Indian Fireworks
a poem for Independence Day
Article voiceover
During daylight hours, my cousins, the cruel ones, threw firecrackers into the ant pile behind the old school building but my brother and I, the kinder cousins, only shot bottle rockets at each other. Then we ate hot dogs and chips. After sundown, all of us Indian kids ran through the dark with sparklers burning in our hands. I once held on too long and burned my palm. I kissed the singed skin. For us Indian kids, there always seemed to be a little bit of pain when we got too close to freedom.
Sherman "Indian Fireworks" Another great one--so here's a July 4th one from my latte' life...
A Gift of Choice
My eye, colorful New Mexico thunderhead.
My lip, swollen cloudburst, ready to scrub the Mesa.
Grandma packed my face with frozen meat,
sat with coffee and frybread--eager for the story.
Started when my nanikhvnachi* asked what the 4th of July (*teacher)
means to Indins.
Don't know why she picked me, from so many darker faces.
My sun-brown ain't the same as theirs―
a brown more earth than sky.
I said, "It's a day for Powwow, fireworks, Indin tacos
and staying up late."
"What about Independence? " she smiled.
"I wouldn't know about that."
Had to stay an extra hour, writing one hundred times,
"Indins are Americans too."
My cousins waited just to tell me I couldn't go with them to the Plateau,
said it was an ‘Indin’ place-- "white people shouldn't go there."
That got me going. They knew it would.
Fought all three, one at a time,
and lost.
"Grandma-- am I Indin or white?"
"How do you feel?"
"I feel Indin, but I look white."
Her willowy arms had the strength of oaks,
rough knuckles brushing away tears.
"It's a little of both, grandson. Creator colors us his own way,
You have heart, but your blood is thin.
It is the choice that separates you.
In this pale world you can hide from your heritage,
we cannot.
Darker cousins may never love you but over time they will accept
that arm across arm,
the power of choice and no choice--makes formidable brothers.
Stay with us, we will look out through each other’s eyes,
to see your children take their place around the drum.
This is painfully beautiful. As truth always is.