Airmail

This is me. Yukon Girl.: Sherman Alexie's

yukongirl:

“On the Amtrak from Boston to NYC”

The white woman across the aisle from me says ‘Look, 
look at all the history, that house 
on the hill there is over two hundred years old, ‘ 
as she points out the window past me 

into what she has been taught. I have learned 
little more about American history during my few days 
back East than what I expected and far less 
of what we should all know of the tribal stories 

whose architecture is 15,000 years older 
than the corners of the house that sits 
museumed on the hill. ‘Walden Pond, ‘ 
the woman on the train asks, ‘Did you see Walden Pond? ‘ 

and I don’t have a cruel enough heart to break 
her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds 
on my little reservation out West 
and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane, 

the city I pretended to call my home. ‘Listen, ‘ 
I could have told her. ‘I don’t give a shit 
about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories 
around that pond before Walden’s grandparents were born 

and before his grandparents’ grandparents were born. 
I’m tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too, 
because that’s redundant. If Don Henley’s brothers and sisters 
and mothers and father hadn’t come here in the first place 

then nothing would need to be saved.’ 
But I didn’t say a word to the woman about Walden 
Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted 
that I thought to bring her an orange juice 

back from the food car. I respect elders 
of every color. All I really did was eat 
my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi 
and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out 

another little piece of her country’s history 
while I, as all Indians have done 
since this war began, made plans 
for what I would do and say the next time 

somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.

 —Sherman Alexie 

I just really freaking love Sherman Alexie, I can never seem to find words to describe what this man’s work does for me.

(via adailyriot)