{ii}
Summer 1990
{iii}
Introduction .
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1
Joseph Bruchac, Issue Editor
Voices
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Charlotte DeClue
People of the Mid-Summer Sun .
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Gus Palmer, Jr.
Philadelphia
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Manhattan
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Maurice Kenny
Hesitation .
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Forrest Aguila Funmaker
Settlers
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Influences
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Armand Garnet Ruffo
Lessons .
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Whale Song II .
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Earle Thompson
Overnight at Boundary House, 1984 .
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11
People in Parts .
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Glen Simpson
Choctaw Mortuary
Practices .
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LeAnne Howe
Brevig Mission .
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Roy N. Henry
Woodsman
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Renee Matthew Singh
[untitled] .
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Maureena C. A. Manyfingers
I Wish My Mother Had Named Me Wind
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Terri Meyette
Petroglyphs & Other
Voices .
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Adrian C. Louis
{iv}
veterans hospital .
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leaving bents fort .
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Lance Henson
Shimasani My Grandmother .
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Della Frank
Ah'-cho-lot's Omen . .
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Louis Littlecoon Oliver
At the Pow Wow .
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Trees .
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Cheryl Savageau
The Dream Warrior . .
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Joe Dale Tate Nevaquaya
Heritage
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25
Duane Big Eagle
Aunt Julia
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For Dick
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Sidner Larson
Basketball and Dancing .
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Blackfeet
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Ron Welburn
We Were All Bums Once .
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Annharte
museum pieces .
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decision
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30
Jeanetta L. Calhoun
Indian Machismo (Skin to Skin) .
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Karoniaktatie
Chanco .
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34
Charles Brashears
COMMENTARY
National Native American Writers
Conference .
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From the Editors
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CONTRIBUTORS . . . . . . 44
{1}
It has been
clear to me for more than two decades that tremendous vitality
and creative excitement are to be found in contemporary American
Indian writing. Putting together this special issue of SAIL has
made that even more clear. In 1983, I edited an anthology of
contemporary Native American poetry entitled Songs From This
Earth on Turtle's Back. I included fifty-two writers and tried
to be as inclusive as possible in representing the strongest
work then being done. So much has happened since then that it
would take another book to begin to represent it. This modest
sampling of some of the new work being done by American Indian
writers indicates the continuing strength and growth of Native
American writing.
Of the twenty-five
writers here, only eight were in that 1983 anthology. Of the
remaining fifteen, ten are writers whose names I had never seen
before they submitted to this issue. Their voices, tribal nations,
and backgrounds are extremely varied; there are great differences--in
geography, education and experience--and yet there are certain
similar notes in their voices. These similarities include an
awareness of the earth and of old stories, a respect for elders
and for the power of the word, a subtle sense of humor . . .
and also a strong "political" thread. Though I do not
wish to attempt to define or limit what "Native American
writing" is, it is clear to me that much of the work in
this issue is written for an audience which the writers perceive
as being similar to themselves, for native ears.
Several writers are
from Canada and I hope their inclusion is an indication that
there will be greater contact between Native writers on both
sides of that invisible line imposed on this continent and called
a border. The vitality of Canadian Native American writing has
yet to be fully appreciated here to the south.
In putting this
issue together I quickly realized that I had received far more
publishable work than I could fit into one special issue. I am
especially regretful that many of the fine short stories sent
in could not be included. A large problem is lack of outlets:
the market for fiction remains glutted, and for every Louise
Erdrich or Michael Dorris who is accepted, twenty other Native
writers are rejected.
Something has been
happening and continues to happen. Native American Literature
is growing, and those of us involved in it as writers, editors,
critics and readers have a special responsibility to it at this
stage--a responsibility to continue to work, to pay close attention,
to encourage where we can, to support when we can, to never think
that we know it all, and to hope that we can do enough.
Joseph Bruchac
{2}
Charlotte
DeClue
Voices
(for Joy)
I
I
go to the lodge
to be with the women.
Though I am old
and no longer bleed
I go to be with the women.
No man enters here,
not even Hawk nor standard bearer.
We are the doorkeepers,
Tse-xo-be
emblazoned on our hands.
II
Once
all the horses got sick.
I felt their flanks
and could see the sickness there.
I had a gift for such things,
seeing sickness and death
in animals.
I passed this gift along to my daughter.
She was born mute and could not hear
and remained a child.
III
My sister says
"you eat too many sweets,"
says the food from the Agency
will rot our teeth
and make us crave more of it.
But I don't care.
She talks too much and is always grumbling.
I know it is because
of the way things are changing.
"There will be no place for us,"
So I just eat sweets and watch the horses die.
{3}
IV
The
whites grew in number
and could no longer be ignored.
They brought with them the Book
and said we were not properly married.
That our children were "illegitimate."
But their children did not live long,
especially the girls.
And they beat their women
and marked their dead.
We knew this must be wrong.
V
I
am a man
married to a strong woman
and sometimes
strong-willed women are headaches.
But I am not stupid
else she wouldn't have wanted me.
They
come and say
"where is your title?"
I tell them we have many titles,
many names.
They get impatient, "no . . . title,
ownership."
No one owns the land.
They sneer "stupid,"
humiliate me in front of my woman.
VI
I
have a story
because it was my daughter they took.
So shy and innocent.
A gift of beauty, bore three children.
But they called her an "imbecile"
said she could not care for children.
They
came at us
pounding their fists,
breaking us apart
like they broke open the land.
{4}
VII
Stop poutin'.
They cut my hair, made me wear funny clothes.
Tied my arm down
'cause left-handedness was a sign
of the Devil.
Ha! fooled them.
Now I just use both of them.
Just
say your prayers
and be good.
SUFFER THE CHILDREN.
Don't talk about it anymore.
Remembering hurts.
VIII
No light shatters the darkness
and silence of this room
'cept for crescent moon
green through flowered curtains.
No
wind
moves across open plains
to mock with songs of freedom.
No
hand
reaches through haze
of gin and seconal,
nor breath
left
but for what is sucked in
and barely moving the belly
of a sleeping man
who will awaken,
leave,
not remembering
name
nor blood.
The
voice on the other end
is unfamiliar
'cept for the low drawl.
She asks Jesus to forgive me.
Razor
to vein.
IX
SPIDER WEAVES, SHE DOES.
WIND PLAYS, OAK DANCES, THEY DO.
MOON OPENS HER EYE.
AMARILLO RUNS IN WET GRASS.
QUARTER MOON,
SLOW-EYED MOON.
OH MOON!
Gus
Palmer
People of the
Mid-Summer Sun
So the distance north
was supposed to be
at close quarters
to the places
he named well.
Before his people could
remember what to call
him, he felt the cold
of the mountain
with tips of
fingers the
clouds trailed by.
All in a day
he sat upright in bed.
He could feel
the snow of
mountains unlike
most men.
Before he could
remember, before his
people could call out,
he put his hand out
and summoned the
chief Tipi Mountain
to his lodge.
{6}
January 5, 1985
No, I didn't do it. The bell was cracked before we rumbled under those clogged streets still smelling of pigs and horse-piss, leather seated carriages and whips; still smelling of printer's ink and Ben's dirty feet and his outcast son's disbelief. The bell cracked when Ben proclaimed to all and sundry . . . "exterminate the vermin": meaning us. I winced and Wendy took out her notebook again. Like back in D.C. when the Shoreham Hotel didn't much like my sneaks, my sweat-shirt and dungarees, and said there is no room at the inn, but how they pay-ed with a $200 suite, a jug of wine, crackers and cheese, two plates, two knives, two cloth napkins, a king size bed for two . . . and a brief apology from the disconcerted manager. (I never knew my words had such power.)
Well, Ben's bell is cracked. We did not surface in Philly.
From What the Mohawk Said to the Hopi
(I think this is in N.Y.C.)
January 7, 1985
Robert tried to hire Floyd Westerman, but Floyd had shuffled out west, or any "in-dee-un" available. So we got a drum, who drummed "inja" instead in good chicano style, and I rather longed to be sitting before the "Jewel" on passage to the real India.
But we got "cheap" in the Village Voice. Could have us for $2.50 . . . with coupon. We became "a thing" in N.Y. Times, and misdated in the Goose Calendar. Doomed, I'd say, until Dawad sparkled into the reading. I knew there was a glow in his hands. I knew Robert taped that glow for Helene who stayed at home breasting Evan.
The drummer left us on our own for richer folks, fatter calfs . . . up-town. We sang out our red hearts beating the drums with our own bones.
The Alternative Museum
{7}
Forrest Aguila Funmaker
He sits chained up to a neon cross
Waiting there with wind swirling
His long black featherless unbraided
Hair. As in a sweat he waits for the
Hell fire from the valley to cool
Before he descends again into the heat
Which forced his soul to manual labor
For the rich. The nuns and priests
Called him savage now and again to
Crush what was left dangling of his
Already weakened spirit. He chose not
To listen when trash speaks its horrible
Name over and over again until the
Silent songs of his people out beat
The prevailing echoes that bounce off
The schools' walls only to hear the
Sobbing of a little boy trapped in the
Perpendicular world of one box after
Another to form other hybrid communities
Of culture based on a wicked economy
Set about for the exploitation of
Values long held by the deafest of ears.
Is it any wonder that a Native child
From Saskatchewan could be harnessed
And harassed by the smell of a whip or
Ruler to move the attitude ingrained
Only with good breeding to blame. Some
Say the sorrows won't end today or
Tomorrow but someday when the grass
Finally starts to grow and the sun shines
Forever maybe Peace will hold up the head
Of Justice and wake it up.
{8}
Armand Garnet Ruffo
Tonight you are safe, your
family is safe, behind
the walls you've built,
logs peeled perfectly
hammered into place.
But out there is the bush,
where you feel things lurk
ready to kill and devour.
So each night you lock yourself
in and listen to animal sounds,
watch for the bush to stir.
There are also other sounds
you hear dark and wild, the ones
you think are human
but aren't quite sure.
These sounds you approach only
in the safety of daylight
and never alone
and unarmed.
When we see you coming
we greet you with our best voices
and ask, what is it you fear?
* * * *
One window too
high to reach,
a room in darkness.
Husbands beating
wives the colour of night,
swollen eyes
seeing what
some refuse to admit.
(You, have you
been there?)
And children
running
through that
darkness
children
who have no
idea
{9}
where they are
going,
when they are
too small
to even make
it
over the fence,
the locked gate,
these children
jumping from
moving cars
or cars momentarily
stopped
at liquor stores
or bars,
children depending
on their dogs
for protection
& love.
A small town
explodes
in a night of
alcohol fists
turning the brain
into anguish
& hate.
Snow & distance
piling in on itself
isolating &
smothering.
(And like you,
no one tells.)
Television boredom,
broken furniture,
wrecked cars,
bottles
filled with
tears
& stacked
in the bedroom,
traded in for
deposit.
Allthewhile
our elected members of Parliament
merrily singing
"life is
just a bowl of cherries,"
singing &
arguing for first place,
for expense
cheques
& suburban
comfort.
Politicians
who gave up believing
in small towns,
politicians
who never did believe,
who never stood
under one black window
too high to
reach
& whose
children never will.
{9}
Earle Thompson
{11}
Glen C. Simpson
Overnight at Boundary House, 1984
I awoke in the darkness of that great hollow house.
An outboard peaked and went on
into the depths of night.
Heart and lungs picked up the beat
as my grandparents returned to that space:
young and strong they walked about.
Bread was baking, sled dogs chafed on their chains
out there in the rich coastal grass.
For one bright unhurried moment
I looked in on the zenith of their lives.
I dared to move and it was gone;
the screen door hung askew,
the windows fly specked and stuffed with rags.
A pack rat searched like a thief in the back room.
Tomorrow night I would sleep in the tent.
* * * *
Seeking beyond the Western
world
some made new lives,
strangers, friends;
friends, lovers.
But their children
were not like them:
not Indian, said the Indians;
not White, said the Whites;
not cannibals, would say the cannibals
if we could find them now.
No one has ever seen them,
over the distant mountains,
from wherever you are.
Only they could sort out
our parts and pieces.
{12}
LeAnne Howe
"Tukbreeni." Bury
me.
"Hol-lop-I." Bury me.
You say it in Arabic, and I repeat it
in Choctaw. "Bury me."
"I will bury you."
"Bury me in love."
"Ya habibi," for the Arab.
"Anh esta anhollo," for the Choctaw.
"Yes most beloved," for the English.
Yours IS the last voice I want to hear,
the last and only thought
I want to have before I close my eyes
to sleep . . . to dream . . . to die.
Esta anhollo, you are the bread
and the yogurt and everything.
And everything IS everything,
And everything IS
Chunk-ash ishi ful-lo-ka-chi . . . The Circle of Bliss.
From "No Passing Zone"
{13}
Roy N. Henry
Renee Matthew Singh
Woodsman
The one who
wanders
We run wild, all day
"keep still" our parents
say
as they cut strips from fish
not listening
we scream away, until Gramma says
the woodsman is
near
she saw them once, screaming on
a river bank
dark, hairy man-creatures
Trembling in our tent
we dare not go out, even to pee
Laughing, our parents
talk outdoors by flames
reassuring us,
they are brave.
Dim light appears, cold coals
flicker out
a thin blue line, slopes along
the hill
Woodsman comes
stealing
fish
{14}
dogs don't wake,
leaves
lay flat, dry sticks
don't
break
willows close their mouths
watching
not whispering his presence.
Tent flaps open
turning in my sleeping bag
I see his hairy back
hurrying into the woods,
back to secret camps
where stolen children plead
to go home.
Blinking, light streams into
camp
stump, gathers a mossy head
sweat trickles down its wooded
back onto
rocks, boughs, limbs
suspending
him up
I curl in
my Gramma knows, and smiles
letting me see
all is safe
{15}
Terri Meyette
I Wish My Mother Had Named Me Wind
{16}
Adrian C. Louis
In an ancient cave halfway up
the sandstone cliffs
some elders you know
say an evil ancient renegade
had once been buried
until white settlers
removed his dusty bones
and scattered them in jest.
I look at your lovely fullblood ass
and know you would understand
what my old lady does not.
That bastard comes over here drunk
then we invite him in and make him calm.
Then I sucker punch his nose hard enough
to make him bleed out the back of his head.
That ain't enough I drive my buck knife
up into his balls. Self-defense. The tribal
cops will understand . . .
We scurry up towards the cave,
two sweating academics catching our breath
before entering a threshold
marked by irrational petroglyphs.
Something makes my skin crawl and prevents
me from entering the soft darkness.
Ground blizzards swirling and hypnotizing.
I must have blacked out and momentarily
lost my soul at sixty miles an hour
buzzing from Pine Ridge to Rushville
through the mountains to make last call
at the cowboy bars.
Hurtling through the white blindness I saw
my face reflected in the windshield.
I smiled and slowed down and lived
to beat the gaping embrace
of smashed flesh soon to freeze.
{17}
Let's get out of here I say to you.
There's a bad feeling here.
We back away from the cave's entrance
and I stumble and drop my pack loaded
with camera and your papers and tools
for making rubbings.
We had planned to burn sage and offer a prayer
before we ascended but we forgot to.
We gather ourselves at your four-wheel drive
and eat cold ham sandwiches and cold coffee
from a defective thermos.
A palpable power resides in the cave, an evil
spirit, we both agree.
The ghost of a renegade who killed all races.
At a redneck bar in Rushville, Nebraska
some silly jughead Pine Ridge breed
angered because beer had rendered him real,
accosted me because I had flunked his woman
in Freshman English.
When I asked if he were her tutor
he attempted a sucker punch
and to my chagrin I ducked and kicked
him in the gonads. He fell and I bid adieu.
Through the snow somehow I
made it back to Pine Ridge.
Finishing eating we regain our strength
and lose purported foolishness.
We decide to climb to the cave again.
Panting from the dusty ascent we hear whispers.
In this bloodfire cave a sooted singer
decries the fire of our noonday womb.
I drop my cigarette and hold your hand.
We shake our heads and slope down the hill, again.
It was Saturday, the day after my Rushville jaunt
and I was in bed in the afternoon, sweating
whiskey and bad judgment.
My day off and my woman would not talk.
The white people I work for at the Indian college
would, and did, and questioned me at length
on my use of sick leave.
{18}
My boss called me on a Saturday!
I hung up and there came a pounding at my door.
The silly breed from the night before
was there with a sawed-off shotgun.
Come in, sweet illusion, I shouted.
The charred remains of animal night
rips into dream vision and startles our hearts
like a light bulb to hand.
The evil spirit carries his soul from the cave wall
and into my mind.
The spirit warms my flesh and congeals
my emotions with coldness.
I feel like throbbing meat meant
for bloated starving.
I know the renegade killed for pleasure.
I did not mean to be a hunter but I am.
I did not mean to be the hunted
but the spirit of an evil renegade is at my door.
A yellowed snapshot on the wall reminds
me that I was once a good boy.
I try to be good but am evil at times.
When my dogs fight other dogs in the street
I stumble out in sullen resolution to shoot
some rounds into Indian night air.
The neighbors peek from behind curtains
and whisper that I teach at the college.
They might as well shout that I violated
some sacred
ground because, God-damn it, I did.
Late at night in bed
after our expedition to the haunted cave
I think of you and still shudder from nightmare.
No spirit is at my door
but someone is pounding, thumping, whining, growling.
My dogs have returned from their dream.
The voices disappear.
The petroglyphs remain
unseen, except for the whisper
of the wind
of the ghosts
of my words.
{19}
Lance Henson
oklahoma
city oklahoma
for my brothers
at two a m
someone is walking down
a long hallway
the color of
fatigue in his thousand
yard eyes
i want to
call to him
telling him that
i forgive him
i want him
to tell me
that he forgives
me
* * * *
leaving
bents fort
for floyd bringing
good
riding the
high plains from colorado
to kansas
a whirlwind gaunt
and alone crosses the landscape
i drive the
truck south toward oklahoma
crossing the
same path two moons and roman nose
once wandered
i am on the edge
barely in america
somewhere between rage and freedom
{20}
Della Frank
Shimasani My
Grandmother
For
Rose
My grandmother's house is small
It sits on a hill By itself
She has a shade-house next to her house
She keeps hay for the sheep
Feed for the chickens
And food for the dogs and cats
That wander
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
When I visit her
I sleep in the same room with her
She is small and fits
Into her bed
She chops wood every-night
And lights the fire Before
Beginning her chores of cooking
I watch her carefully
As she brings in the wood
And begins boiling the coffee
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
I watch her carefully
As she throws meat
Into the boiling water
I watch her carefully
As she adds chunks of potatoes
I watch her carefully
As she mixes the dough
To make fried bread or tortillas
I watch her carefully
As she tells me about
Her aches and pains
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
{21}
I nod carefully
As I listen to her
Talk about her misgivings
I help bring in the wash water
Careful not to use too much
I help set the dishes
As I quietly wonder
About my grandma
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
She has lived many years
She has lived in the hills and the canyons
She has given birth to many children
She has herded sheep far and wide
She has married many men Men who went to war
She has walked many canyons Herding her sheep
She has crossed many rivers While tears of
pain
Marked her face Holding her stick
Singing her songs
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
We sit down to eat
Hot mutton stew and crunchy fried bread
As she glances shyly across
Lights playing off her features
This lady talks about her generation
How we extended from her Branching out
And if she got mad at us It was coming anyway
We were a part of her
And if nothing else We had to listen!
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
We put the dishes up
On the cardboard shelves
And begin to settle down for the night
The stars glittering Shadows dancing
Dogs barking in the distance Cats meowing
under the small bed
Sheep grunting in their corral
And I wish my dear grandma Good-night
Shimasani 'Ayoo'aniinishnih
{22}
Louis Littlecoon Oliver
Wrinkled
old Indian smile and say:
"I
saw on TV big sky rocket."
That
just whiteman's Tinker-Toy.
In
time his super intelligence
Will
kill him and the people!
My
old dog wag his tail.
I'll be gone by that time
---and
I'll shake my finger at him in Hades!
Whiteman does not see---is blind!
to the purpose and finality
of the laws of Creation.
Earth is his home--never to leave!
If he trespasses outer-space
Then he must suffer the consequences.
My dog wag tail in approval.
Ah'-cho-lot: An old Creek Indian
Cheryl Savageau
my mother, red-haired,
who lived with my father
forty years,
who buried my grandparents,
whose skin was brown, she said,
from age,
watches the feathered dancers
and says, so that's
what real Indians look like.
I wrap the shawl around my shoulders,
and join the circle.
You taught me the land so well
that all through my childhood
I never saw the highway,
the truckstops, lumberyards,
the asphalt works,
but instead saw the hills,
the trees, the ponds on the south end
of Quinsigamond that twined
through
the tangled underbrush
where old cars rusted back to earth,
and rubber tires made homes for fish.
Driving down the dirt road home,
it was the trees you saw first,
all New England a forest.
I have seen you get out of a car,
breathe in the sky, the green
of summer maples, listen for the talk
of birds and squirrels, the murmur
of earthworms beneath your feet.
When you looked toward the house,
you had to shift focus,
as if it were something
difficult to see.
Trees filled the yard
until Ma complained,
where is the sun.
Now you are gone,
she is cutting them down
to fill the front with azaleas.
The white birch you loved,
we love. Its daughters
are filling the back.
Your grandchildren play
among them. We have taught them
as you taught us, to leave
the peeling bark, to lean
their cheeks against
the powdery white and hear
the heartbeat of the tree.
Sacred, beautiful, companion.
{24}
Joe Dale Tate Nevaquaya
{25}
Duane Big Eagle
Stolen velocity, snared energy.
I rocket past gravity's orbit,
elastic as string on a bent bow.
"Wa
nombly cue-ay!"
"Come
and eat," they call to me,
the Old Ones
and they mean it--welcome,
pointing with their lips in dreams.
Standing under waterfalls,
their singing is muffled by the roar.
Arms uncurl into wings
as they swing around on the beat.
Voices carry me up,
the drum moves my feet
to touch dusty earth.
Dust floats up around us
beneath my eyelids,
under my tongue.
What's in the blood
boils and forgets,
mocks me, catches me out,
freezes into skeleton memory
and tears my skin red.
For years, nothing,
not a sign, the barest image--
until I realized there'd be no sign,
no great revelation.
Only the precise movement
of brown fingers, brown eyes,
a love of living with distance,
the act of generosity,
the whirl of storms, feathered winds,
the return of rain
falling to earth in the night.
"Wa nombly cue-ay" is Osage for
"come and eat." Osage people point with their lips;
it's considered impolite to point with a finger
{26}
Sidner Larson
It was dark a long time
before someone said
light the lamp.
Skinny for any age,
I wondered where Zortman was,
who the Bear girls were,
what prairie chickens
drummed out of sight.
Evening talk seemed like
more than it was.
A man from Havre
killed on the People's Creek bridge,
something broke in his head.
He was gone before he hit,
Doc Hamilton said,
snapping his scuffed bag shut.
A horse fell on Uncle Al
so he and Aunt Julia
never had kids.
She worked bitter hands
to write the Community News;
no rain since June,
large rattlers killed in yards.
He was always dead.
She knew I had no father,
ignored me with Strikes At Eyes.
I dreamed of big fish
and watched a miller
crazy to die
in the wonderful yellow light.
I was surprised when I returned. Not
that you were dead but that Tuesdays
could break hard work down to simple
gestures. I imagine growing civilized
and remember your forward Buick fondly. It
was cars we had in common, and the need
for reassuring distance in a rear-view mirror.
Winter won't leave us alone. Missoula was
better to you, and the pulp-belt bars
gave you reflections in a romantic eye.
I read the pattern of waves in my blood,
know enough to sit tight next to the Red River
until silent highways tap a better message.
It has been a long time. Remember that
bar down by the mill? Lives cheaper
than beer and the wrong look could tip
the scales all the way to China. You
got out of there just in time. Or maybe
you would have preferred to go for it
with Bogus Red. He squared things once
and for all and is now talking accounts
to his dick and a succession of visitors
who never show at the crowbar hotel.
Missoula was okay but I didn't ask for
much more than a quick goodbye.
What can I say? I don't drink much
anymore. Days go diachronic. Little
Mayans watch our buildings from far away
with knowing eyes. Some guy from Tacoma came
inland looking to fulfill the need of his life.
He read the signs, then immediately reduced
murder to love. Another grand parable of sin,
grace, redemption. Other lovers caught up
with him in Florida and killed him back.
I can't talk about the fish just now
but they do seem to think that communication
as we know it is about to change big time.
P.S. Yellowstone burned down last summer.
{28}
Ron Welburn
rejecting both as intimacies for now
I am seeking a design
for my breechclout and moccasins
and the truest leering grin for my false face.
I find several brass instruments,
bent, curved, valved and keyed.
I go out to the world and say
I am Young Singing Shield.
Your hoop I cover with the skins
of
my enemies; your music I convert
beyond cognizance, for I seek this design
without finding the bear
or just the right sapling
to hang his meat from.
* * * *
feet is black alright
blackfoot so popular with black faces
indian grandmothers and fathers
chaka chan
bev johnson
some other indian-looking you all know.
quite a motley caravan
wandering out of the high plains
to meet africa, who may instead
have trekked to montana, alberta
with cowry seeds.
did they dine on Piegan?
did they slap five with Bloods?
Blackfeet alright.
They must have known old crow . . .
Crowfoot, that is.
{29}
Annharte
gopher eating days
sure remember
we all lived out of one room
over in Moccasin Flats
Saskatchewan
my love of literature
I found stuck in a box
of Reader's Digest
True Confessions
Awake
the best I read
"Tortilla
Flat"
John Steinbeck wrote
I pronounced "els"
as in Tortilla
I "ee ah"ed after
eating my first
tortilla in L.A.
a quarter turned me
Chicana eating taco
back to work back
to how cheap I was
then now it costs me
a whole pow wow
for an Indian taco
{30}
Jeanetta L. Calhoun
museum pieces
for the seneca nation museum
salamanca, ny
i am shivering
falling breathlessly into an uneven sleep
filled with dreams
dreams of ancient masks chanting forgotten songs
no longer silenced behind iced glass
dreams of the three sacred sisters corn beans and squash
stretching their limbs after too many years of
being frozen in soapstone
dreams of wampum beads moving rhythmically against
one another remembering the saddened drums of women wailing
shards of glass explode from the vibration
dreams of the turtle and the wolf leaping down from platforms
vomiting the taxidermists stuffing from their bowels
i am shaking
waking abruptly into awareness shouting
we are alive
* * * *
decision
for carroll
arnett
pfaffikon, switzerland
june, 1988
have i come this far
on my road home
to do this
to sit on antique brocade
wrapping red yarn around feathers
destined to be peddled as
"Authentic Indian Handicrafts"
{31}
i am an authentic indian, alright . . .
no matter how often i hear
"but you don't LOOK indian."
finding the way for us
mixed-bloods is hard enough
without having respect for an elder
tarnished by the awful feeling that
she's sold out and now asks me
to come along for the ride
i remembered to thank
my brothers and sisters for
their gift of black and brown plumes
lying lifeless in my hands . . .
still, i wash my hands four times.
the yarn dye feels like blood stains
i think of the last time i
wrapped his dog soldier braid
in the same color of yarn.
i remember the honor and beauty
in the act. . .
a thin black braid
shining and alive
i beg off this sacrilege of making hatbands
for german would-be cowboys by
pleading exhaustion
i am tired, tired of selling out
tell gogisgi
i am no longer
in the middle
of the road
{32}
Karoniaktatie
Indian Machismo (Skin to Skin)
{34}
Charles Brashears
Chanco sensed
his brother's presence before he saw him, for he knew he waited
there in the shadows of the short palisade. "You are to
kill them tomorrow morning," his brother said in their own
language, the language of Powhatan. "You are to kill him.
And her and the baby too. When the sun shines through the first
branches of the trees. Ope-tsan-kano has ordered all the villages
to attack, all up and down the river. We will strike everywhere
at once."
The dog, a big
slobbering mastiff, growled then at his brother, and Chanco had
to calm him, thankful that it covered his confusion. Me? Why
me? he thought. I'm only fourteen; that's a man's job.
"You can
do it, can't you?" his brother asked.
Chanco hesitated,
glad to be in the darkness, glad that his brother could not see
the quivering in his lip, the protest in his eye. "I-- How?
With a knife?"
"Take his
musket. Use his own musket on them. He has taught you to use
it, hasn't he? Or has he made your heart blue?"
The words struck
Chanco like a fist. His brother had stepped close, so that his
breath beat Chanco on the side of the head, hard but without
anger. "You're getting to be a man," said his brother.
"You've got to do a man's duties. We've got to get rid of
them. Before they destroy us and our way. We will burn Jamestown,
burn their farms, kill all these thieving English, and push their
ships back into the sea. That is Ope-tsan-kano's plan. You must
go along with it, like a brave warrior, or you will have no one
to go along with you."
Chanco held the
mastiff's collar and said nothing. If he had said it was treachery,
his brother would have hit him. If he had said they only want
us to be civilized too, his brother would have hit him again.
"Answer
me," said his brother. "He has taught you to use the
musket?"
"Yes,"
said Chanco.
His brother turned
on his toe and faded away toward the west outbuilding where Chanco
slept.
Four years
before, Chanco had been captured when the English raided his
village for slaves. At first, he had hated the English--and Richard
Pace, his captor, in particular. He had tried several times to
escape. Each time he was recaptured, Pace had not punished him,
but had treated him with kindness, and, slowly, Chanco had come
to {35} be content with Pace and
the English. The Reverend Alexander Whitaker, who had taught
Pocahontas to be a Christian, had taught Chanco how they were
all really brothers in soul, and how the Indians were really
one of the lost tribes, who were now found, and would live hereafter
in peace and prosperity. Then Chanco had become a Christian,
too, and tried to live, not as Richard and Isabella Pace's servant,
but as their son, as an older brother to little George. He no
longer had a desire to escape.
But now, old
Wahunsenacock, the Powhatan, was dead. And Ope-tsan-kano, Powhatan's
half-brother who had fought the English from the beginning, had
sent Chanco orders to kill his benefactor. Chanco did not know
where to turn, so he stood in the shadow of the short palisade,
holding the mastiff's collar and trying to pray to Jesus, until
Isabella Pace called him to supper.
At the supper
table, Chanco kept glancing at Richard Pace. He wants me to tell,
thought Chanco. He would want me to tell, but I won't do it.
When Pace asked
about his brother, Chanco pretended to have food in his mouth.
"That was
your brother you were talking to, wasn't it?" asked Isabella.
At last, Chanco
mumbled, "Went west," pleased that he had told the
truth about where his brother had gone, but had not revealed
anything. He knew his brother would be waiting in the shed. Chanco
had already slipped a wild turkey leg into the belly of his shirt.
"Any news
of Opechancanough?" asked Pace.
Chanco tried to hold his outward expression absolutely still,
as he had been taught when a very young child. He gazed at Pace
to see if there was any knowledge in his eyes. At last, he shrugged.
"I just
thought maybe your brother--"
At that moment,
Chanco hated his benefactor more than he had ever hated anyone.
And hated him even more, because Richard Pace was so insensitive:
he could not even see that he was hated. Pace's contempt for
all things Indian was supreme. I'll kill him, thought
Chanco. Because he is our enemy, mine, all the Real People's.
Even though he has been more father to me than anyone, I'll kill
him. With pleasure, Chanco thought of a way to mislead without
lying. "Ope-tsan-kano, no change," said Chanco. "No
change since last year."
"That's
good to hear," said Pace, sipping his wine with satisfaction.
He leaned back in his chair and became more voluble. "George
Thorpe said he had a message from Opechancanough only a week
{36} ago. Some had heard ugly rumors,
about which Thorpe sent to inquire."
Chanco just gazed
at Pace, pretending ignorance.
"Well, you
know of the peace we concluded last year and ratified and stamped
in brass, as Opechancanough wanted, and then nailed to the witness
tree?"
Chanco nodded
in the English fashion.
"Well, the
messenger came back, saying that Opechancanough held that peace
so firm, that the sky should sooner fall than it dissolve."
Pace sipped more of his wine and straightened his vest.
"I tell
you, Chanco, it's good to know that we are secure in our houses
and the civilization of the savages is progressing well. I reckon
now that there was no substance to the rumor that Opechancanough
had tried to bribe some of the coastal tribes to poison all of
us. I tell you, Chanco, this New England is fair on its course
to be a paradise for us."
As Pace talked
on and on, Chanco realized that it was not Pace's insensitivity
that allowed him to say these things to a person who had been
dispossessed and made a slave, but that Pace was talking to Chanco
the way he would talk to another English man, or to a son. And
Chanco was pleased. Perhaps they were brothers of the soul, after
all. Perhaps there could exist a world in which Indians and English
lived as equals. Hadn't the Reverend Mr. Whitaker died in the
river while trying to give help to an Indian woman? Hadn't he
gone to her aid as soon as he would have gone to the aid of an
Englishwoman?
Pace's voice
broke through Chanco's thoughts again. "I tell you, Chanco,
this is the first day of spring and a new world is a-borning.
Look at me: I've patented my plantation almost four miles from
Jamestown, with nothing around me but a short palisade. And all
up and down the river, men are living harmoniously with the natives,
as we are living here at Pace's Paines."
Chanco looked
down. It was true. He was living more comfortably now than he
had before, more comfortably than he had in his whole life. He
was warm and well-fed, and, more importantly, Richard and Isabella
Pace seemed to care for him genuinely, and little George crawled
on Chanco's knee as if Chanco were no different from his parents.
They were Chanco's parents, too, now. How could he raise a weapon
to kill them?
Pace was still
talking: "Perhaps Mr. Whitaker and George Thorpe were right;
maybe we could castrate the mastiffs to make them tamer, even
though some maintain it unwise to drop security so far. Let us
pray." Pace and Isabella drifted into the prayer with closed
eyes, "Let {37} us thank the
Almighty with all our hearts for the success He has seen fit
that we enjoy as we so nobly pursue and advance our projects
of buildings, plantings, and in effecting the savages' conversion
by peaceable and fair means----"
As Pace talked,
Chanco gazed at his plate and at the candle on the table, unable
to pray. He sank lower in the chair the white man had made of
tree limbs. Maybe he won't see me, he thought. Maybe
I'll look up in a while and both he and my brother will be gone.
Maybe the task will vanish. He would want me to tell, thought
Chanco. If I were really his son, I would be bound by duty
to tell.
Chanco slipped
the wild turkey leg from beneath his shirt and returned it to
the platter. Then, he waited those minutes he had been taught
were polite and said good night. He went out without calling
Pace father.
Even before
his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Chanco heard the mastiff
sniffing at his leg like a friend. He knew Chanco. Ope-tsan-kano
will send assassins to the plantations where the dogs know
them, he thought. Then they can get in without waking
their victims.
The big dog followed
Chanco as he moved away from the main house. That made Chanco
feel secure, for the dog would keep away the spirits of dead
people that lived in the woods and frequently tried to do mischief
to the living. He heard one in the woods down by the river, squawking
like a turkey that had just been caught by a fox. Even though
he was uncomfortable in the dark, he dallied, looking back at
Pace's house, knowing, dreading, that he would have to face his
brother again in the shed.
All of Chanco's
life, the tribe had tried to deal with this same dilemma. When
the English had been here only a year, John Smith had gone to
Nansemond village and demanded corn: "You know our want,
and we know your plenty. Somehow, by peace or by force, your
plenty is going to serve our want." To which, Wahunsenacock,
the Powhatan, had replied, "Why should you take by force
that which you can have by love?" But Smith stuck to his
line and extorted corn from the Indians as a condition of peace.
Even Powhatan
was then ready to let Ope-tsan-kano execute Smith, but Pocahontas
begged him to change his mind.
"You can't
trust these English," said Ope-tsan-kano.
Not long after
Pocahontas had saved Smith, they kidnapped her and held her as
a hostage to ensure peace. Chanco, too, had been kidnapped and
held hostage in the same kind of extortion that just {38}
happened to produce slaves. Yes, he thought, Ope-tsan-kano
is right. They will never accept us.
"Do you
think we will find a place in their God's sight?" Ope-tsankano
had once asked in council. "Don't you know they say we are
infidels, servants of their devil in our dark and howling woods,
not even so good as scum or sweat, until we consent to take their
God by the arm? But do you think they would let us live among
them? Would they let us work at our trades? Or theirs? Would
any of them follow an Indian commander, or let an Indian be Governor
of Virginia, even if he were as wise as Powhatan? They tell us
that they are the chosen people, but who chose them? They themselves.
They have no room in their hearts for brotherhood; they have
no room for anything but their greedy admiration of themselves."
The tribe had
always offered good faith, and the English had responded with
extortion. Ope-tsan-kano was right. They would have to be exterminated--to
the last man, woman, and child. And Chanco would help. He would
be glad to help. He hurried toward the shed.
His brother growled
at him from the dark of the room. "What kept you so long?
Didn't you know I was waiting?"
"I got away
as soon as I could," said Chanco.
"Haugh!"
said his brother in disgust and disbelief.
Chanco let it
pass. "Here," he said, "I've brought you some
food." He handed his brother a small loaf of corn bread
and a turnip.
"What
is this?" scowled his brother. "Squaw-food! Do
you think I want to eat that kind of truck and become stiff like
the roots? No! I want to be able to spring lightly and swiftly
through the forest. Couldn't you get me any deer meat? Or at
least some turkey?"
Chanco hesitated,
then decided to make no excuses. His brother fell to eating the
food.
Chanco opened
the shutter and stood listening to the night. He had grown up
in the Powhatan's village, where his first memories were of men
arguing to kill the whites, countered by Powhatan's world-weary
answers: "We have not achieved our ends by force, nor will
we. Is it not better to die secure in our lodges with our women
and children near, than to strike these men, after which we must
lie on the forest floor, eat what grubs and roots we can find,
and forever be on the secret watch to attack again, lest we be
attacked? Who of us can deny that their weapons are superior
to ours? As friends, we will have like weapons. Who of us can
deny that their copper pans are better than our clay pots? We,
too, will have copper pans. And what man among us does not already
carry one of their knives at his waist?"
Chanco hardly
knew what to think. Pocahontas had adopted them {39}
as her family, and look how comfortable she had become. Even
the Powhatan had come to accept and approve of her choice. What
man among us could not adopt a family of them as his own?
thought Chanco.
Most of the tribe
had said Powhatan was a great man, but Chanco's uncles and brothers
had followed Ope-tsan-kano.
"Have you
seen our uncles lately?" he asked his brother.
"Yes, of
course. Everyone is a part of the attack. All the villages, all
the sub-tribes, all of the peoples that Ope-tsan-kano leads.
Your uncles will strike at George Thorpe's place. The black servant
there may know of the plan, but he will run away to save himself.
We will bash in Thorpe's skull, then cut his body into small
pieces, to be lost in the dark woods, so that his soul will find
no rest."
"So much?"
cried Chanco. "Does he deserve so much?"
"He deserves
more. But we cannot cut his spirit in pieces."
"But he
has been so good--such a good friend--"
"Friend?
Ha! Is it being a good friend to humiliate even Ope-tsan-kano
by dogging him to say that Thorpe's God is a loving God? Better
than the Great Spirit? Or force us to say we love Thorpe and
his mastiffs? For he rips out our souls, even as he has trained
his dogs to rip out our guts."
His brother was
right, of course. Thorpe had done those things. The thought of
Thorpe's guts being scattered in the forest thrilled Chanco.
It would serve him right, serve all the English right to be ripped
to pieces so ruthlessly, as they had trained their mastiffs to
kill Indians. Yes, he thought, rip them to pieces
and feed them to their own dogs!
His brother was
eating the last of the food.
I hope some of
the assassins stop to have breakfast with the English, thought
Chanco, before they kill them with their own tools.
His brother was
still talking, though more quietly. Whitaker had been a fool
and a meddler, who might have been a good man, had he been born
an Indian. Thorpe and Pace and those other English were not friends,
but thieves; they professed their undying love, but Indian corn
and wild game still found their way to English tables, and the
Indians were left to eat grubs and roots in the forests.
Yet, any
Indians who wished to could live with them, thought Chanco,
and be well-fed, secure in their souls, warm against the
winter, even as Chanco had lived these last years. He felt
paralyzed. What could be done? There was no solution for both
these men.
I could run
away, he thought, gazing at the dark woods. I could
go into the forest and walk toward the hills under the sunset
and never come back. Then I wouldn't have to answer to either
of them. But, in {40} anguish,
frustration, outrage, he knew, I will have to do it. My brother
is here to make sure I do it. Hopelessness burned in him
like the fires of damnation themselves. He leaned against the
sash, sinking in his despair.
Then Chanco
discovered with a start that he had dozed on the window sill,
for his brother was shaking him awake. By the night sounds, Chanco
could tell it was not long before first light.
"I have
to go now," said his brother. "You too must awake and
do your duty."
"Go?"
asked Chanco. "You are going?"
"Yes, of
course." His brother's voice had turned bitter and sarcastic.
"My job is to bash in 'Mister' Perry's skull. I'll teach
him what his slaves think of him and his slobbering dogs."
Then Chanco's
brother was gone. Chanco sat long, listening to the quiet place
in the woods where his brother had passed.
Their ancestors
were out there. The ghost of Powhatan was there, too, in the
woods. Were those great men still arguing after death? Did their
souls carry on the problems they had struggled with in life?
They had come to no conclusions in life, but was there something,
some idea, some information that the immortal soul knew that
the mortal did not? Could they tell a mortal? Could they give
a sign?
Chanco got up
and walked out the gate, leaving the mastiff behind. His skin
shriveled in goose bumps, though he was not cold. He could hear
his heart thumping as he entered the woods. Everything was absolutely
quiet.
Was that the
sign they gave? Their absolute silence? He walked a short way
on a path he knew, then stopped. He tried to speak, but no sound
came. Then he whispered, "Wahunsenacock." He waited
a moment for an answer. "Wahunsenacock, great father, elder
uncle. Are you there? Give me a sign."
He waited. Nothing.
He felt a chill in his backbone, and his hands shook. Was that
the sign? Were they telling him to look into himself?
"But why
me?" he whispered. "I'm only a boy. I'm only fourteen
years old. How can I know a man's thoughts? Oh, Sweet Jesus,
help me in my misery. Deliver me from my weakness, lead me from
my confusions into righteousness. Purify me that I may see."
He paused to
listen. There was not a sound in the forest, not a speck of light.
It would soon
be dawn on March 22, 1622--Good Friday. It was the day the Lord
Jesus had been tormented and crucified. Chanco {41}
felt profoundly sorry for Jesus, because Pace had impressed upon
him what a holy man Jesus was--how infallible, how forgiving
and loving, how unselfish, how divine. This Jesus had promised
to carry even Chanco's worries, if Chanco would only give freely
of his love. How could Chanco not love such a brave warrior,
who invented his own weapons and led his tribe in his own ways?
The Israelites
were the chosen people of God. Yet they were constantly at war
with the people that tried to push them out of their Holy Land,
constantly in danger of suffering annihilation, driven on all
sides by angry enemies, as a desert wind drives the sand, as
the English had pressed the Powhatan people. What they saw as
justice, others saw as greed. What the English saw as honor,
the Powhatan people saw as thievery. What the English called
plantation was invasion and war. And God had said, let there
be a stop to this. Yes, God had said, gird up your loins and
slay them with their own swords; let there be a stop to their
evil.
Chanco returned
to the house, picked up the axe he chopped Pace's wood with,
and headed for his adopted father's bedroom.
He could not
see Pace in the darkness, but once in his presence, he had no
doubt. He shook Pace awake, saying, "Forgive me, father.
Your life is in danger."
Pace was confused.
"What? Who? Is that you, Chanco?"
"Yes, it
is Chanco. Your life is in danger, master. Oh, please forgive
me that I could raise your axe against you. I cannot---"
"Axe?"
cried Isabella Pace. "What do you mean?"
Then Chanco told
them of Ope-tsan-kano's plan, letting it tumble out, disorganized
and apologetic.
"Quick!
My shirt!" shouted Pace, throwing off his nightshirt. "We've
got to give the alarm."
"No!"
cried Chanco. "My uncles. They will be killed."
But Pace had
already gone out, dragging his pants onto one foot, leaving Isabella
Pace to hold a quilt to her breast. In the yard, Pace was shouting,
"To arms! To arms!"
Chanco stood,
stilled by shock. He had meant to warn only Pace. It meant less
to him if all the other English were smashed. But not Pace. And
yet, Pace was only a part of the whole English tide. If it were
right that he live . . .
Pace broke through
the door again, shouting, "Come on, Chanco! This is an emergency!"
And he dragged Chanco out by the arm.
Pace had put
his boat in the slough and laid the oars across the thwart. "Get
in!" said Pace. "We've got to get over to Jamestown,
quick!"
"No!"
cried Chanco in his native language, as he ducked, turned, {42} dashed toward his shed.
Pace grabbed
at him as he passed, catching only his sleeve. The seam gave
way at the shoulder, and Chanco slid free. But it had slowed
him enough that Pace got his other hand on the shirt.
Chanco spun,
running backward, twisting to allow the shirt to slip over his
head.
Then he was free,
free soon of the homespun trousers also, running west in first
light, in his own red-clay skin, springing lightly like a deer
or turkey over the fallen logs in the woods, running, gaining
a second wind.
When he came
to Perry's place, he leapt over the mastiff with the crushed
skull and knew that Perry was dead. By the river, he found Perry's
skiff and rowed across to George Thorpe's place. They had cut
Thorpe into pieces, as they had planned.
In all, three
hundred and forty-seven of the eleven hundred English were to
die that morning, but Chanco could not know that. He did know
that Pace had rowed the three miles to Jamestown and warned the
Governor, for he heard the cannon booming and the muskets cracking.
"My uncles!" he thought. "They are killing my uncles." Chanco found other bodies near Thorpe's burned house. It was a pleasure to kick them. For a moment, Chanco wanted to run after his uncles, catch up with them and his brother, join in the slaying. But they would soon know that Chanco was the traitor who had informed and allowed the English to prepare their defense at Jamestown. "If it weren't for you," they would say, "we could have killed them at their breakfast tables. We could have killed them all. Every last one."
Nor could Chanco ever go back to Pace, now that he had said "No!" in his own language, now that he had his own red-clay skin back. To Pace, Chanco would now be just an Indian, to be whipped, to be enslaved, to be guarded by a slobbering mastiff.
So Chanco ran west. Toward the hills where he could hide.
Toward the hills where he could lift up his arms and ask the
falling sky to forgive him, where he could beg the cold earth
to receive him, where (he knew) none of the powers of the six
directions would nurture him. For he was lost in the Universe,
with no place to turn. Neither the Great Spirit of All nor God
the Father would have him now, for he was a traitor to both his
fathers.
These personalities and events of the Great Uprising of March 22, 1622, are documented in The Records of the Virginia Company of London, in the Pace family history, and other places.
{43}
COMMENTARY
National Native American Writers Conference
Joe Bruchac is
currently putting together a national Native American Writers
Conference for 1992, a gathering for Native American authors
which will include as many American lndian writers as possible
and address a number of topics while giving Native writers a
chance to get together. Funding sources are being sought and
a committee put together for an initial planning meeting. For
more information about the conference contact
Joseph
Bruchac
Greenfield
Review Press
R.D.
1, Box 80
Greenfield
Center, NY 12833
From the Editors
This issue is
a first for SAlL, and an experiment. When the announcement
of SAIL's revival went out in early 1989 l received
responses both against and for including creative work in the
journal, including one from a correspondent who wrote that "SAIL
would not be SAIL" without poetry, which surprised
me, since the journal had never published poetry. I knew that
SAIL could not attempt such an enterprise without an
experienced poetry editor, and only when Joe Bruchac generously
agreed to handle creative offerings did this issue devoted to
New Native American Writing become possible. We are all in his
debt for the major job that editing the issue has been, from
first contacting authors and sending out a call for work through
correspondence, reading and selecting from the many replies.
Now that the
issue is out, we need to hear from you on the question of whether
SAIL should continue publishing new creative work. SAIL
belongs to its contributors and subscribers; please tell us what
you think.
Helen
Jaskoski
Bob
Nelson
CONTRIBUTORS
Annharte (Salteaux) is Marie Annharte Baker; she prefers to use her middle name as a signature to her poetry, which has appeared in Conditions, Backbone, Fireweed and Seventh Generation. She is a founding member of the Aboriginal Writer's group in Regina.
Duane Big Eagle (Osage) was born in Oklahoma and received his higher education in California. He has worked with the poets-in-the-schools program in California, and his work has appeared in various anthologies and periodicals, including Songs from this Earth on Turtle's Back.
Charles Brashears (Cherokee) has "a lot of sympathies with the two strands of Cherokees in my family tree, and I often write about them, as well as other Indian connections that call me." He teaches fiction writing at San Diego State University and has published a book of short fiction, Contemporary Insanities.
Jeanetta L. Calhoun (Lenni Lenape) has had poetry in Piecework and Mensokie. "I live in the thousands of cheap motel rooms scattered across the U.S. since I travel most of the year discussing Native American/human rights and the environment."
Charlotte DeClue (Osage) is from Oklahoma. Her work has appeared in anthologies, periodicals, and literary journals in the U.S. as well as in Ireland, the Netherlands, Austria, Germany, and France. Her chapbook Without Warning is available from Strawberry Press.
Della Frank (Navajo) is a school counselor on the Navajo reservation.
Forrest Aguila Funmaker (Salteaux) shares an interest in theatre and writing with his mother, Annharte.
Roy N. Henry (Inupiak): "I am an Inupiaq, the Kawerak dialect of the Seward Peninsula Region. I was raised and live anywhere in Nome, Teller, or Brevig Mission, which is on the western coast of the Seward Peninsula." Roy Henry is currently working on an AA degree.
Lance Henson (Cheyenne) is a poet and activist raised in his grandparents' home built on traditional Cheyenne campgrounds near Calumet, Oklahoma. He is an ex-marine, and a member of the Cheyenne Dog Soldier Society and the Native American Church. His collected works have appeared in the U.S. and Europe, and he lectures on poetry, the evironment, and Native American rights and culture.
LeAnne Howe (Choctaw) is a journalist from Oklahoma. Two short story collections, Coyote Papers and A Stand Up Reader, have been published. Her Choctaw family name is Tells and Kills.
Karoniaktatie (Akwesasne Mohawk) is a writer, editor, artist and sometime steelworker; he has published in Akwesasne Notes and other periodicals. His collections are Native Colors and Landscapes.
Maurice Kenny (Mohawk), born on the St. Lawrence River, has authored 20 collections of poetry, the most current being Between Two Rivers and Greyhounding This America. He has received the American Book Award for The Mama Poems, and numerous other awards and fellowships.
Sidner J. Larson (Gros Ventre) was raised on the Fort Belknap reservation of northcentral Montana. "Jim Welch and I share a common set of grandparents by marriage and we both spent considerable time at their ranch at Fort Belknap. . . . 'For Dick' is dedicated to Richard Hugo."
Adrian C. Louis (Paiute) was born in Nevada and is an enrolled Paiute Indian Tribal member. He teaches English at Oglala Lakota College on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. He has published a collection of poems, Fire Water World.
Maureena C. A. Manyfingers (Yakima) was born and raised on the Yakima Reservation, located in south central Washington, where she was brought up in a traditional Yakima manner in the Seven Drum Wash-it Faith, long house. Her work appears in various publications, including the forthcoming anthology, Treasured Poems of America.
Terri Meyette (Yaqui) now lives in Phoenix, Arizona.
Joe Dale Tate Nevaquaya (Yuchi/Comanche) lives in Oklahoma City and works as a poet-in-the-schools with the Oklahoma State Arts Council. His work has appeared in literary magazines and journals, and he is also a visual artist, exhibiting in New York City at Artist Space.
Louis Littlecoon Oliver (Creek) is now in his mid-eighties. He says, "My people spoke the old Alabama language now practically extinct." His poetry has appeared in Songs From this Earth on Turtle's Back.
Gus Palmer, Jr. (Kiowa) lives in Norman, Oklahoma, where he works for the American Indian Research and Development program. He has published poems in various Indian anthologies and has taught creative writing for gifted and talented American Indian young people in Oklahoma.
Armand Garnet Ruffo (Ojibwe) has been published most recently in the Canadian publication Contemporary Native Writing: Seventh Generation. He is the great-great grandson of Chief Sahquakgiele (Louis Espaniel) of the Ojibway Nation. {click here for update}
Cheryl Savageau (Abenaki) is of French-Canadian and Abenaki heritage. Her work has appeared in literary magazines as well as in the anthology An Ear To The Ground. She works as a storyteller and visiting writer in schools throughout Massachusetts.
Glen Simpson (Athabascan) includes Tahltlan and Casca Athabascans from Northern British Columbia among his ancestors. An artist, as well as a writer, he lives in Fairbanks, Alaska, where he works at the University of Alaska. His poems appear in Alaska Quarterly and the forthcoming anthology from Greenfield Review Press, Raven Tells Stories.
Renee Matthew Singh (Athabascan) is from the interior of Alaska; she was raised in the village of Tanana until the age of seven when her family moved to Fairbanks. She is currently attending the University of Alaska at Fairbanks, majoring in English with a minor in Education.
Earle Thompson (Yakima) attended schools on the Yakima Reservation and in Seattle. His writing has appeared in various periodicals and anthologies including Songs From this Earth on Turtle's Back.
Ron Welburn (Cherokee-Conoy) has published poems in The Phoenix, The Eagle: New England's American Indian Journal, and several other magazines and anthologies. He teaches in the English Department at Western Connecticut State University and is active on the powwow circuit in the Northeast.
Contact: Robert Nelson
This page was last modified on: 04/29/03
