this little girl was so very proud of the thread of seminole that holds together the tattered pieces of daddy played banjo and runned off and mothers day comes twice a month.

when we were yougner it was practically religous to swing that thread over the dirty little heads of the other free lunch misfits, not to be better, just to be, something.

the baptist never stuck, it offended our mastubatory tendencies and our real religion was the sky, the trees, we were runaways and secretly we were brown, we were more.

with self-declared maturity i lost the sense of posession that was my people, without religion, without history, without a thread of color that was identity

white trash inevatibly becomes the unemployable single mother.

the thread of seminole tied around my finger reminds to stay aware, reminds me that theres not much hope, wic checks, casinos, arent you a pretty girl? another goddamn drink to silence us, me.

our bootstraps are broken - sewn together in front of the tv while someone prettier sings about her hard times and my four year old wants her fucking belly shirt.

the thread of seminole wrapped around my throat reminds to question authority, reminds that things change slowly, reminds that i could make a difference, for us.

but self-reliance leads to self-esteem leads to times are changing leads to a lousy community college degree which you dont respect and i cant really rely on.

twenty years between me and that girl, three thousand miles between me and that tribe and im less proud and more angry...

okay so thats a start, yeah?