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Why I Won't Be Silent About the Suicide of Indigenous Men Like My Father
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One of the last memories I have of my father is him sitting on the edge of my bed, strumming his acoustic guitar and singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” while I was going to sleep.
I remember his long hair touching his shoulders, the tank top he was wearing because of the humid summer nights, and his bare foot moving with the music, keeping time.
That was considered “our song,” our bedtime routine. Little did I know later in life it would be completely off limits to me as it could launch me into a roller coaster of emotions too painful to recover from.
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