There There

A Shattered Mosaic

Dear Reader, I come to you as a whisper from the margins, a silhouette against the stark backdrop of a world you may not know. My story is not one of grandeur, it's etched in the concrete of city sidewalks and the hum of urban drumbeats.

I am Tommy, but not the one you might have heard of, not the writer himself, but a voice from his creation, a spirit from "There There." I am an echo of the Native American experience in the urban sprawl, a face in the crowd, but today, I step forward to share my tale.

We live in a fractured world, our lives splintered like the fragments of a shattered mirror. Each of us holds a piece, our reflection a distorted image of who we are, or who we're supposed to be.

My journey starts in Oakland, a city vibrant but bruised, a tapestry of cultures and conflicts. It's a place where my Native American heritage jostles with the modern world, where tradition is both a lifeline and a chain.

Maybe your piece of glass shows the reflection of a different struggle, a different pain, but in the end, we're all trying to piece together a semblance of wholeness, aren't we? It's easy to get lost in the chaos, to become a mere shadow flickering on the walls of skyscrapers. But the stories we tell, the stories I share, they're like beacons in the night, guiding ships lost at sea.

In my youth, I was one such vessel, adrift and searching for a harbor. The city was my ocean, vast and unforgiving, yet it was within its depths that I found the currents that would carry me forward.

Maybe your ocean looks different, maybe your lighthouse is another shape, but the search for meaning, for direction, is universal. It's the bond that ties our disparate lives together.

Drumbeats and Heartbeats

The drum is the heartbeat of my people, a steady rhythm that echoes through time and blood. It's the pulse that reminds us we're alive, that we're connected to something greater than ourselves.

As a boy, I was drawn to that sound, to the circle of dancers, their feet pounding the earth in a dance as old as the hills. The drumbeat was my lullaby, my battle cry, my solace in times of sorrow.

But life has a way of muting the music, of silencing the songs that once filled our lungs. The city's cacophony drowned out the drumbeats, the sounds of sirens and chattering crowds replacing the ancient rhythms.

I lost my way, my steps faltering, my dance reduced to a shuffle. Perhaps you've felt it too, that loss of rhythm, the sense that the music you once marched to has faded into the background noise of life.

It's in these moments of silence that we must listen hardest, for the drumbeat never truly dies—it waits for us to find it again. I learned that we carry our heartbeats with us, that the drum can sound within our own chests if we're brave enough to let it.

It took years, a journey through the wilderness of my own despair, to find that rhythm again. To let it guide me back to the circle, back to the dance.

Your heartbeat might follow a different tempo, your dance a different style, but the essence is the same. It's the rhythm of life, of survival, of enduring against the odds.

Stories Etched in Ink

Our bodies are canvases, our skin a living testament to the stories we've lived. Each tattoo, each scar, is a chapter, a reminder of moments that shaped us.

I marked myself with ink, images that spoke of my heritage, my pain, my hopes. They were my silent rebellion, my way of reclaiming the narrative that others had written for me.

You may not wear your stories on your skin, but you carry them nonetheless. They're etched in your memory, in the lines of your face, in the way you carry yourself through the world.

We all bear the marks of our experiences, visible or not. My tattoos became a roadmap, each one a waypoint on a journey that was far from over.

They were conversations starters, bridges between my world and the one outside my skin. The pain of the needle, the buzz that filled my ears, it was cathartic, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within.

With each new addition, I felt stronger, more in control of the tale I was weaving. Perhaps your catharsis comes in another form, a run along the river, a brush against canvas, words on a page.

The medium differs, but the release is the same—a way to make sense of the chaos, to turn pain into art.

Connections in Disconnection

In the bustling isolation of the city, connections are fleeting. Eyes meet across subway cars, then dart away, lost in private worlds.

We brush shoulders with strangers, share sidewalks and bus seats, yet remain alone in our bubbles. I felt that disconnection, a rootless tree in a forest of steel and glass.

I was surrounded by people, yet I was adrift, an island in a human sea. But disconnection is a lie we tell ourselves.

The truth is, we're woven into a larger tapestry, our threads crossing and recrossing, even if we can't see the pattern. There were moments, lightning strikes of connection, that shattered my solitude.

A smile from a passerby, a conversation with a fellow traveler, a shared glance that said, "I see you." Maybe you've felt it too, those brief touches of kinship in a world that seems determined to keep us apart.

They're reminders that we're not as alone as we think. It was in these flashes of connection that I found the strength to reach out, to forge bonds that ran deeper than the surface.

Relationships that started as thin threads grew into ropes, lifelines that pulled me back from the brink. You have your own lifelines, your own ropes.

They might be frayed, they might be hidden, but they're there. We just have to be willing to grasp them, to tie our threads together and create a stronger weave.

The Dance of Ancestors

Our ancestors dance in our dreams, their whispers the wind that stirs our souls. They are the unseen hands that guide us, the shadow figures that walk beside us on our journey.

I felt their presence, a weight and a comfort, a sense of belonging to a story much larger than my own. They were the keepers of wisdom, the storytellers, the holders of pain and pride.

You carry your ancestors with you, too, even if you don't hear their drumbeats or see their dances. They live in the lessons passed down, in the family tales told around dinner tables, in the very blood that courses through your veins.

We are the sum of their experiences, the next chapter in an epic saga. It's a daunting responsibility, to carry the torch they've handed us, to honor their struggles by living our lives fully.

There were times when the weight of their expectations, real or imagined, felt too heavy to bear. Times when I stumbled, when I felt unworthy of their legacy.

But it was in those moments of doubt that I found clarity, the realization that my dance was my own. Your dance is yours, unique and beautiful.

Our ancestors don't expect perfection, they expect effort, the willingness to keep moving, to keep the story alive.

Reflections in Broken Glass

We all stand in the debris of broken dreams, the shards of our expectations scattered at our feet. My dreams were no different, fragmented by reality, by the harsh light of day.

I had to learn to pick up the pieces, to see the beauty in the brokenness. It wasn't easy; the edges were sharp, the reflections distorted.

But there was a mosaic to be made, a new image emerging from the chaos. You've stood there too, haven't you? In the wreckage of plans unfulfilled, of hopes dashed.

It's a desolate place, a test of our mettle. But if we dare to look closely, we find that each piece of glass, no matter how small, reflects a part of us, a part of our story.

It's an opportunity to rebuild, to create something new and unexpected. The mosaic we piece together may be different from the picture we initially envisioned, but it's ours, uniquely beautiful in its imperfection.

As I collected my fragments, I discovered that some pieces no longer fit, their edges worn away by time and change. I had to let them go, to make room for new shapes, new possibilities.

It's a process, an evolution. Your mosaic is being built too, piece by piece, day by day.

It's an ongoing creation, a labor of love and persistence. The picture is never finished, for as long as we live, we add to it, our lives a masterpiece in progress.

Walking in Two Worlds

The duality of my existence was a tightrope walk between two worlds, the Native and the urban, the past and the present. It was a dance of balance, of seeking harmony in the dissonance.

I belonged to both, yet sometimes felt a stranger in each. There were days when the ground beneath me seemed to shift, the rope swaying, threatening to pitch me into the abyss.

You know this dance, even if your tightrope is strung between different poles. We all balance multiple identities, multiple roles, each demanding our attention, our allegiance.

The key, I found, was not in choosing one world over the other, but in blending the music of both into a symphony that was uniquely mine. It was in embracing the totality of my experience, in celebrating the richness that comes from walking in two worlds.

It took time to find my footing, to learn the steps that kept me upright on the wire. There were falls, there were failures, but with each misstep, I grew stronger, more adept.

Your tightrope might be set against a different backdrop, but the challenge is the same—to walk it with grace, with confidence, to reach the other side not in spite of our dualities, but because of them.

The Drumbeat of Tomorrow

As my story unfolds, the drumbeat grows louder, more insistent. It's the sound of the future, of hope and resilience.

It calls to me, to us, to step into the circle once more, to join the dance that never truly ends. I am Tommy, but I am also you, a reflection in the broken glass, a thread in the tapestry, a dancer in the circle.

We are on this journey together, our paths winding and intersecting in ways we may never fully understand. But in the sharing of our stories, in the recognition of our common struggles, there is strength, there is solidarity.

Our drumbeats merge, a symphony of heartbeats that speaks of a shared humanity, of a kinship that transcends the boundaries of our individual lives. And so, I leave you with this: Let the drumbeat guide you, let the dance move you.

Embrace the mosaic of your existence, the beauty of your brokenness. Walk your tightrope with the knowledge that you are not alone, that the ancestors dance with you, that the future awaits with open arms.

And if you find yourself yearning for more stories, for a deeper understanding of the world I inhabit, seek out "There There" by Tommy Orange. For within its pages, you'll find a masterpiece that weaves together the voices of a community, a people, a nation—each one searching, each one enduring, each one dancing to the heartbeat of tomorrow.