The Way Back Machine

poem

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

late. But here it is 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 the Spokane Airport.
I’m just one of ten
or twelve brown people
disembarking. When I still

lived in white Spokane, 
I could spend entire days
being the only brown
person in the room. 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 growing 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
which parts of him were
formed by his lifelong

struggle against racism
and which parts were
made of his own beauty
And grace. Who am I?
Who am I? Brick by brick,

Spokane has 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 three, four,

and five generations.
They’re devoted to this city.
I’m devoted to them
and they’re devoted to me.
But I'm not going to see

my white friends during
this trip so I drive through
Spokane with an Indian
loneliness. I’m often reminded
that this land was stolen

from my tribes. I’m walking
on the body and blood
of my ancestors and I sigh
when I think of the performative 
land acknowledgments

that are only placebos.
The only honest
acknowledgement is this:
“We took your land. 
We’re not giving it back.

Enjoy the show.”
My ancestors laugh 
in their coffins
at the earnest white
folks who don't pay us

any rent. My ancestors 
giggle and mourn,
giggle and mourn.
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

this city is my eternal home,
though it probably
won’t ever again be
my place of residence.
I know that I’ve become

an Indian who needs
to live in a bigger city.
That’s okay. No Indian
needs to be the Indian
that anybody else wants

them to be. But, O, 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 everything that is blessed,
cursed, busted, and lovely.