As we reinvent
(I can’t be your kind of Indian)
Reinventing ourselves
as everyone else has defined us
beyond Hollywood stereotyping
Tonto’s innocuous lexicon
(what they gave Jay SilverHeels to work with)
feathers, arrows those
wigwearin’ fancydancers (Many Tongues Remain)
not shrunk in your cupboards
we’re not their kind of Indian
I’m not that kind of Indian
teepees and buffalo
I’m wigwam and maple syrup
deer and moose
not pre-Columbian, original pokemon
plastered mascot logos adorning sweatshirts, caps
Cleveland Indians (Louis Sockalexis), Atlanta Braves
warriors chops and fake war whoop tremolos
beyond wooden nickels and cigar store flunkies
gracing Santa Fe Railroad cars and discovering America
in a jeep
beyond Edward Curtis’ one-dimensional images
frozen in sepia
those Indian male heads. . . our Indian men
We’re hiding in plain sight
driving taxis in midtown Manhattan
Mohawks are crowhopping on steel girders
high above your heads
building this city
when they dredge the East River they might find
bones of the Haudenosaunee
our ancestors
We’re hiding in plain sight
an avalanche of stone beings
groaning, grinding awake up from rich sediment (Thundereggs & Garnets)
People of the Dawnland are knee deep (We Use our Hands)
in pulp and ash shavings
lacings of spruceroot
or sweetgrass/sedge between their swollen lips
weaving the baskets to hold lives, to heal with songs and stories
my voice is theirs, it comes in whispers (Cradled in Corn)
one wail rising
wind through dried corn stalks
Penobscot, Passamaquoddy, Maliseet, Micmac, Oneida, Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Narraganset, Pequot, Wampanog and on
peoples of this place, this Dawnland, this Ndakinna -
this Manhattan - this
mountain island
you can’t clear-cut the Creator!
as they butcher this cathedral of pines (Reseeding)
the fabric of spirit glows phosphorescent
foxfire, outlines of ferns
between ghost stalks of trees I’ve seen us stepping
We’re writing books, counting Verbal Coup
educating the world as we reinvent ourselves with
the “enemies’” language
sharpened pencils
those ghost trees
songs, chants, raging raps
the clan mothers guiding our tongues
the grandfathers guiding our tongues
as they knock of the horns of your leaders
they’ve severed their umbilical cord to the earth (Knocking off the Horns)
strip them of their titles
take back the reins of council fires to burn away this mess
those tanned skinned ones
I give these words for you
in deference to those darker ones I love (Reseeding)
they tried locking in dark closets
shearing off braids
dusting you white with delousing powder
calling you stupid and dangerous because
clear-eyed you become visionaries
reseeding
reinventing with the enemy’s tongue
or silently watching - black-eyed seeing windows of opportunity
We’re
scoured clean in sweats (skins)
long in circles
flushing our hurts
like a hunter
his dogs sniffing out a stubborn hare
We’re crowhopping
dancing with wolves
dancing with salmon
dancing with buffalo and eagle
dancing with moose
caribou and deer
sun dancing
sweating and tremeloing in the 21st Century many tongues remain to tell our stories (Many tongues remain)
--Sandra Abena Songbird Naylor
© 1999
A note from Abena Songbird: The words in parentheses are titles of my other poems whose lines make this composite poem I read at The Spirit in the Words in New York. My book containin these other poems will be ready in April, so this will all make some sense.
Sandra Abena Songbird Naylor is an Abenaki (French/Irish) poet and singer; a member of the Mississquoi Abenaki tribe of Vermont. In March of 1998 she released her first album, They’re Calling Us Home, a combination of contemporary jazz and spoken word with her partner, Muhammad Al-Amin. They call themselves “The Songbird and the Moor.” Ms. Songbird was the 1996 recipient of the Mary TallMountain Native Award for Poetry and Community Service and is currently editing her first book of poetry entitled, Bitterroot, a way to heal, to be released by Freedom Voice Press (Berkeley) in April 2000.
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