Remembering Why

…and what cannot be torn.
Ray Jay (Emmarine Woody) and Edmond Frey (Brandon Blakeman)
with their daughter, Odet Elise.

Loosing the people I most cherish has opened my heart in ways that I didnt think were possible. I’m embracing my essence that is characterized with being goofy, young-at-heart and encompasses displaying and owning who I am at my very core: Driven. Tempered. Passionate. And anymore, UNAPOLOGETIC. I don’t spend time basking in the heard mentality. My blood is warmed with being ‘different’, and incitment.

…Let there be a grand production…I love me a good show with their very best BROUGHT. 😉

Incessant Wanting

Incessant Wanting by @rayjaydaily

This particular piece offers an illustrative visual that capitulate the emotions and thoughts that the illegal adoption entailed–everything unwittingly leading up to those documents and all, that, would take place after.


Creating art is a big part of me coping with recent events and the loss that incurred. I will be going go a printing press to have these favorite images of mine rendered on 11 x 14 sheets of metal and canvas will have its part, as well. I’m thoroughly looking forward to this, but finances have been tight. I don’t have much to play with…but I am hopeful and optimistic that this crtertainly will change for the better.

Get caught up:

She Said ‘No’. Didn’t You Listen?

This intrepid and frustrating existence I continue to endure – two years later, is hardly fucking encouraging. And I find myself becoming more bold after vacillating, intermittent periods of apathy and feelings of helpless hopelessness that of which stem from the ever-so-persistent constant demand and blatant proffered statements that make good on these forewarned eventsContinue reading “She Said ‘No’. Didn’t You Listen?”

I’m Going Hard

I’m not leaving any hesitation to speak out concerning the truth while I continue to grieve my losses. It’d be a miracle to have my child back; I keep lit my candle each night.

Below Branon lays out what he’s giving me, back then, and it’s warming to have his voice recorded though it’s often too painful to listen to. Always honoring you, B.

Brandon declares his greatest gift to me–A family, winter 2018

War of Words: ICWA Hearings Reignite Ancient Clash Over Indian Children, Part 1 – — Scotties Toy Box

I am stunned we are still having this problem. Ron and I supported the Lakota Children’s Project. We gave money and I made many posts. I had though this issue was settled. I was wrong. I admit I stopped paying attention after they won the court case. I guess there is […]

War of Words: ICWA Hearings Reignite Ancient Clash Over Indian Children, Part 1 – — Scotties Toy Box

Surveiled–Watched. And Legal.

Photo of Emmarine Woody braving the cruel and unrelenting world-at-large with a her best grin.

I’ve done well with coping, so far, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. Loss embedded with deep-seated regret is often hard to be truthful about. I’ve been honest: I have many regrets, and hang-ups that, I hope to one day overcome. But its going to take a long time. And much effort. And sustained hope. Sustained, absolutely.

With losing Brandon, I not only felt the tangible absence of his being, but lost our gorgeous daughter. Both. And loss didn’t stop there; I lost our dreams that we crafted and envisioned together. And finding my voice has been quite the struggle, but thankfully, not without content. Meaningful writing. Were talking ‘in-the-state-of-flow’ content that only an artist dedicated to her craft and illustrating the sequence of events as depicted from memory. And struggling, against all waters, to find any semblance of meaning that staying on earth would make worthwhile–no matter how small. But there had to be something–or else I would lose the argument with myself and succumb to my early and abrupt death, too.

Brandon dealt with a lot throughout his life. A lot of loss, like me, almost erringly. We had much in common, and he was everything I had asked for in the man of my dreams. I got him; just for not long.
You see, Brandon grappled with ethics. He had, as many would understand, a guilty conscience, and it weighed on him and he deliberated what was the right thing to do in most circumstances. And I admired that strength in him. He cared. He was a man of great stature: 6′ 2″. Alaskan Native in his blood, we met in Gillette, Wyoming on March 26th, 2018. We met at a Hardees. And perhaps I’ll just leave it there because I tend to want to delve deeper into the substance of my original intent for writing before I get sidetracked with the nuances that have been told before. That’ll come later.

Brandon was special to me. And the daughter we created was conceived from a worthwhile and real longing from both Brandon and I, to live a full-familial life that was nothing short of loving and wholesome. But early on within our relationship, I realized that his past; his upbringing, was characterized by an ugliness that most people couldn’t fathom. That and his ties outside the confines of law made him a likely projected target—as Brandon wasn’t keeping quiet regarding the corruption within the familial politics that he found himself bargaining with, and ultimately, threw his hands up in the air, fully embracing the outrage of his father’s side of the family. Uncle Randy. This character played a chief role in Brandon’s life. Was somewhat loved and altogether feared.

The adoption was coerced, abrupt and utterly terrifying. I was told from my bedroom’s closed door, at JMJ Maternity Homes, (on Grove Avenue) from a Children and Youth caseworker by the name of Maria, if memory serves correctly. She was emphatic that if I was ever labeled with a mental illness such as x, y or z, the entire proceedings that she initiated would quickly change and that my daughter would be adopted quickly. I am NOT kidding. I was utterly terrified and felt the walls closing in on me and backing me into a corner.

The caseworker made me quickly to sign a paper, refused to allow me to read over the paper before signing. And she was absolutely emphatic that the house coordinator, who was present each and every day, by the name of Valerie Kelly, that I needed to have her sign on as member of my “safety plan” that included stipulations of not having the ability to move out of state or failure to keep contact with the caseworker or Valerie, (She had called this case-worker Maria, citing need to have the involvement of the agency and audibly mentioned, within my presence, of how the caseworker and Valerie rubbing elbows quite frequently) and Stacie Martinez. Stacie was another woman I met at the local Atwater Yosemite Satellite Church; Stacie worked at the local pregnancy “resource” clinic and would sit silent during my times of trying to understand where the logic was in the happenings of everything I observed around me, specifically, with the maternity home and how I and the other mother’s were treated—trying to make sense of it all. Surely, I had to have missed something?

I would cry and just sob at church. I reached out to parishioners, enumerating my heartache at how I was treated and how it wasn’t just or wanted—not deserved. I was sweet, but quite astute, and that never has rubbed my enemies the ‘right’ way. But nobody within the church would make a call to action aside from Julie Rossow. She displayed the “perfect Christ-like family” and had a large whiter than white grin that was phoney. That bothered me. It always bothered me, but I dismissed my intuitive nature and strived to adjust everything that comprised of my innate nature, to meet the approval and validation of the churches and people I was around.

Brandon and my mother were very concerned. My mother teetered on the notion and urging of giving up our child for adoption and that of getting out of the maternity home but NOT making up with Brandon or going near him. She gave me no viable options. Neither did children and youth. I was told by Maria that there were NO RESOURCES that have not already been attempted at garnering that SHE DID NOT KNOW OF. And the local legal aide office within Merced of Merced County, California, refuse to represent financially-strapped but targeted mother’s from the hands of Children and Youth. Zero. No chance at fighting to keep motherhood and families in tact without first thwarting the sacredness of such a union and devoid of incurred trauma and substantial losses.

And I was numb. I was hormonal and trying to understand everything that continued to go on and that that had transpired from my recent past in Wyoming. It’s a wonder, I am amazed at how nobody from the church, or the maternity home, or even the domestic abuse shelter or, even the pastor Uncle Randy had neglected to urge me to reunify with Brandon. Nobody, not one person, had held that conversation with me. Nobody had urged us to seek family counseling or reach out to the Blakeman family for further help and support. No. Not one.

There were many, many red flags that scared and concerned me—had me wondering , at first, if the intentions from the maternity home and the key players involved surrounding the varied context were coordinated and schemed. Planned-out, methodical, in realizing their intentions to a later-known very profitable, unethical and common practice of coerced adoption that failed to end that are commonly understood to have taken place because it wasn’t “socially acceptable” to be either poor or unwed, in conceiving and raising a child.


Jules Rossow, posing with taken daughter Odet Elise Woody-Blakeman (Rossow–CA) ofAlaskan Native decent–undeniably a dying breed and dissolving culture–attempting to pass as of her very own. Damn. Noo, Jules, the natives were here before you and before your family that.