Episode 43

The sting of those words, the exact venom spat at me and my late husband, still burns. Sixteen years later, and the memory of those dry cleaner owners in Tooele, Utah, their faces contorted with a hatred so ancient and so deeply ingrained, it felt like a physical blow. “We don’t want your kind around here. You’re nothing but a filthy savage, the only good savage is a dead savage.” My husband, Ny, bless his patient soul, stood beside me, his stoic demeanor cracking just enough for me to see the pain flicker in his eyes. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed the sheer, unadulterated vitriol himself.

It’s this kind of ugliness, this persistent, festering prejudice, that gnaws at me. They forget, these people who claim this land as their own, that we were here first. We are the true Americans, the true Canadians, the true Mexicans. We are the original inhabitants, the ones who knew this earth intimately, who lived in balance with it long before ships dotted the horizons. And yet, we are treated as if we are interlopers, as if our very existence is an affront.

The White House, too, has a long history of lies, stretching back even before the horrors of the Trail of Tears. Promises made, then broken with contemptuous ease, all to steal our land, our gold, our silver, our gemstones, our minerals, our timber – everything. They cared nothing then, and they care nothing now, for the consequences that would befall us. The Bible speaks of turning the other cheek, a noble sentiment, perhaps, but a person can only endure so many blows before the sheer weight of it all threatens to break them. It’s a severe case of whiplash, this constant turning, this unending suffering.