KTAQMKUK IS MY HOME
A Narrative Poem by an Ktaqmkuk Lnu
Ktaqmkuk* *Newfoundland
is my
home.
She is the one who
calls me,
the one I call
mother.
Waves crash
against her rocky
shore,
singing the songs of our
ancestors,
singing the songs of
home.
She is my Kij*, *Mother
my Kumij*, *Grandmother
my Wi’kmaq*. *Family
She is all I long to
know.
Ktaqmkuk
is my
home.
Settler men Christened
her terrain
and named her
Newfoundland -
claiming she
had not
been found
before.
As if she had not bore
and raised thousands
of kin,
Before the white man
established her fate,
casting her soul into
the abyss.
She fought to remain
known.
Ktaqmkuk
is my
home.
Where settlers
consumed her offerings,
until she was
withered and
worn.
Beat down by the man with
no conventions,
her spirit creased
and folded,
and was sealed by
the Realm*. *Great Seal
of the Realm:
She was suppressed British Monarchy's
from being approval of
known. State documents
Ktaqmkuk is my
home.
Her spirit
haunts me -
whispering wisdom
into the night.
She is an
a'tugwewinu.* *Storyteller
Screaming
to be heard,
As her body is
ravaged by
squatters.
She is
crying
to be
known.
Ktaqmkuk
was her
home.
The ancestors
welcomed her Kij
with open arms,
as her half-brimmed hourglass
shattered
on the
floor.
Sweeping up the
remnants,
my Kumij was
left with
f r a g m e n t e d kin,
as the Maqamikew* *Land
sheltered her
heart.
She begged
to still be
known.
Ktaqmkuk
was still her
home.
A widowed Ujjl*, *Father
called her East to
Sa'n'patistek* - *St. John's
a part of the Maqamikew*
that remained a
mystery.
Promised safety by
Pope Paul VI*, *Pope of the
Her lips Catholic Church
were sealed by (1963-1978)
Christ.
She was
losing what
she had
known.
Ktaqmkuk was what
she called
home.
My grandmother’s
bitter tongue
was not her
own.
She did not walk
the path of our
ancestors.
Her tongue had tasted
evil and greed -
the vile, putrid flavour
hitting
every
tastebud,
wrapping itself around like an unwanted
embrace.
She faded
into the
unknown.
Ktaqmkuk,
she no longer called
home.
Her bitter tongue
seeped into her veins,
poison
permeated
her core like
Wendigo* *A mythical
Algonquin
Travelling through the creature who
capillaries, possesses a
promising to rejuvenate human body
her heart, & is filled
telling her who and what she with greed
desires.
She is unaware
of the
unknown.
Newfoundland
is her
home.
A palate
formerly foreign,
tastebuds altered
to new
preferences.
Commanded to
crave a lifepath,
of Matrimony and
Motherhood -
a journey of
happiness
with a
one
star
review.
He is the
only home she
knows.
Newfoundland
is what she called
home.
My grandmother’s
bitter tongue
was not her
own.
An Lnu* *Mi'kmaw person
trapped
in a safehouse,
her kin sheltered in
secrecy.
Until the
poisoned,
tar-like
sand
poured
from her
shattered,
half-brimmed
hourglass,
he had been all
she was forced to
know.
Ktaqmkuk
is my
home.
She is the one who
calls me,
the one I call
Kiju.
Waves crash
against her rocky
shore,
singing me songs of our
ancestors,
Singing me
home.
She is my Kumij,
my Wi’kmaq,
my A'tukwaqan*. *Story
She is all
I long to
know.
“Ktaqmkuk is my home. She is the one who calls me, the one I call mother.”
Kimberlé Crenshaw famously coined the term Intersectionality in 1989* as the idea that members of multiple historically marginalized groups are susceptible to a unique type of subordination. Women who are Black, Indigenous, or People of Colour (BIPOC), are members of both a marginalized racial group and marginalized gender group and have intersectional experiences that are greater than the sum of racism and sexism. *
When I read her work, I am reminded of my position in the world, because as an Indigenous person who was Assigned Female At Birth (AFAB), I am not simply AFAB, or simply Indigenous. I can summarize Crenshaw’s work to explain this point: My identity makes me a member of both a marginalized racial group and a marginalized gender group, leading to me to have intersectional experiences that are greater than the sum of racism and sexism (Crenshaw, 1989).
As noted throughout the poem, my identity is rooted in a colonial history that ravaged my ancestral land, and stole my family's language and culture, in an attempt to assimilate our people and create carbon-copied, God-fearing citizens. Settlers’ treatment of Indigenous women/Two-Spirit peoples is parallel to the way they extract resources and steal from Mother Earth. Indigenous women are sacred like Mother Earth as they are both life-givers, and to mistreat the land is to mistreat the people. My grandmother losing her connection to our traditional land and being forbidden to practice her culture or speak her language, left a hole in her spirit that never mended. It rippled through the family, causing generations of trauma, and much-needed healing. Her life was that of great loss, bitterness, and secrecy. What I know of my grandmother’s story is woven together by old documents and photos, and a random assortment of my mother’s childhood stories. My grandmother was haunted, and she wore her bitterness on her sleeve.
In writing about mine and my grandmother’s relation to Ktaqmkuk, I find solace in giving the land back its Mi’kmaq name. For generations, colonial forces attempted to erase Ktaqmkuk and her history with the Euro-centric renaming of the land and people, and settlers’ unwillingness to work on reconciliation efforts. Although I have just started learning my language, I wanted to name certain words in Mi’kmaq where they fit throughout my poem. Calling my grandmother Kumij, the land Maqamikew, my family Wi’kmaq, is where I unapologetically reclaim mine and my ancestors’ identities. As an Indigenous Feminist, it is crucial for me to give space to what was lost and is now being found. The ancestors are pulling me back to my roots. In protest of colonization, I call the land her real name, “Ktaqmkuk,” and Indigenize spaces when and wherever I can. It is part of my healing and learning process. While it is at a moderate pace, reclaiming the language and culture is part of reclaiming an identity that was stolen from me by settlers. It is part of healing my intergenerational familial trauma. It is part of my reconciliation.
* CRENSHAW ARTICLE (1989)
Crenshaw (1989) Intersectionality
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