In the autumn of 2018, I met with a female elected Representative of the Blackfeet Tribe in Montana. I asked to meet with her, hoping that a Native American woman in a position of power would be interested in (and able to) helping me with the information I had regarding the sexual trafficking of Native American women across the continent.
Her response to my inquiry was to suggest that I write a novel because “even if you change everyone’s name, they’ll know that you are talking about them.” Especially coming on the heels of the discussion about how white people created fictionalizations and changed names of people and places to accommodate their own collective story of colonization, I was floored. She had not heard herself speak and chose not to hear me speak any more. “You are a voice for the voiceless”, she said. Yet she did not want to hear and I did not have the courage to say, “They have voices! They are speaking and crying out! This is real and true horror that needs no fiction to add to the drama!”
What follows is not fiction. Some names have been changed to protect those who are afraid of being attached to this unveiling of truth. The rest is as true as the breath you draw.
To tell this story, I need to bring you along part of the journey into how I got into this mess long before my first encounter with dead Native Americans. This will not be the story detailing of being an abused child, but sharing the foundation of my upbringing and my Becoming will help you understand my capacities to feel deeply and go where others have not.
They do have voices. They pray.
Those prayers have been heard. This is one answer to those prayers.
There is more to be read on Patreon. https://www.patreon.com/IngridOliphant?fan_landing=true