Sometimes when someone blurts, Make America Great Again, I retort an impossibility to that delusion: Okay, give it back to the Indigenous, who not only stewarded & were/are of the land, but were the land, from time immemorial. Sometimes I visit friends in Pittsburgh, PA & am immediately immersed into the diverse population of many burroughs--African-Asian-Hispano-Native-Anglo-Americans. And I realize how enriched, refreshed even, my heart & soul feels just being there in the mix, after so much whiteness, birds-of-a-feather & I'm one, dwelling in Spokane. Spokane, the semblance of home that is close as I can get to true home, being one of twenty generations of Europeans constantly fleeing across northern Europe & Ukraine & then Canada & the US. Home for me is as much in-transit as it is in-house, another dream as well as a station along the way....I find myself envying those who can say with certainty, this is my home.
I am so sorry that you wrestled with this monster. But I remember growing up and being told to honor and respect NA traditions and beliefs. Of knowing and respecting members of the Apache Tribe in New Mexico. It’s like being culturally schizophrenic. You know that somehow you carry a shared guilt about what was done, and yet — you wouldn’t have dreamed of doing what these others have done in their whiteness. Is it possible that many feel that we are somehow strangers in our own “tribe” but will forever be strangers to other tribes as well? “Who am I” indeed. “Who are we”? Each of us.
This is just so, so beautiful. I felt it so deeply. The loneliness and the “who am I?” question. So much to unpack here. I shall return to this poem. You have also confirmed an uncomfortable feeling I’ve always had when I heard those land acknowledgments at university (in Montreal). For a long while I couldn’t figure out what was it about them that bothered me. I think you’ve said it here: they were “performative”. And empty. I often wondered who they were meant for: a lame apology for the indigenous community (I could see no indigenous person in the hall), or the guilty coloniser? It felt to me something akin to a thief breaking in to your house, picking up your television set, acknowledging it is your television set and still stealing it, while wishing you a good day. Wouldn’t it be just better to steal the thing and not pretend to be nice about it? I thought. But I often wondered how the true owners of this land felt about the land acknowledgments… I think your poem answers my question. And yet, it makes me profoundly sad. Thank you for your poems. Thank you for your voice. Thank you for your writing.
You know how to make a girl cry! Never never can the white man repay what he took. Not even if he wanted to. One of my super white friends, a guy type, said I made too big a deal over what happened in the past. After all, he didn't shoot all the buffalos off a moving train. That says it, doesn't it? The nutshell version. I feel especially grateful for Louise Erdrich, Joy Harjo and you, Sherman Alexie for telling the stories. For remembering.
I whimsically sent your poem via Allstaff at the high school where I work just prior to a staff meeting dedicated to equity training. To my astonishment, there was no land acknowledgement given, stumbled or not, followed by an awkward radio silence for the rest of the day. Today I've been peppered with hallway comments and emails saying things like "Thank you for sending that poem!" or "That poem covered a lot more territory with more impact than all the trainings we've had." Thank you for the work you do, for punching through walls of anxiety and isolation. We need you and your words.
Having been through a few equity trainings, they often feel dehumanizing (to almost everyone involved). I think it struggles through the corporate language of HR to do something that is good but it is too mechanized, too rote. It enrages rather than heals.
Sherman Alexie's work, like most great art, is the opposite. It's so deeply human, we feel a kinship to the pain, the pain of humanity, even if we can never completely feel the particular pain.
Maybe some people believe the words mean something, but to me it’s another ruse. I was in a Zoom course about career development for artists (is that a thing, really?) when I first heard the “I’m residing on Salish land….”. It took me a few (days, minutes, generations) to come up with my version. I think it should be added to the verbiage.
I was at a Powwow, Lame deer, MT with my friend, who is from the reservation. I was in line for an Indian Taco when a young man in front of me turned and said, “Don’t tell me—Cherokee.” I said, “No, Swedish.” We had a good laugh.
That’s really some beautiful writing. I live on Cape Cod just down the road from the small Wôpanâak (Wampanoag) tribal land. They have lived here for over 10,000 years. A a Wôpanâak women, Jesse Little Doe Baird won a MacArthur genius grant for her work bringing back their language. The last speaker died in the 1930s. One of the tools she used was the phonetic translation of the Bible into their language by John Eliot in 1663. I often heard her at the local Starbucks speaking with others learning it, wondering what they must feel. Your story reminded me of that.
This was powerful in a way that I cannot articulate. Thank you for sharing this powerful, moving, and erudite piece. I think everyone living in America right now owes it to themselves to consider what these words mean.
Brought me to tears. What a journey we travel through this world of lies. Thank you for these powerful reminders of where we stand. This, I believe, is not only the gift, but the job of the poet, and I thank you for all your hard work...Mitakuye Oyasin.
Enjoyed this poem for lots of reasons, but particularly resonated with your line "No Indian needs to be the Indian that anyone else wants"
Ah, so nice to read your words again. You bring so much to your readers. Thank you
Sometimes when someone blurts, Make America Great Again, I retort an impossibility to that delusion: Okay, give it back to the Indigenous, who not only stewarded & were/are of the land, but were the land, from time immemorial. Sometimes I visit friends in Pittsburgh, PA & am immediately immersed into the diverse population of many burroughs--African-Asian-Hispano-Native-Anglo-Americans. And I realize how enriched, refreshed even, my heart & soul feels just being there in the mix, after so much whiteness, birds-of-a-feather & I'm one, dwelling in Spokane. Spokane, the semblance of home that is close as I can get to true home, being one of twenty generations of Europeans constantly fleeing across northern Europe & Ukraine & then Canada & the US. Home for me is as much in-transit as it is in-house, another dream as well as a station along the way....I find myself envying those who can say with certainty, this is my home.
Amen and Hallelujah, my brother
I am so sorry that you wrestled with this monster. But I remember growing up and being told to honor and respect NA traditions and beliefs. Of knowing and respecting members of the Apache Tribe in New Mexico. It’s like being culturally schizophrenic. You know that somehow you carry a shared guilt about what was done, and yet — you wouldn’t have dreamed of doing what these others have done in their whiteness. Is it possible that many feel that we are somehow strangers in our own “tribe” but will forever be strangers to other tribes as well? “Who am I” indeed. “Who are we”? Each of us.
This is just so, so beautiful. I felt it so deeply. The loneliness and the “who am I?” question. So much to unpack here. I shall return to this poem. You have also confirmed an uncomfortable feeling I’ve always had when I heard those land acknowledgments at university (in Montreal). For a long while I couldn’t figure out what was it about them that bothered me. I think you’ve said it here: they were “performative”. And empty. I often wondered who they were meant for: a lame apology for the indigenous community (I could see no indigenous person in the hall), or the guilty coloniser? It felt to me something akin to a thief breaking in to your house, picking up your television set, acknowledging it is your television set and still stealing it, while wishing you a good day. Wouldn’t it be just better to steal the thing and not pretend to be nice about it? I thought. But I often wondered how the true owners of this land felt about the land acknowledgments… I think your poem answers my question. And yet, it makes me profoundly sad. Thank you for your poems. Thank you for your voice. Thank you for your writing.
You know how to make a girl cry! Never never can the white man repay what he took. Not even if he wanted to. One of my super white friends, a guy type, said I made too big a deal over what happened in the past. After all, he didn't shoot all the buffalos off a moving train. That says it, doesn't it? The nutshell version. I feel especially grateful for Louise Erdrich, Joy Harjo and you, Sherman Alexie for telling the stories. For remembering.
I whimsically sent your poem via Allstaff at the high school where I work just prior to a staff meeting dedicated to equity training. To my astonishment, there was no land acknowledgement given, stumbled or not, followed by an awkward radio silence for the rest of the day. Today I've been peppered with hallway comments and emails saying things like "Thank you for sending that poem!" or "That poem covered a lot more territory with more impact than all the trainings we've had." Thank you for the work you do, for punching through walls of anxiety and isolation. We need you and your words.
Having been through a few equity trainings, they often feel dehumanizing (to almost everyone involved). I think it struggles through the corporate language of HR to do something that is good but it is too mechanized, too rote. It enrages rather than heals.
Sherman Alexie's work, like most great art, is the opposite. It's so deeply human, we feel a kinship to the pain, the pain of humanity, even if we can never completely feel the particular pain.
“…and I want to give it back.”
Maybe some people believe the words mean something, but to me it’s another ruse. I was in a Zoom course about career development for artists (is that a thing, really?) when I first heard the “I’m residing on Salish land….”. It took me a few (days, minutes, generations) to come up with my version. I think it should be added to the verbiage.
Sherman, what a gift that you are share these words......Tina
Re: Wannabes
I was at a Powwow, Lame deer, MT with my friend, who is from the reservation. I was in line for an Indian Taco when a young man in front of me turned and said, “Don’t tell me—Cherokee.” I said, “No, Swedish.” We had a good laugh.
Stunning. Such a gorgeous poem.
Beauty and pain woven through with experience and remembrance. Your ancestors may rest in hope, for the honor your writing pays as it enlightens.
That’s really some beautiful writing. I live on Cape Cod just down the road from the small Wôpanâak (Wampanoag) tribal land. They have lived here for over 10,000 years. A a Wôpanâak women, Jesse Little Doe Baird won a MacArthur genius grant for her work bringing back their language. The last speaker died in the 1930s. One of the tools she used was the phonetic translation of the Bible into their language by John Eliot in 1663. I often heard her at the local Starbucks speaking with others learning it, wondering what they must feel. Your story reminded me of that.
This was powerful in a way that I cannot articulate. Thank you for sharing this powerful, moving, and erudite piece. I think everyone living in America right now owes it to themselves to consider what these words mean.
Brought me to tears. What a journey we travel through this world of lies. Thank you for these powerful reminders of where we stand. This, I believe, is not only the gift, but the job of the poet, and I thank you for all your hard work...Mitakuye Oyasin.