We need to carry thick gloves and old blankets in the trunk so we can pick up roadkilled porcupines and pluck their quills to embroider sacred garments. And we also gather roadkilled birds because their feathers, if undamaged, can also be used to dance just like birds dance. And I remember the white tourists on the rez who smashed their car into an elk, and how they panicked, not knowing what to do, until my Colville Indian friend jumped out of her truck with a hunting knife and mercifully killed and dressed the elk before the meat went bad. And I need to say that my friend with the knife is movie star beautiful, so it's doubly hilarious to think of those white tourists baffled by the rez goddess pulling that elk's heart from its chest. And, yeah, the rez is comedy and tragedy because I could draw a map of all the places where rez Indians—my family and friends and enemies—died in car wrecks. Everytime I drive onto the rez and everytime I drive away, I use the roads where Indian were killed. I love some of them and some love me but I miss all of them. We belong to the same tribe. They're buried in the same graveyards where my parents and grandparents are buried. All of our parents and grandparents are buried in the same cemeteries. Row by row, they rest together. You want to know what it means to be a rez Indian? It means you know dozens of Indians who died at high speed. It means your engine is fueled by grief, shame, and rage. It means every road is haunted by ghosts who know your secret name.
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Highway 95 southbound Lewiston to Boise is the highway of memory for me. Family tragedies, personal triumphs and sweet memories along that road. In the future I will listen for a secret name. Evocative poem. Thank you.
There is an old Irish poem or blessing that goes something like this:
"May the road rise to meet you,
May the rain fall softly on your fields,
May the wind be always at your back, And, until we meet again
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand."
Clearly, the wind was not at the backs of some of your relatives and friends, and perhaps God's hand was over-crowded on the days some of them died. Your awe-inspiring poem memorializes them for this Irish-born woman,, as well as for everyone else who reads it. Thank you, Sherman Alexie <3
god