). Each mile is me building my body, spirit, and mind into something stronger. Each mile insists on my presence.
