I wrote this poem in 1990, as we were starting The 1992 Alliance, a national coalition that promoted Native Peoples and histories during the build-up to the Columbus Quincentenary. As ships were being launched, again, and discovery celebrations were being planned for 1992 500-years anniversary, we were making sure that there would be commemorations of the more than 500 Native Nations that did not survive, as well as a celebration of those that did, and that we rocked some boats and declared some places as Columbus-free zones. The U.S. Census was revealing a tragically high Native American suicide rate, again, and I wanted to write something for our kids that would give some way of summing up things that had been done to us that were not our fault, were not their fault. It was my primal scream to tell our kids to put the blame where it belonged and not take it out on themselves, and I dedicated it to Sheridan, who spawned, “The only good Indian’s a dead one,” and to some of his buddies and progeny who symbolized that message. The poem was printed all over Indian country and hundreds of people were reading it at their Columbus-didn’t-discover-me events, fulfilling my goal of writing a peoples’ poem. Here’s another more recent one for this or any occasion.
Aho.
Suzan
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jumping through the hoops of history
(for columbus, custer, sheridan, wayne and all such heroes of yesteryear)
10 little, 9 little, 8 little Indians
7 little, sick little, live baby Indians
poor little, me little, you little Indians
the only good Indian’s a dead 1
a lot of young Indians got dead in the ‘80s
just like the ‘70s and the ‘60s
both 19 and 18 hundreds
and all the other 00s since 1492
a sucker’s #s game over the sale of the centuries
with 99-year leases and 1-cent treaties
with disappearing ink on the bottom line
signed by gilt-eyed oddsmakers
whose smart $ bet on 0 redskins by half-time
in the 4th quarter, when this century turned on us
we were down to 250k in the u.s.
from the 50m who were here
but who just didn’t hear about
the lost italian lurching his way from spain
with scurvy-covered sailors and yellow-fevered priests
at least 1,000 points of blight and plague
in 3 wooden boxes marked “india or bust”
and “in gold we trust”
columbus washed up on our shores, praising paradise on earth
and kinder, gentler people
who fixed them dinner, but laughed so hard
at these metal-headed, tiny whitemen
that they fell to their knees
we please them, dear diary, columbus wrote home
they think we’re gods
so the knights of the lost boats
spread syphilis and The word of the 1 true gods
and planted 00s of flags of the 1 true kings
and sang their sacred 3-g song
“a, b, c, d, g, g, g
“glory, god and gold, gold, gold”
rub-a-dub-dub, a nina tub
rub-a-dub-dub, a pinta tub
rub-a-grub-grub, Native gold and lands
rub-a-chop-chop, Native ears and hands
rub-a-rub-rub Indians out
8m by 1500, or thereabout
meanwhile, back in the land of wicked queens and fairy tales
serfs were sowing and owing the churches
and paying dues to the papal store
all for the promise of the kingdom of heaven
starving and dying to make it to that pearly door
the inquisition kings reaped peasant blood$, but wanted more
than those in robes could rob from the poor
so the captains of invention
designed the missions to go forth and mine
with tools of destruction to kill the time
so cristobal colon led the chorus in the same old song
kyrie, kyrie, kyrie eleison
a new world beat for average savages
who didn’t change their tune
and were bound by chains of office
and staked out to pave the yellow brick road
at invasion’s high noon
and wizards in satin read their rights in latin
kyrie, kyrie, kyrie requiremento
and a lot of Indians got dead
as was, by god, their right
to the sound of death songs in the night
kyrie, kyrie, kyrie requiremento
and amerigo begat the beautiful
and the bibles grew and the bullets flew
and the pilgrims gave thanks
and carved up turkeys and other peoples’ lands
and mrs. Gov. stuyvesant bowled with 10 bloody skulls
and begat up against the wall streets
and shopping mauls on 00s of mounds
and the 7th cavalry prayed and passed the ammunition
and loaded gattling guns 100k times
and shot off extra special 45/70s
for any Indians or buffalo
between europe and manifest destiny
meanwhile, in Indian country
no one heard about the ironhorse or goldwhores
or the maggots in the black hills
with no-trespassing signs
or what’s yours is homestake mine’s
but that’s what they called ballin’ the jack
then it was 2 late, about a quarter to midnight
and us without a second hand to tell the times were a changin’
so, we jumped through the hoops of history
on mile-high tightropes without a net
with no time to look back or back out
with no time to show off or cry out
look, ma, no hands
no hands
no hands
and the calendar was kept by #s of sand creeks
and washitas and wounded knees and acoma mesas
and 00s of army blankets of wool and smallpox
and a lot of chiefs who made their marks
no longer able to thumb their way home
where x marked the spots on their babies
and pocahantas haunted england
singing ring-a-ring-a-rosy
ashes, ashes, all fall dead
and a lot of fences got built
around a lot of hungry people
who posed for a lot of catlins
who shot their fronts
and snapped their backs
just say commodity cheese, please
and a lot of Indians got moved and removed
relocated and dislocated
from c to shining c
from a 2 z
from spacious skies to fort renos
from purple mountains to oklahoma
from vision quests to long walks
from stronghold tables to forks in the road
from rocks to hard places
from high water to hell
from frying pans to melting pots
from clear, blue streams to coke
and we got beads
and they got our scalps
and we got horses
and they got our land
and we got treaties
and they got to break them
and we got reservations
and they got to cancel them
and we got christian burials
and they got to dig us up
and they got america
and america got us
and they got a home where Indians don’t roam
(now, follow the bouncing cannon ball)
and they got a home where Indians don’t roam
and a lot of young Indians got dead
and those were the glory daze
and we learned the arts of civilization
reciting the great white poets
(oh, little sioux or japanee
oh, don’t you wish that you were me)
singing the great white songs
(onward, christian soldiers
marching as to war
to save a wretch like me
amazin’ race, amazin’ race)
sailing down the mainstream
(with land o’ lakes butter maiden
and kickapoo joy juice role models
for good little Indian girls and boys)
and we got chopped meat
and we got buffaloed
and we got oil-well murders
and they got black-gold heirs
and they got museums
and we got in them
and they got us under glass
and we got to guide them
and they got the kansas city chiefs
and we got a 14,000-man b.i.a.
and we got pick-up trucks
and they got our names for campers
and they got rubber tomahawks
and we got to make them
and they got to take us to lunch
and we got to eat it
and they got richer
and we got poorer
and we got stuck in their cities
and they got to live in our countries
and they got our medicines
and we got to heal them
and we got sick
and they got, well, everything
and we got to say please and thank you
and good morning, america
you’re welcome, y’all come
and have a nice hemisphere
then, all of a sudden, a new day dawned
and america yawned
and the people mumbled
something about equality and the quality of life
some new big deal to seal the bargain
and jack and jill went to the hill
to fetch some bills to save us
and the united snakes of america
spoke in that english-only forked-tongue way
about cash-on-the-barrelhead, hand-over-fist
in exchange for Indian homes on the termination list
and bankers and lawyers and other great white sharks
made buyers-market killings when more chiefs made their marks
and lots of Indians packed their bags and old-pawn
for fun with dick and jane and busing with blondes
for a bleeched-out, white-washed american morn
while we were just trying to live and get born
and a lot of young Indians got dead
in america’s 2 big wars
and the little ones they tried to hide
like the my-lais
and other white lies
and the millions on the grate-nation’s main streets
with holes in their pockets
and tombstones for eyes
you see, america was busy lunching
and punching clocks
(and each other, don’t tell)
and pushing paper
(and each other, do tell)
and loving and leaving cabbage-patch/latch-key kids
in the middle of the road and nowhere
(where everything got touched but their hearts
where $ bought the love they were worth)
and america’s daddy and mommy looked
up from their desks
out from their ovens
over their shoulders
behind the times
down their noses
and right before their eyes
but just out of sight
behind flashlights in abandoned buildings
through crack in the walls
and in the halls of boarding schools
a lot of young Indians got dead, too
girls with bullets, booze and lysol for boyfriends
boys with nooses and razor blades for cold comfort
and a few grandmas and grandpas
on their last legs anyway
and we who were left behind
sang songs for the dead and dying
for the babies to stop crying
for the burned-out and turned-out
for the checked-out and decked-out
ain’t that just like ‘em
we said over cold coffee and hot tears
for getting themselves dead
forgetting to tell us goodbye
for giving america no 2-week notice
forgiving america with their bodies
ain’t that just their way
to gather us up and put us down
gee, kids really do the darnest things
like get themselves dead
like a lot of them did
just yesterday and today
and a lot of young Indians got dead
faster than they could say
tomorrow
oh, say, can’t you see
they learned america’s song and dance
from the rocket’s red glare
to god shed his light on thee
they read america’s history
where they weren’t
or were only bad news
they laughed when president rip van reagan
told the russians the u.s.
shouldn’t have humored us
they passed when senator slender reed said
find another country or play this hand
they learned the lessons about columbus
in child-proof, ocean-blue rhymes
along with other whiteboy-hero signs of the times
they saw the ships sailing, again
and a future as extras
in movies where Indians don’t win
they knew they were about to be discovered, again
in someone else’s lost-and-found mind
in an old-world, new-age, snake-oil re-run
as much fun
as the first scent of those sailors
fresh from the hold
exhaling disease, inhaling gold
and a lot of young Indians escaped just in time
to miss the good wishes and cheer
have a happy, have a merry
have a very nice columbus year
10 little, 9 little, 8 little Indians
7 little, sick little, live baby Indians
poor little, me little, you little Indians
the only good Indian’s a dead 1
—suzan shown harjo
(on the eve of 1992)
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Macacalypto
It began with la danza macabra
It began with clouds floating on water
It began with men in boots on the beach
It began with men with metal heads
It began with men with hairy faces
It began with men in robes and ropes
It began with men with crosses and bibles
It began with bows and outstretched arms
It began with open hands and smiles
It began with gestures from the heart
It began with names, repeated slowly
It began with hands to mouths and bellies
It began with hungry men at dinner
It began with laughter and songs of joy
It began with a dance from across the sea
It began with rats from el nino ships
It began with fleas from mice and men
It began with labored breathing
It began with chills and fever
It began with hollow eyes
It began with cold blue lips
It began well, but
It ended, well, badly
It ended as a danse macabre
It ended with fixed eyes
It ended before anyone knew what happened
It ended with white men welcoming us to our own countries
It ended with white men making no-trespassing signs to keep us out
It ended with white men making movies about how we brought it on ourselves
It ended with the drunken marriage of mel gibson and george allen
It ended with la danza macabra
Macacalypto
—suzan shown harjo