And there she was, along with the white couple who led the church and a few dozen Spokane Indians, throwing books, magazines, and music albums onto a bonfire.
My mother and her fellow indigenous Charismatics were chanting something about the Devil—about the evil of the secular world—about all the sin-soaked novels and porn magazines and rock music.
I was grossed out.
On opposite sides of the bonfire, my mother and I made eye contact. But I think she was so deeply entranced—so hypnotized and self-hypnotized—that she didn’t recognize me.
I hurried home to make sure my small personal library of books and records was intact and unburned. And, yes, all was safe.
Later that night, at the dinner table, I told my mother to leave my stuff alone or I’d burn down her church.
“You’re a sinner,” she said, and pointed her fork at me.
“And so are you,” I said, and pointed my fork right back at her.
93.
Law & Order
Hey, shithead, if you’re going to forgive Your mother, then you better hurry— But, hold on, maybe you can delay
Because you’re the judge and one-man jury
And all of the lawyers and bailiffs.
Hell, you’re the Bible and the ornate gavel.
Most of all, you’re the journalist who opines About justice kept whole or justice unraveled.
Hey, shithead, you’ve never worn a watch, So I suspect this case will become eternal, As you try and try and try your mother For the crime of being unpredictably maternal.
94.
The Lillian Alexie
Review of Books
My late mother was once
Interviewed by the local news About her son, me, the poet.
When asked if she knew
That I would become a writer, She said, “I thought he was
Going to be a pediatrician.
There’s still time for him To become a doctor, I think.”
She was also asked if it hurt To read my most autobiographical Stuff, the shit that detailed
How she used to drink and smoke And punch old Indian women In the face. She said, “I was ashamed,
And wished he used fake names, But then I realized they made me Think honestly about the past.”
I don’t know if she was telling The truth. She mythologized herself As much as I do. But I can testify
To this: Whenever I traveled near home To read my poems, my mother Would always sit in the third row
And gracefully withstand my utter lack Of tact. Though, on the phone, She once described me
As “13 percent book smart
And 87 percent dick jokes.”
Ah, the things our mothers know...
95.
Painkiller
My sister reminds me Of the time that I stepped On a nail, screamed
In pain, and ran
With the nail and board Still attached to my foot.
Also screaming, our mother Chased me, wanting
To deliver first aid, But I was probably
Trying to elude the pain By running from everything
In the world. When
She finally caught me, My mother pushed me down, Pulled the nail and board Off my foot, and then removed My shoe. We all expected to See blood. But, no, no, no,
The nail had miraculously Passed between my toes With barely a scratch.
That nail had been impaled In my shoe and not
In my foot. We laughed
And Mom asked me why I was screaming from Pain when there was no pain.
I had no answer then.
But now I think
That I’d been anticipating
The pain, much like the rain Dancer who is always successful Because he doesn’t stop Dancing and praying
And dancing and praying Until it rains and rains and Rains and rains.
96.
Cultural Identity
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, at a book reading in Philadelphia, a white man asked me what made my work so “particularly Indian.” He said that my poems and stories didn’t seem “all that Indian.”
I said, “First of all, you’re a white guy from Philadelphia. What do you know about Indians you didn’t learn from some other white guy from Philadelphia? And secondly, would you ask a white guy what makes him so white? Well, let me tell you, pal, that question you just asked makes you the whitest asshole in Philadelphia right now.”
Yes, before I went on bipolar medication, I would sometimes lose my temper in very public and aggressive and completely justified ways.
But as the years have gone by, I have often pondered that white man’s question. And I often think of the other white people and Indians who have questioned the “Indianness” of my identity. And I have experimented with various answers to their questions and challenges. I have considered the genetic, cultural, political, spiritual, and economic aspects of “Indianness.” I have discussed the issue with other indigenous writers and scholars. I have read millions of words written by and about Indians.
So, if I could travel back in time to Philadelphia, I would answer that white man’s question in a different way. I would have said, “The concept of ‘Indianness’ is amorphous and highly personal and eccentric. It’s hard to say exactly what ‘Indianness’ is without reverting to generic notions of ‘cultural construction’ and ‘postcolonialism.’ But I will say that I have never been a dancer or singer. I have only intermittently believed in God. I used to be a math prodigy and now I’m a great storyteller. Does any of that make me more or less Indian? I don’t think so. You know what makes me and my stories Indian? All the goddamn funerals.”
At that point, I’m sure that white man would have been trying to speak again, so I would have stepped forward and said, “You know what also makes me Indian? I could punch you in the face right now, do an improvised thirty-minute lecture on the sonnet poetry form, and then punch you again. And, hell, you might be a professional boxer who will kick my ass. But that doesn’t matter to me as an Indian. I will fight you even if I absolutely know I’m going to lose. You could knock me out and I could wake up and still deliver that thirty-minute lecture on the sonnet with a heavy-duty reservation accent. I mean—dude, I come from an honor culture. Don’t you know what that entails?”
And then, as a sort of concluding couplet, I would have said, “And also, in case you missed the subtext—in case you misheard—then let me say, ‘Fuck off, fuck off, you colonial turd.’”
97.
Motherland
I TEND TO believe in government because it was the U.S. government that paid for my brain surgery when I was five months old and provided USDA food so I wouldn’t starve during my poverty-crushed reservation childhood and built the HUD house that kept us warm and gave me scholarship money for the college education that freed me. Of course, the government only gave me all of that good shit because they completely fucked over my great-grandparents and grandparents but, you know, at least some official white folks keep some of their promises.
98.
Glacial Pace
When I was thirteen, I coughed on some ice chips And my mother quickly rose and belted
Me hard on the back one, two, three, four times.
Later, I said, “Mom, it was ice. It was gonna melt.”
I was angry at her maybe because
I needed reasons to be pissed at her,