by Sherman Alexie
When I was twelve, I shoplifted a pair Of basketball shoes. We could not afford Them otherwise. But when I tied them on, I found that I couldn’t hit a shot. When the ball clanked off the rim, I felt Only guilt, guilt, guilt. O, immoral shoes! O, kicks made of paranoia and rue! Distraught but unwilling to get caught Or confess, I threw those cursed Nikes Into the river and hoped that was good Enough for God. I played that season In supermarket tennis shoes that felt The same as playing in bare feet. O, torn skin! O, bloody heels and toes! O, twisted ankles! O, blisters the size Of dimes and quarters! Finally, after I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I told My father what I had done. He wasn’t angry. He wept out of shame. Then he cradled And rocked me and called me his Little Basketball Jesus. He told me that every cry Of pain was part of the hoops sonata. Then he laughed and bandaged my wounds-- My Indian Boy Poverty Basketball Stigmata.
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by Sherman Alexie
The morning air is all awash with angels . . . - Richard Wilbur The eyes open to a blue telephone In the bathroom of this five-star hotel. I wonder whom I should call? A plumber, Proctologist, urologist, or priest? Who is most among us and most deserves The first call? I choose my father because He's astounded by bathroom telephones. I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma, I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps, And then I remember that my father Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom," I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry-- How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says. "I made him a cup of instant coffee This morning and left it on the table-- Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years-- And I didn't realize my mistake Until this afternoon." My mother laughs At the angels who wait for us to pause During the most ordinary of days And sing our praise to forgetfulness Before they slap our souls with their cold wings. Those angels burden and unbalance us. Those fucking angels ride us piggyback. Those angels, forever falling, snare us And haul us, prey and praying, into dust. by Sherman Alexie
I wanted to walk outside and praise the stars, But David, my baby son, coughed and coughed. His comfort was more important than the stars So I comforted and kissed him in his dark Bedroom, but my comfort was not enough. His mother was more important than the stars So he cried for her breast and milk. It's hard For fathers to compete with mothers' love. In the dark, mothers illuminate like the stars! Dull and jealous, I was the smallest part Of the whole. I know this is stupid stuff But I felt less important than the farthest star As my wife fed my son in the hungry dark. How can a father resent his son and his son's love? Was my comfort more important than the stars? A selfish father, I wanted to pull apart My comfortable wife and son. Forgive me, Rough God, because I walked outside and praised the stars, And thought I was more important than the stars. by Sherman Alexie
Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? Do you grieve their loss? Have you thought twice about your braids? With that long, black hair, you looked overtly Indian. If vanity equals vice, then does vice equal braids? Are you warrior-pretend? Are you horseback-never? Was your drum-less, drum-less life disguised by your braids? Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? You have school-age kids, so did head lice invade your braids? Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable? Did you arrive home and say, "Surprise, I cut my braids"? Do you miss the strange women who loved to touch your hair? Do you miss being eroticized because of your braids? Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? Did you weep or laugh when you said goodbye to your braids? Did you donate your hair for somebody's chemo wig? Is there a cancer kid who thrives because of your braids? Did you, peace chief, give your hair to an orphaned sparrow? Is there a bald eagle that flies because of your braids? Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? Was it worth it? Did you profit? What's the price of braids? Did you cut your hair after your sister's funeral? Was it self-flagellation? Did you chastise your braids? Has your tribe and clan cut-hair-mourned since their creation? Did you, ceremony-dumb, improvise with your braids? Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? Was it a violent act? Did you despise your braids? Did you cut your hair after booze murdered your father? When he was buried, did you baptize him with your braids? Did you weave your hair with your siblings' and mother's hair, And pray that your father grave-awakes and climbs your braids? by Sherman Alexie
The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look, look at all the history, that house on the hill there is over two hundred years old, ' as she points out the window past me into what she has been taught. I have learned little more about American history during my few days back East than what I expected and far less of what we should all know of the tribal stories whose architecture is 15,000 years older than the corners of the house that sits museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, ' the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? ' and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds on my little reservation out West and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane, the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, ' I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born and before his grandparents' grandparents were born. I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too, because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place then nothing would need to be saved.' But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted that I thought to bring her an orange juice back from the food car. I respect elders of every color. All I really did was eat my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out another little piece of her country's history while I, as all Indians have done since this war began, made plans for what I would do and say the next time somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own. by Sherman Alexie
After driving all night, trying to reach Arlee in time for the fancydance finals, a case of empty beer bottles shaking our foundations, we stop at a liquor store, count out money, and would believe in the promise of any man with a twenty, a promise thin and wrinkled in his hand, reach- ing into the window of our car. Money is an Indian Boy who can fancydance from powwow to powwow. We got our boy, Vernon WildShoe, to fill our empty wallets and stomachs, to fill our empty cooler. Vernon is like some promise to pay the light bill, a credit card we Indians get to use. When he reach- es his hands up, feathers held high, in a dance that makes old women speak English, the money for first place belongs to us, all in cash, money we tuck in our shoes, leaving our wallets empty in case we pass out. At the modern dance, where Indians dance white, a twenty is a promise that can last all night long, a promise reach- ing into the back pocket of unfamiliar Levis. We get Vernon there in time for the finals and we watch him like he was dancing on money, which he is, watch the young girls reach- ing for him like he was Elvis in braids and an empty tipi, like Vernon could make a promise with every step he took, like a fancydance could change their lives. We watch him dance and he never talks. It's all a business we understand. Every drum beat is a promise note written in the dust, measured exactly. Money is a tool, putty to fill all the empty spaces, a ladder so we can reach for more. A promise is just like money. Something we can hold, in twenties, a dream we reach. It's business, a fancydance to fill where it's empty. by Sherman Alexie
All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms. Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food. The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory. If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture. If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers. When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature: brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water. If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret. Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed. Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm. Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him. White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures. Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil. There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape. Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds. Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man. If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside a white woman. Sometimes there are complications. An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture. There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven. For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way. In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts. by Sherman Alexie
Buffalo Bill opens a pawn shop on the reservation right across the border from the liquor store and he stays open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and the Indians come running in with jewelry television sets, a VCR, a full-length beaded buckskin outfit it took Inez Muse 12 years to finish. Buffalo Bill takes everything the Indians have to offer, keeps it all catalogues and filed in a storage room. The Indians pawn their hands, saving the thumbs for last, they pawn their skeletons, falling endlessly from the skin and when the last Indian has pawned everything but his heart, Buffalo Bill takes that for twenty bucks closes up the pawn shop, paints a new sign over the old calls his venture THE MUSEUM OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURES charges the Indians five bucks a head to enter. by Sherman Alexie
1 Cain lifts Crow, that heavy black bird and strikes down Abel. Damn, says Crow, I guess this is just the beginning. 2 The white man, disguised as a falcon, swoops in and yet again steals a salmon from Crow's talons. Damn, says Crow, if I could swim I would have fled this country years ago. 3 The Crow God as depicted in all of the reliable Crow bibles looks exactly like a Crow. Damn, says Crow, this makes it so much easier to worship myself. 4 Among the ashes of Jericho, Crow sacrifices his firstborn son. Damn, says Crow, a million nests are soaked with blood. 5 When Crows fight Crows the sky fills with beaks and talons. Damn, says Crow, it's raining feathers. 6 Crow flies around the reservation and collects empty beer bottles but they are so heavy he can only carry one at a time. So, one by one, he returns them but gets only five cents a bottle. Damn, says Crow, redemption is not easy. 7 Crow rides a pale horse into a crowded powwow but none of the Indian panic. Damn, says Crow, I guess they already live near the end of the world. |
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