just around the riverbend

If you want to catch me in a weak moment, just sit me down in front of the last 15 minutes of Pocahontas. Forget the fact that John Smith, a man she magically learned English for, leaves her forever, but just look at how her hair blows in the wind and never gets tangled.

Ever since I was little I've dreamed of being her. I wanted her tan, her natural running ability, and to pull off a mid-driff animal skin ensemble so effortlessly. To me, she is the epitome of grace, and since a young age I would stand down wind, practice my serious face, and allow my curly mess of hair to be taken where it may. Coincidentally, this plan doesn't turn out as glamorously when taking place in my front yard and not drawn by an animation artist. Two bottles of conditioner later, and my dreadlocks would begin to loosen.

Years later, my secret desire to be a strong Native American woman is as intense as ever. Although I may just be holding out for John Smith to pop out of a tree somewhere close to a river that may or may not include a waterfall that we may wade through to reach each other in slow motion with strings playing in the background...the dream is still alive. Lord knows I don't know which colors make up the wind to even begin painting with them, and I won't lie to you and say I consider any raccoons to be my close personal friend. However, when I feel like the outlook is hopeless, I still channel my inner Pocahontas. She goes canoeing, I take a drive. She runs through the woods barefoot, I put on my Nikes and go for a jog on the road. She seeks advice from trees, I consult the bottom of an ice cream tub. She jumps off a cliff, I move to a foreign country. She chooses her fate, I choose mine.

Wingapo.