Please Do Not Flaunt Your Rights
From Islands of Decolonial Love. Published by ARP Books in 2013. Leanne Simpson is the past director of Indigenous Environmental Studies at Trent University. She is a member of the gidigaa bzhiw dodem and a citizen of the Nishnaabeg Nation.
after 89 years of eating squirrel, muskrat, groundhog and tomato macaroni wiener soup, my hunting and fishing rights have arrived back at the pleasure of the crown. the letter said as of october 29, you can hunt and fish the 1818 treaty area and please do not flaunt your rights in front of the ontario federation of hunters and anglers.
so me and my best kwe drove down to the ofha headquarters, set up our lawn chairs, built a bit of a shkode and nailed two signs into the ground that
read: first we’ll kill your animals and fish, then we’ll fuck your wives (with their consent, of course). we stayed there for two days, until the cops came and told us we were trespassing and no one knew what our signs meant anyway. you cannot apparently write “fuck” on a sign in public and then just sit beside it smoking electronic cigarettes because we’re trying to quit and eating sandwiches out of the cooler. you cannot just protest for no reason, you have to have some reason and come on, you’re making your people look bad. they didn’t send the regular cops though. they drove out and got the rez cop, and sent him over to talk us down. which i guess is an improvement because sometimes they just shoot. so garry comes over and is all “what’s all this?” acting coplike, and we’re biting the insides of our cheeks saying “aaniin gookoosh,” and garry’s biting the insides of his cheeks too because we just learned that particular farm animal all together in language class on wednesday. then kwe says, “what the fuck took you so long? we’ve been here for two days, we’re starting to run out of goddamn sandwiches.” garry says we have to be gone by tomorrow or there’s going to be charges.
so i leave ofha headquarters early, and i therefore get home early and i open the bedroom door and there’s
garry all missionary, pumping his shit stick into some 25-year-old college zhaganashikwe. i feel embarrassed for garry when our eyes meet. and yes, i feel contempt when my eyes meet hers imagining how impressive garry must seem when you can’t see through his veneer and when you don’t know enough to see he stopped self actualizing in 1998. when you can only see wild exotic savage lover.
his weakness is all splayed out before me in a lake and i can see 15 m to the bottom. it burns—the idea that me and her and her vacuous 25-yearold mind are equivalent. “sorry.” “sorry for what?” “i’m sorry you had to see that.” “me too.” “it doesn’t mean anything.” “fuck who you want.” “you don’t understand.” “i understand. i don’t care who you fuck.”
“you’re just saying that because you’re mad.”
“i’m just saying that because i love you but i don’t care who else you fuck.” “now what?”
“now what, what?”
“well i don’t know what happens next.” “of course you don’t.” “of course i don’t?” “of course you don’t.” “you’re sitting there, expecting me to freak, expecting me to be mad and cry and throw random objects at you and call you a loser and selfish and a cheater. and you’re all ready to defend yourself and tell me it means nothing and tell me she means nothing and that it will never happen again. and that’s all bullshit. you’re trying to fill the gaping hole. white pussy filled it for ten minutes. now you’re in the exact same position you were in this morning with your gaping hole. nothing’s changed.” “no nothing’s changed.”