by Rhonda Jo Gilbertson-Evans
That’s a loaded question. I do this work because Mother Theresa. Because Martin Luther King, Jr. Because Mahatma Gandhi. Because Princess Diana held babies with AIDS, y’all. But first and foremost, I do this work for him. I will not speak his name. He is my brother and he is too important. I love him to the nucleus of my being. He has no one but me, and it is family.
People may marginalize him by labeling him some things. Indigenous. Alcoholic. Junkie. They don’t see the parts that make up his soul-self. When I hold him, he cries out for his lost Mother. His Auntie. The Spirits of his Ancestors. To free him from his pain. He tells me lots of lies, but inside of these lay some pretty solid truths. It is tough on the streets for a brother from the Rez. My brother from the Rez. For he is family.
I do this work so my man can live a come-up life and have a future that doesn’t involve sleeping under a bridge or tunnel. With a mattress under his back and a soft pillow under his head. I do this work so I don’t have to pick him up when he is too drunk to stand. I do this work so that he has a damn chance at a life outside of just existing. So that he may survive.
I do this work so that he may heal from the generational trauma and abuse that is ingrained in his frailty. That he may find peace in his heart. That he may seek love freely and receive it deeply. For he is worthy. I do this work so that he may move forward into the future with hope and security and freedom and blessings and grace, instead of the dirt, and guilt and shame of oppression. I trust that he can be better. I have to believe that. I hold that hope for him deep in my chest.
So now you know. Now you know the why. But isn’t the better question, why wouldn’t I do this work?
RRCC 