This piece came from a place most people never admit out loud — the edge of quitting. The moment when the hurt, the pressure, the loneliness, and the lies stack so high you start wondering if silence would be easier. I felt that. I sat with that. And then the part of me that belongs to T.C. Cannon, to Robert Cannon, to Kathleen Cannon rose up and said, “No. Get up. Make something. Say something. Leave something.” I come from those who did not shrink themselves. T.C. painted the Indian world how it felt, not how anyone wanted it packaged. Bobby saw color and form long before Oklahoma ever understood him. Kathleen moved through life with the backbone of a woman who knew what she carried and what she refused to surrender. I’m their granddaughter. Their echo. Their continuation. So even when I wanted to give up, I couldn’t. It’s not in the blood.
hégâu bát hâundâu: — “I am here.”
Not politely.
Not softly.
Not waiting for permission.
This piece is painted in defiance, rage, and refusal.
Refusal to be erased.
Refusal to let pain make me small.
Refusal to let anyone else narrate my story, my work, my spirit, or my art.
neon, the glitter, the unapologetic color. Deliberate.