The spiral is an attempt at controlling the chaos.
It has two directions. Where do you place
yourself, at the periphery or at the vortex?
Beginning at the outside is the fear of losing
control; the winding in is a tightening, a
retreating, compacting to a point of
disappearance. Beginning at the center is
affirmation, the move outward is a representation
of giving, and giving up control; of trust, positive
energy, of life itself.

Spirals—which way to turn—represent the fragility
in an open space. Fear makes the world go round.

– Louise Bourgeois

https://moodle.swarthmore.edu/pluginfile.php/509827/mod_resource/content/2/Layli-Long-Soldier-Whereas.pdf?fbclid=IwAR3DrH7RFbbQekPXuE8px64gEETPlb7Qu8h8n6gqJjIkNFAT2drp_QnrNN0

38
by Layli Long Soldier

Here, the sentence will be respected.

I will compose each sentence with care, by minding what the rules of writing dictate.

For example, all sentences will begin with capital letters.

Likewise, the history of the sentence will be honored by ending each one with appropriate punctuation such as a period or question mark, thus bringing the idea to (momentary) completion.

You may like to know, I do not consider this a “creative piece.”

I do not regard this as a poem of great imagination or a work of fiction.

Also, historical events will not be dramatized for an “interesting” read.

Therefore, I feel most responsible to the orderly sentence; conveyor of thought.

That said, I will begin.

You may or may not have heard about the Dakota 38.

If this is the first time you’ve heard of it, you might wonder, “What is the Dakota 38?”

The Dakota 38 refers to thirty-eight Dakota men who were executed by hanging, under orders from President Abraham Lincoln.

To date, this is the largest “legal” mass execution in US history.

The hanging took place on December 26, 1862—the day after Christmas.

This was the same week that President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

In the preceding sentence, I italicize “same week” for emphasis.

There was a movie titled Lincoln about the presidency of Abraham Lincoln.

The signing of the Emancipation Proclamation was included in the film Lincoln; the hanging of the Dakota 38 was not.

In any case, you might be asking, “Why were thirty-eight Dakota men hung?”

As a side note, the past tense of hang is hung, but when referring to the capital punishment of hanging, the correct past tense is hanged.

So it’s possible that you’re asking, “Why were thirty-eight Dakota men hanged?”

They were hanged for the Sioux Uprising.

I want to tell you about the Sioux Uprising, but I don’t know where to begin.

I may jump around and details will not unfold in chronological order.

Keep in mind, I am not a historian.

So I will recount facts as best as I can, given limited resources and understanding.

Before Minnesota was a state, the Minnesota region, generally speaking, was the traditional homeland for Dakota, Anishinaabeg, and Ho-Chunk people.

During the 1800s, when the US expanded territory, they “purchased” land from the Dakota people as well as the other tribes.

But another way to understand that sort of “purchase” is: Dakota leaders ceded land to the US government in exchange for money or goods, but most importantly, the safety of their people.

Some say that Dakota leaders did not understand the terms they were entering, or they never would have agreed.

Even others call the entire negotiation “trickery.”

But to make whatever-it-was official and binding, the US government drew up an initial treaty.

This treaty was later replaced by another (more convenient) treaty, and then another.

I’ve had difficulty unraveling the terms of these treaties, given the legal speak and congressional language.

As treaties were abrogated (broken) and new treaties were drafted, one after another, the new treaties often referenced old defunct treaties, and it is a muddy, switchback trail to follow.

Although I often feel lost on this trail, I know I am not alone.

However, as best as I can put the facts together, in 1851, Dakota territory was contained to a twelve-mile by one-hundred-fifty-mile long strip along the Minnesota River.

But just seven years later, in 1858, the northern portion was ceded (taken) and the southern portion was (conveniently) allotted, which reduced Dakota land to a stark ten-mile tract.

These amended and broken treaties are often referred to as the Minnesota Treaties.

The word Minnesota comes from mni, which means water; and sota, which means turbid.

Synonyms for turbid include muddy, unclear, cloudy, confused, and smoky.

Everything is in the language we use.

For example, a treaty is, essentially, a contract between two sovereign nations.

The US treaties with the Dakota Nation were legal contracts that promised money.

It could be said, this money was payment for the land the Dakota ceded; for living within assigned boundaries (a reservation); and for relinquishing rights to their vast hunting territory which, in turn, made Dakota people dependent on other means to survive: money.

The previous sentence is circular, akin to so many aspects of history.

As you may have guessed by now, the money promised in the turbid treaties did not make it into the hands of Dakota people.

In addition, local government traders would not offer credit to “Indians” to purchase food or goods.

Without money, store credit, or rights to hunt beyond their ten-mile tract of land, Dakota people began to starve.

The Dakota people were starving.

The Dakota people starved.

In the preceding sentence, the word “starved” does not need italics for emphasis.

One should read “The Dakota people starved” as a straightforward and plainly stated fact.

As a result—and without other options but to continue to starve—Dakota people retaliated.

Dakota warriors organized, struck out, and killed settlers and traders.

This revolt is called the Sioux Uprising.

Eventually, the US Cavalry came to Mnisota to confront the Uprising.

More than one thousand Dakota people were sent to prison.

As already mentioned, thirty-eight Dakota men were subsequently hanged.

After the hanging, those one thousand Dakota prisoners were released.

However, as further consequence, what remained of Dakota territory in Mnisota was dissolved (stolen).

The Dakota people had no land to return to.

This means they were exiled.

Homeless, the Dakota people of Mnisota were relocated (forced) onto reservations in South Dakota and Nebraska.

Now, every year, a group called the Dakota 38 + 2 Riders conduct a memorial horse ride from Lower Brule, South Dakota, to Mankato, Mnisota.

The Memorial Riders travel 325 miles on horseback for eighteen days, sometimes through sub-zero blizzards.

They conclude their journey on December 26, the day of the hanging.

Memorials help focus our memory on particular people or events.

Often, memorials come in the forms of plaques, statues, or gravestones.

The memorial for the Dakota 38 is not an object inscribed with words, but an act.

Yet, I started this piece because I was interested in writing about grasses.

So, there is one other event to include, although it’s not in chronological order and we must backtrack a little.

When the Dakota people were starving, as you may remember, government traders would not extend store credit to “Indians.”

One trader named Andrew Myrick is famous for his refusal to provide credit to Dakota people by saying, “If they are hungry, let them eat grass.”

There are variations of Myrick’s words, but they are all something to that effect.

When settlers and traders were killed during the Sioux Uprising, one of the first to be executed by the Dakota was Andrew Myrick.

When Myrick’s body was found,

                                                                               his mouth was stuffed with grass.

I am inclined to call this act by the Dakota warriors a poem.

There’s irony in their poem.

There was no text.

“Real” poems do not “really” require words.

I have italicized the previous sentence to indicate inner dialogue, a revealing moment.

But, on second thought, the words “Let them eat grass” click the gears of the poem into place.

So, we could also say, language and word choice are crucial to the poem’s work.

Things are circling back again.

Sometimes, when in a circle, if I wish to exit, I must leap.

And let the body                                                   swing.

From the platform.

                                                                                Out

                                                                                                                        to the grasses.

“In my study, I noticed something interesting about the etymology of “genre” and “gender.” Both words come from the Latin word “genus,” translating to “race.” It was an enlightening discovery to learn that “race,” “gender,” “genre,” and even “class” all come from the same word in Latin, thereby having the same function.”

https://www.e-flux.com/journal/117/387112/noise-is-the-nigga-of-sound/

https://www.e-flux.com/journal/138/553676/who-haunts/

https://www.e-flux.com/notes/575616/how-to-haunt-oppenheimer-and-black-hanford?utm_campaign=later-linkinbio-e_flux&utm_content=later-39391406&utm_medium=social&utm_source=linkin.bio

https://abcnews.go.com/International/story?id=80952&page=1#.Tymk41wltKI
https://www.gallupsun.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=17065:letter-to-the-editor-honoring-larry-casuse&catid=185:letters-to-the-editor&Itemid=615

https://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/local_news/fifty-years-later-casuse-an-ancestor-and-a-predecessor-in-indigenous-struggle/article_a0e706b8-b2ee-11ed-88c2-372450fae035.html

https://indypendent.org/2022/05/the-brief-brave-life-of-larry-casuse/

https://jps.library.utoronto.ca/index.php/des/article/download/22829/19320/58582

“I am certainly aware that negative emotions such as anger and resentment have the potential to manifest themselves in disempowering and violent ways, I am not advocating for Indigenous peoples to be angry or to harbor hatred for the colonial world; rather, I am advocating that we love ourselves. At the same time, I am exploring my own resentment (or ressentiment) and attempting to apply my own understanding of Hul’qumi’num’ practice as a starting point to express emotions other than love. Finally, I remain unconvinced that ressentiment is not defensible as a potentially transformative subjectivity or affective reaction to the practices of the Canadian state in the past and present. The Western tradition is particularly obsessed with time, inventing different times (Fabian, 1983), exploitation of time, transcending time, evolution through time and so on. This is true for their conception of resentment and harm, that “ressentiment nails us to the past, blocks the exit to the future, twists or disorders the time-sense of the person trapped in it” (Brudholm, 2006, p. 21). For Hul’qumi’num’qun’ nations, we are more concerned with place, but in our big house when a harm or transgression is committed, it is addressed before the ceremony or family can move forward, and nobody in attendance is allowed to leave until there is resolution witnessed and the place where the incident occurred is cleansed by the women.

In Hul’qumi’num’, teytiyuq translates to angry, whereas qul’sthaat translates as anger that involves the entire body. The root words of qul’sthaat are qul’ and qul’aan. Qul’ is our word for eye, and qul’aan means a terrible thing that happened (in the past) that can be fixed, which suggests that some things can not be fixed. For Hul’qumi’num’qun’, anger is an embodied experience that is localized in our eyes and in our vision, how we see the world and how we are seen. For Hul’qumi’num’qun’, there are different forms of anger. Individuals must engage in certain practices to ensure protection for themselves and others from that anger, but certainly no outsider can assess the validity of another’s anger. Depending on the form, we have different practices that function to cleanse those feelings so that they do not harm that person or others in their family and community. Traditionally, and especially during ceremony today, if we are sad or angry we are instructed to not look other people in the eye for fear of hurting them, we say that our eyes are sharp. These cleansing practices, however, do not banish that anger and ask the person to forget, they are concerned with protecting the people from that anger so that it is not directed inward. Given that the violent colonial history of domination and dispossession of Indigenous peoples continues to structure our daily lives and has profound affects on our health, colonial rage overtly and covertly shapes our relations with self and Others. Indigenous women’s voices including those of love and anger must prefigure the politics of resistance and approaches to solidarity.



In the city, in the classroom, or at a protest, there is always a settler seeking my recognition. She wants me to recognize that she is distanced from the others. She is innocent. Through her look, the Other wants me to see that she is a good settler, an ally. But my only thought is: Don’t smile at me. In Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon (1967) demonstrates the futility of appealing to the Other for recognition and instead identifies the enemy, “since the Other was reluctant to recognize me, there was only one answer: to make myself known” (p. 92). Similarly, when Indigenous peoples deploy ‘settler’ it identifies the enemy, whereas, when deployed by settlers it is often depoliticized and neutralized rather than counter-performative in its function. When the colonized are not grateful or fail to recognize and commend the self-decolonizing of the settler, we are resented.



A settler political will should be willful, that is, willing to disobey a general will and always working toward an alternative future. Revolution is only possible when subjects violate the directives of commanding bodies, a willing willfulness to create the world anew by opposing the old orders (Foucault, 1982, p. 336). The will to change is simultaneously a negation and an affirmation. It is, as Foucault (1982) writes, “through the refusal of this kind of individuality that has been imposed on us” that new forms of subjectivity emerge (p. 336). The political will of decolonization refuses to reproduce the present and affirms alternative futures.”

“The powers of the world are invested in destroying time like subsidised corn burning in a field”

– Porpentine Charity Heartscape



From Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky’s short story, ‘Collector of Cracks’:

The jerkiness of our vision, the discontinuousness of our perception of a motion picture, say, is a fairly well-known fact. But to face that fact is not enough: One must go inside it. Wedged in between instants – when the film, having withdrawn one image from the retina, is advancing so as to produce another – is a split second when everything has been taken from the eye and another new given it. In that split second the eye is before emptiness, but it sees it: Something unseen seems seen.



From Stuck in a Sticky Shed with Side Chain Compression by Kristen Gallerneaux:

Stone, slime, mud and soundwaves are mineral level media with opinions. The taboo that connects the grime to the shine of our everyday digital life is on Drew’s mind too:

The tools I use are haunted by the souls that made them and origin in which they were conceived. It feels inescapable, as I type on my mid-2014 MacBook Pro. All the techno-wonders just feel drenched in exploitation – or bad vibrations – embedded in the circuitry.

All from Magic Work: Queerness as Remystification by Caspar Heinemann:

In Huxtable’s world of clashing im/materialities, not only is neither the immaterial nor the material privileged or relegated, but neither side is allowed to exist without the other. She plays with the idea of the physical as something that can be removed, but the body is never more than a few sentences away, ready to react. Meatspace is a force constantly acting upon and recreating the ether (and vice versa), and the boundaries between them are blurred and unstable; ‘fat, bones, bodily fluids, pocketed dishes, and photos on faulty hard-drives’ exist in the same breath. There’s no space for the material of the body to become subservient to the subject, or the reverse



Preoccupation with death and violence is preoccupation with materiality and the object; to get literal and dualistic, the process of dying is a process of moving from subject to object. Objectification has always been characterised as violence, but for Bronson, dying is a lifelong process, entirely embedded into the fabric of life, giving another way in which the body always inhabits a liminal space between object and subject. What would an objectification that is not violent or forced, but embraced and embodied look like? Or a weaponised objectification, liberated from the demands of representation, free to turn against itself. Bronson’s insistence on the ubiquity of death presents a possibility, an encouragement to embrace the letting go of a cohesive subject represented by a singular physical form.



One attempt at cosy accommodation or recuperation of trans bodies into the gender binary has been the trope of the man/woman trapped in the body of the man/woman, which somehow manages to imply that bodies both signify everything, and count for nothing. The body is a reflection, not even a mirror; it cannot be trusted as representation, or allowed the dignity of being material in and of itself. The flesh must be situated as subservient to the mind, but the mind has no actual power to alter the flesh. Judith Butler critiqued this from the position that sex is no more an objective fact than gender itself, which becomes ‘free-floating artifice’ after being theorised as independent of sex. But why wait? And as if anything is independent anymore (if it ever was). Talking of floating, when I think of subject I think of it as a liquid with objects floating in it, some of which rise to the surface or sink, according to weight or hormones or the natural order of things.

‘I HATE MEN SO I STOPPED BEING ONE’ – tumblr user sixtyforty. The dictionary.com definition of trans- (prefix) is a root meaning ‘across, beyond, through, changing thoroughly’. The trans body is a body perpetually signified by changing thoroughly; don’t even think about staying still, you can’t. This is of course true of all bodies, just some wear it more readily on their sleeves or secondary sex characteristics, in the way that all bodies are ageing bodies but only some people have an ageing body.