May I grow old enough to be forgotten.
May my questions become passé,
may my bibliographies become outdated,
may my theories be superceded,
may I be obsolete.
May I teach students who teach students who teach students:
may I meet these younger thinkers at conferences,
may I read and cite their work,
may I watch them stand more stably than I could ever have dreamed.
May I sit in committee meetings where young colleagues raise new challenges
because the old ones have finally been put to rest.
May I watch the old guard quietly move on, but more than this:
may I live long enough to be part of an old guard
who younger scholars wish would retire.
(May I get to retire.)
May I see scores of Indigenous scholars
write hundreds of Indigenous books
that ask thousands of Indigenous questions.
May I meet Indigenous vice-chancellors, presidents, professors, and deans;
may they not all be men.
May I lie on a future death-bed and look back with regrets related to work
rather than regrets related to family.
May my passing be unshocking, not early, not unexpected.
May I run out of ideas before I run out of time.