You will eventually realize that as a Native American person, your life only exists because some brave man or woman, a long time ago decided to end their lives in return for enough time to sign the treaties. That there were thousands of men who picked up their arms and charged into cannon fire knowing full well that the blasts of European hatred would rip them apart, but doing it anways to give the women, children, and elders enough time to flee, enough time to regroup, enough enemy casulties for the white man to sit down at the negotiation table and as for a truce.
As soon as they saw the bullets the men knew they would die, but every second longer they took to hit the ground was a second closer to making sure that their best friend’s great great grandchildson could attend a place like Yale with eagle feathers.
FUCKING THANK YOU
When boarding schools could not erase
The dances of our tounges
The Government called upon our words
To bomb the Rising Sun.
With words they tried so hard to kill
We coded our brother’s name
Into the orders needed to spill
Bombs on the mountain range.
68 years mark the day, Snyder used your pride
Dressed the elders in brand new coats
And paraded you around outside.
I guess this how they honor us now
How they respect our life
I’m sorry you don’t see the harm that is done
When they claim to be our tribe.
I never was fast.
As a kid my cousins would try to teach me how to run, race me through parking lots, pick me up when I skinned elbows, and set me back up ahead.
With High School came time to lean up, I did 250 push ups and 250 crunches every day, gained muscle like it was for free and dropped fat like responsibilities I never quite got that six pack I always wanted, but I was 190 pounds of giving it my all.
I still wasn’t fast.
So when you told me that there was another way to catch butterflies I damn near laughed, opened up all ears and waited for you chant miracles. You said it starts with love, follows through with dimples, and ends with death.
And I began to feel them.
My stomach became a kingdom of Monarchs, a haven for West Coast Ladies, a sunset of Buckeyes. I could feel them flutter when you looked at me, they danced in light suspension, sang songs with their wingtips and drank in hymnals of ivory laughter. It was West Virginia, and Northern California, and back roads Pennsylvania, it was open fields in Middle Connecticut before April Showers truely hit.
And then, when I had finally caught a stomach full of butterflies, did I truely believe in a three step process.