January 28, 2017

I’m going to post a series of poems over the next week or so that speak to the tensions between the dreams and the realities of what it is to be an American.  We are all immigrants, of course, and even those who were here first are treated like outsiders.  So I’m starting with a poem by Sherman Alexie, “How to Write the Great American Indian Novel,” that plays on white stereotypes of American Indians.  It makes me think of early drawings by white artists of American Indians they were seeing for the first time.  Or not seeing: because they saw all the world in their own image (think blond, blue-eyed Jesus), their depictions show people with white features in Indian costume.  We have to see and hear and then embrace otherness, not fear and demonize it.




Sherman Alexie


All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.

Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.


The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably

from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.


If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender

and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man


then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.

If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white


that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.

When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps


at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:

brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.


If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.


Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.

Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives


of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love

Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust


at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.

White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.


Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man

unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.


There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.

Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.


Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions

if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian


then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry

an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed


and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male

then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.


If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside

a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.


An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman

can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,



everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.

There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.


For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender

not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.


In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,

all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.



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  • Reply eileen cleary January 28, 2017 at 9:49 pm

    Hi Sharon,

    Sherman Alexie’s poem made me cry. I think this is the first time I’ve seen it in its entirety. I’ve heard it quoted in parts.

    We need this conversation. Thinking about which poems speak to the tensions between the dreams and the realities of what it is to be an American, I am reminded of “Limon’s A New National Anthem.”

    A New National Anthem by Ada Limon

    The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National
    Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good
    song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets
    red glare” and then there are the bombs.
    (Always, always, there is war and bombs.)
    Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
    even the tenacious high school band off key.
    But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
    to the field, something to get through before
    the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
    we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge
    could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,
    the truth is, every song of this country
    has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
    snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
    the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
    hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do
    like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
    like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,
    brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
    has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,
    when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
    you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can
    love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
    like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
    by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,
    the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
    unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,
    that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,
    that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving
    into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit
    in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
    are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
    and isn’t that enough?

  • Reply sharonbryanpoet January 28, 2017 at 9:58 pm

    Thanks, Eileen. This is lovely and sad and exactly what I was thinking of.

  • Reply AImee Noel January 30, 2017 at 8:30 am

    Both of these are so powerful and resonate thoroughly with the state of affairs right now.
    I also appreciate the accessibility of them and intend to use them with my high school juniors. Thank you both for sharing.

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