Hometown, Homeland
a poem about Spokane, Washington: "Some Indians are more prodigal than others..."
Article voiceover
Over two Covid years since My last visit, I return To Spokane. Hometown. Homeland. Changed. The 21st Century arrived here Late but it's present now. I used to get those stares When I stepped off The plane—the eyes That meant, "We know That you know That we know You’re an Indian.” But nobody pays much Attention this time When I step off the jet Into Spokane Airport. I’m just one of 3 Or 4 brown people Disembarking. When I still Lived in white Spokane, I could spend entire days Being the only brown Person in sight. So I liked Flying to big cities because I vanished among all Of the other ambiguously Ethnic people. It was A comfort. Now it’s strange To be just another human In Spokane. To blend. To almost blend. And yet, I can’t forget how it felt To be hated on first sight. I think of James Baldwin, Who left the United States For France because He could no longer tell What parts of him were Formed by his lifelong Struggle against racism And which parts were Made of his own beauty And mistakes. Who am I? Who am I? Brick by brick, Spokane battered And built me with its racism, But I’m also made of pine, Basalt, wild grass, and sun. I’m the Indian kid who Sprinted down Thor Street At midnight in a race against My big brother and knew That I was slow and safe. I’m the brown boy who fell In mad love with white girls And was madly loved In return. I have white friends Whose families have lived In Spokane for two, three, And four generations. They’re devoted to this city. I’m devoted to them And they’re devoted to me. But, separated From my white friends, I travel through Spokane With an Indian loneliness. I’m often reminded That this land was stolen From my tribe. I’m walking On the graves of ancestors. I hear their death songs. I hear their death songs. Sometimes, I think this city is Only a cemetery. And yet, Even if Spokane is heavy With ghosts, I also know That Indians bury our dead With joy and grief, so I can Mourn with laughter, And laugh in mourning, As I wander this city That is my eternal home. Will Spokane ever again Be my place of residence? I only know that I’ve become An Indian who needs To live in a bigger city. That’s okay. I don't need To be the Indian That anybody else Wants me to be. But I still dream Of moving back. I imagine That my ancestors Are calling me, calling me. My tribe has lived here From time immemorial. My tribe will always be The river running through This city. We are the water. We are the beginning. We are everything that is alive, Cursed, broken, and lovely.
The link to James Baldwin and leaving the US because: "He could no longer tell
What parts of him were
Formed by his lifelong
Struggle against racism
And which parts were
Made of his own beauty
And mistakes."
really hit. Such a contradiction that so many face without any way to explore. Thanks for providing a way to do that!
WOW. Just WOW.