People think that I am not entitled to feel the same prejudice as my ancestors did because I was born in Australia. They call me psychotic, overly opinionated – an idiot. They always ask me why I embrace my heritage instead of shunning it. They ask me to bury my reason in English so they can understand. I will not stop fighting. I will not break my connection so their lazy English can fix its lips around it. It doesn’t matter where I am or where I was born. I have my ancestors face and their blood runs deep under my flesh. I am woven together by the strings of many indigenous nations. I was sent here by my ancestors to speak their story and to teach. I will not people baptise me in their hate and ignorance as a poor excuse for their weakness. With letters I try to snatch my indigenous (to North and Central America) freedom back, and will continue to do so until the day I bury my feet in the dust of the plains my ancestors walked generations before I was born. People will try to overthrow me as they are intimidated of anything that tells them how it is. They fear me for it. My existence is a gift of my parent’s determination – to preserve a bloodline that dates back before Columbus. A bloodline swathed in misunderstanding, prejudice and bigotry. My birth upon this Earth is a medal to my ancestors to sayTHEY HAVE NOT LOST. My voice and my protection of the indigenous nations stretching from North to South America is my frantic attempt to save the blood and flesh watered down by centuries of bigotry. I have never been to the great plateau, but my voice carries me to a plain, a vessel and an Earth I’ve never been to but have felt many times in the pit of my heart. I feel closer and closer and closer to my nations by wrapping myself in this voice and this power. I will not let the people break me, as I have a strength that can not be broken. It was a gift from my ancestors and they birthed me in 3 syllables. The great plateau is my country – my ink. Stretching from North America to Central Mexico, where the Aztec empire thrived. My voice and my strength is the signature at the end of the last letter before the pilgrims come to strip my culture away. It is the air that fills my lungs when I tell people why I am the way I am. It is the inhale that speaks the truth of hidden America. I REFUSE to break myself into dust because people are too weak to carry my voice in their mouths. I will not stop fighting, and I will no longer let people talk down to me as if I am nothing.