My siblings and I could have been taught that old language. We could have learned how to navigate all of those ancient rivers of words and concepts.
My siblings and I could have become the last guardians of the old Spokane language.
But we are not.
My siblings are everyday citizens of our reservation. They speak only English. And I, crazily enough, have turned English into my only vocation and greatest avocation.
I speak and dream in English. I am a gifted writer and speaker of English. And that fact, in the small world of the Salish language and of the Spokane Indians, is cause for unequal amounts of celebration and grief.
151.
Thursday Is a Good
Day to Find an Empty
Church Where You
Can Be Alone
I want to believe That my father and mother Have found each other In the afterlife
And become a new kind Of husband and wife.
I hope they’ve built A home by water
And have guest rooms For all of us sons And daughters.
But I don’t want to be The atheist who prays Only for himself, So let me just say That my mother and father Would certainly prefer To be alive and alive.
Maybe they can return As birds. Listen.
I know this magic Will never happen.
And maybe my faith, Or lack of faith, Is odd. But I don’t need Answers. I just want To be heard by somebody— By the real and/or imaginary God.
152.
Pine
And now I need
To do something Excessively Indian
So I will name
All of the pine trees On the reservation.
That one is Mother And that one over There is Mother
And so is that third Pine in the valley And that tall one
On the ridge is Mother.
Okay, I’m either lazy Or I have an arboreal strain
Of Oedipus complex.
So let me take this down A few degrees.
That pine, the closest one To my mother’s grave— I imagine its roots
Will eventually feed On what my mother Will become
After many years In the earth.
So let my mother
Be that tree
And let that one tree Be my mother.
And let my Mother Tree Turn every toxin Into oxygen
So that my siblings And I can finally And simply breathe.
153.
Ancestry
My late mother is The grandmother Of this poem.
It is her
Descendant,
Disrespectful Enough to reveal That my late mother Was conceived By rape,
That most vicious Of amendments.
Unlike me, this poem Will question My late mother About her conception And self-conception: I’m sorry
To interrogate you.
I know you’re the victim And should be treated With respect.
But there are things I’d like to know.
When did you first learn You were the child Of rape? Who Told you? Why Did they tell you?
Should I even Call him
Your father?
Nobody wants To be known As a rapist’s daughter, Do they?
I should tell Everybody
You were raised By a good man Named James, And not
By your biological Father, yes?
Are you angry With me
Because I’ve revealed What you chose To conceal?
I’m sorry
For this
Intrusion.
But I need To know if you saw The rapist’s face When you looked Into the mirror?
Did your mother see him When she looked At you?
Is it possible That your mother Loved you less Than your siblings Because of how You were created?
Did you ever learn How to be
Anything other Than devastated?
Okay, stop, stop, I want to stop This poem
And drop
The facade.
I, Sherman Alexie, Am the child
Of Lillian Alexie, who was the child Of rape.
I, Sherman Alexie, Am the grandchild Of rape.
My children are The great-grandchildren Of rape.
All of these descendants Exist
Because of rape.
Rape is
Our ancestor.
Rape is
Our creator.
Rape is
Our Book
Of Genesis.
Rape is
Our Adam & Eve.
And yet.
And yet.
We never
Forget
That my mother chose My father
Because of love.
I chose my wife Because of love.
Our children
And grandchildren Will choose
Their spouses Because of love.
We continue
Lovingly
Despite
The crimes
Committed
Against any
And all
Of us.
How miraculous Is that?
Dear Mother,
Dear Lillian, Thank you
For choosing me.
Thank you
For your gifts, Borrowed
And renewed.
Thank you
For my birth.
And for all
The plentitude Of this
Half-vicious
And half-forgiving Earth.
154.
Things I Never Said to My Mother
1.
I have two sons—your grandchildren— One dark-skinned and one light.
That means they’ll have to fight Slightly different enemies.
My dark son will have to be wary Of angry white men with guns.
My light son will have to verbally battle Angry Indians with sharp tongues.
2.
My sons ride city buses
To and from school.
They walk among thousands Of strangers arranging
And rearranging themselves.
There are so many new
Skyscrapers
Being built
In our city of rain,
I wonder if
Everybody’s spirit animal Is now the construction crane.
3.
Dear Mother, I live and work In a black neighborhood. Well,
In a black neighborhood being Gentrified. It’s good. I love it here.
Late one night, at my office One mile from home, I stared
Out my window in an insomniac haze.
Remember how crazed I used to be?
Turns out eight hours of sleep Is the only vision quest I need.
Anyhow, as I stared out that window, I saw a transformer sizzle
And spark down the block.
Accidental and gorgeous fireworks.
Then that transformer boomed And turned the neighborhood
Into one large and powerless room.
In five minutes, the closed supermarket
Parking lot below me was crowded With dozens of black teens and young adults.
A sudden party! And the bass that shook Their car windows shook my office window!
Then, three minutes after the party started, Six police cars pulled into the parking lot.
Oh, shit! Oh, shit! I wondered if somebody Was going to get shot! But the cops stayed
In their cars, content to just be reminders Of more dangerous possibilities,
While the black teens behaved like teens.
Twenty minutes later, the power came back.
I was surprised that it had been fixed So quickly. Soon enough, the black kids
Vacated the lot. And the cops did, too.
It was one of those city nights where
Bad things could have happened.
But it was good things that shook the air.
The music and car engines and laughter Only singing about love, not disaster.
4.
I ask my older son to define “abundant,”
And he shrugs and says, “That’s when
You have too much stuff. Like us.”
My younger son wants to maybe become a rapper,
But he doesn’t want to exploit black culture.
He wants to tell his urban Indian truth,
But he doesn’t want to be a colonial asshole.
He says, “Dad, I know I’ve got money and power,
Even though I’m just a kid. But I want to talk About all the evil shit in the world.” I say, “Son,
You just gotta be honest when you’re trying To be a socially conscious artist in your village.”
And he says, “I’m gonna be honest from the start Because my rap name will be Lil’ Privilege.”