I asked my wife these questions, because she’s the woman I know best, because she’s Native American, and because I needed her counsel, and she said, “Think of the history of war. Think of the aftermath of war. Think of what men have always done after victory. Think of the rich and poor. Think of the way entire groups of people—of women—were treated by invading armies. It happened in ancient times. In every age. It happened very recently. It’s happening now. It’s happening to most Native women right now. There have been millions of children who’ve been conceived by rape. And millions of mothers who love those children.”
I didn’t have any response to my wife’s history lesson. I knew she was telling the truth. I knew she was right.
“Rape culture” might be a recently created descriptive phrase, but that phrase retroactively and accurately describes the collected history of human beings.
And it also describes the culture on my reservation. If some evil scientist had wanted to create a place where rape would become a primary element of a culture, then he would have built something very much like an Indian reservation. That scientist would have put sociopathic and capitalistic politicians, priests, and soldiers in absolute control of a dispossessed people—of a people stripped of their language, art, religion, history, land, and economy. And then, after decades of horrific physical, emotional, spiritual, and sexual torture, that scientist would have removed those torturing politicians, priests, and soldiers, and watched as an epically wounded people tried to rebuild their dignity. And, finally, that scientist would have taken notes as some of those wounded people turned their rage on other wounded people.
My family did not escape that mad scientist’s experiment. In my most blasphemous moments, I think of that evil scientist as God.
So look again at the photo on the book’s jacket.
Look anew.
Perhaps you assumed this is a photo of my mother and me. Other people have made that assumption. I’m the author of this book, so it makes aesthetic sense that my face, along with my mother’s, would be on the jacket.
But that baby on the jacket is Mary, my big sister. She looks pissed about being a part of the photograph. And that woman on the cover is my mother at seventeen. She looks happy and not bothered by her daughter’s anger.
That’s a mother and daughter on the jacket of this book. Those are two women who, with strength and grace, loved each other. They led incredibly painful lives. One died tragically young. One endured catastrophic losses.
Look at that mother and daughter.
Look at those two Native American women.
Think of their grief.
Think of their grace.
Think of their pain.
Think of their power.
Sing them an honor song.
141.
Dear Mother
I’m going to sleep now.
Since you died, I’ve only dreamed
Of ordinary errands: Groceries, driving the boys
To baseball and saxophone, Folding laundry at noon.
But, in these dreams, you Are always there, mute,
Five or six feet away, And younger than I am now.
I do my best to ignore you (As I did in life)
But your persistent Presence is maddening.
These aren’t nightmares And, yet, I tell myself
To remain calm,
To remain calm.
Eventually, in these dreams, I lose my shit
And scream, “What Do you want?”
And you nod
And smile
As beautifully as ever And turn away.
Mother, what a trickster You have become.
After seventy-eight years Of words, words, words,
And words, you are now Mocking me
With your silence, So complete, so absurd.
142.
The Urban Indian Boy Dreams of the Hunt
On the reservation,
My big brother kills an elk And cuts open its belly— Intending to eat its heart And praise the animal’s sacrifice— But instead finds the six hearts Of his six best friends who Have died in drunken car wrecks Over the last twenty years.
Kneeling beside the elk,
My brother pauses—
Even a reservation Indian can be Surprised by the bloody magic of things— Then feasts on his friends’ hearts And thanks God for the brief Moments when we are loved well And for those stretched-taut days When we are barely loved at all.
143.
Dialogue
Is my mother still dead? Yes, she is still Dead. Are you sure that my mother is dead?
We are positive that your mother is
Dead because we are looking at her grave.
It’s been a year since her death. Yes, we know Because we can no longer sense her breath Or body heat. Is that why you have come To my home? We’re not dumb. We need fresh blood.
I’ve built homemade traps. We’ve seen the lights Floating in the shallow bowls of soapy Water. We can’t resist the lure. I’ve drowned Over one hundred of you. There are more
Of us alive than dead: adults, pupae,
Larvae, and eggs. The four stages of fleas?
We’re not unlike the Five Stages of Grief.
We can be temporarily submerged
But we always return. I have summoned An exterminator. She reminds me
Of Darth Vader. Eh, as she poisons us, She will also be poisoning your ass.
I’m desperate. I’ll do what I must to end Your invasion. I’ll burn my fucking house.
Hey, pal, you’re practicing some evasion.
It’s not us you hate. You hate your own blood.
But don’t worry. We love the salt in you.
Be still. Our bites don’t pinch. They only itch.
I want my mother back. You’re lying.
You might ache now but she caused you far more
Pain when she was alive. Your grief might itch But it stings less and less with each new day.
So shut up and bare your legs, bare your arms.
Damn, you’re not fooled by my false pleas or charm,
Are you? Oh, come on, dude, it’s not us fleas You need to flatter. You don’t require Our approval. Okay, maybe you’re right.
Maybe life is better since my mom died,
But what about my sisters and brothers?
What about their pain? Do you aspire
To be like us now? Do you want to feast On their blood? I want to honor their grief.
Fuck you. You’re a writer. You’re a damned thief.
No, no, no, no, I love my siblings.
They’re more important than my scribbling, Than these sad-sack rhymes. Okay, if that’s true
Then tell them, say it aloud, testify.
Okay, I will, I will. Let’s hear it now.
Dear sisters, dear brothers, I am sorry
For being a ghost, for not loving you
And our mother as much as all of you
Have loved me. I’m sorry for being so
Incomplete. Okay, pal, we’ll grade that a C.
Maybe a C-minus. But now you need
To tell us how you’re going to atone.
I don’t know. What? I don’t know. I don’t know.
Should I kneel and thrash my back with thorns?
Listen, pilgrim, we’re not Catholic. We’re fleas.
We just want you to bleed and bleed and bleed And bleed and bleed, but not to death.
No, we need you alive. We need your pain To be close to the surface and bite-sized.
You are not my God. You don’t control me.
You can’t escape us. You are beyond help.
Fuck this, fuck death, fuck grief. Nice try, Junior, But cursing fleas is like cursing yourself.
144.
Tantrums
First Set
What should I do with my rage against death?
I grab the exercise ball, lift it above My head at full extension and throw it Down against the floor with all of my strength.