Hometown, Homeland

a poem about Spokane, Washington: "Some Indians are more prodigal than others..."

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Photo by Clay Elliot on Unsplash

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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.