Sherman Alexie Jr. was born in October 1966. He is a Spokane/Coeur d'Alene Indian born and raised in the Spokane Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Washington. Sherman has published more than three hundred poems, stories, essays, reviews and translations. He was educated at Gonzaga University, Spokane, Washington and Washington State University, Pullman, Washington. Fellowships include the 1991 Washington State Arts Commission Poetry Fellowship and 1992 National Endowment for the Arts Poetry Fellowship. He currently lives in Seattle with his wife.
Big Lies, Small Lies
(Sestina)
Having lied to our German hosts about our plans
for the day, Diane and I visited Dachau
instead of searching for rare albums in Munich.
Only a dozen visitors walked through the camp
because we were months away from tourist season.
The camp was austere. The museum was simple.
Once there, I had expected to feel simple
emotions: hate, anger, sorrow. That was my plan.
I would write poetry about how the season
of winter found a perfect home in cold Dachau.
I would be a Jewish man who died in the camp.
I would be the ideal metaphor. Munich
would be a short train ride away from hell. Munich
would take the blame. I thought it would all be simple
but there were no easy answers inside the camp.
The poems still took their forms, but my earlier plans
seemed so selfish. What could I say about Dachau
when I had never suffered through any season
inside its walls? Could I imagine a season
of ash and snow, of flames and shallow graves? Munich
is only a short train ride away from Dachau.
If you can speak some German, it is a simple
journey which requires coins and no other plans
for the day. We lied about visiting the camp
to our German hosts, who always spoke of the camp
as truthfully as they spoke about the seasons.
Dachau is still Dachau. Our hosts have made no plans
to believe otherwise. As we drove through Munich
our hosts pointed out former Nazi homes, simply
and quickly. "We are truly ashamed of Dachau,"
Mikael said, "but what about all the Dachaus
in the United States? What about the death camps
in your country?" Yes, Mikael, you ask simple
questions which are ignored, season after season.
Mikael, I'm sorry we lied about Munich
and Dachau. I'm sorry we lied about our plans.
Inside Dachau, you might believe winter will never end. You may lose
faith in the change of seasons
because some of the men who built the camps still live in Argentina,
in Washington, in Munich.
They live simple lives. They share bread with sons and daughters
who have come to understand the master plan.
History as the Home Movie
it begins and ends with ash, though we insist
on ignoring the shared fires in our past.
We attempt to erase our names from the list
that begins and ends with ash.
We ignore the war until we are the last
standing, until we are the last to persist
in denial, as we are shipped off to camps
where we all are stripped, and our dark bodies lit
by the cruel light of those antique Jew-skinned lamps.
Decades after Dachau fell, we stand in mist
that begins and ends with ash.
Commonly Asked Questions
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
What do we need to find behind the doors?
Are we searching for an apology
from the ghosts of unrepentant Nazis?
We pay the entrance fee at the front door.
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
The actors have moved on to the next scene
and set: furnace, shovel, and soot-stained door.
Are we searching for an apology
from all the Germans who refused to see
the ash falling in front of their locked doors?
Why are we here? What have we come to see
that cannot be seen in other countries?
Every country hides behind a white door.
Are we searching for an apology
from the patient men who've hidden the keys?
Listen: a door is a door is a door.
Why are we here? What have we come to see?
Are we searching for an apology?
The American Indian Holocaust Museum
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We stand over mass graves. Our collective grief makes us numb.
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
We too could stack the shoes of our dead and fill a city
to its thirteenth floor. What did you expect us to become?
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
We are the great-grandchildren of Sand Creek and Wounded Knee.
We are the veterans of the Indian wars. We are the sons
and daughters of the walking dead. We have lost everyone.
What do we indigenous people want from our country?
We stand over mass graves. Our collective grief makes us numb.
We are waiting for the construction of our museum.
Songs From Those Who Love the Tlames
We start the fires
on the church spire:
ash, ash.
We build tall pyres
from children's choirs:
ash, ash.
We watch flames gyre
and burn the liars:
ash, ash.
We watch flames gyre
from children's choirs:
ash, ash.
We start the fires
and burn the liars:
ash, ash.
We build tall pyres
on the church spire.
ash, ash.
We build tall pyres
and burn the liars:
ash, ash.
We watch flames gyre
on the church spire:
ash, ash.
We start the fires
from children's choirs:
ash, ash.
After We Are Free
If Iwere Jewish, how would I mourn the dead?
I am Spokane. I wake.
If I were Jewish, how would I remember the past?
I am Spokane. I page through the history books.
If I were Jewish, how would I find the joy to dance?
I am Spokane. I drop a quarter into the jukebox.
If I were Jewish, how would I find time to sing?
I am Spokane. I sit at the drum with all of my cousins.
If I were Jewish, how would I fall in love?
I am Spokane. I listen to an Indian woman whispering.
If I were Jewish, how would I feel about ash?
I am Spokane. I offer tobacco to all of my guests.
If I were Jewish, how would I tell the stories?
I am Spokane. I rest my hands on the podium.
If I were Jewish, how would I sleep at night?
I am Spokane. I keep the television playing until dawn.
If I were Jewish, how would I find my home?
I am Spokane. I step into the river and close my eyes.
Defending Walt Whitman
Basketball is like this for young Indian boys, all arms and legs
and serious stomach muscles. Every body is brown!
These are the twentieth-century warriors who will never kill,
although a few sat quietly in the deserts of Kuwait,
waiting for orders to do something, to do something.
God, there is nothing as beautiful as a jumpshot
on a reservation summer basketball court
where the ball is moist with sweat,
and makes a sound when it swishes through the net
that causes Walt Whitman to weep because it is so perfect.
There are veterans of foreign wars here
although their bodies are still dominated
by collarbones and knees, although their bodies still respond
in the ways that bodies are supposed to respond when we are young.
Every body is brown! Look there, that boy can run
up and down this court forever. He can leap for a rebound
with his back arched like a salmon, all meat and bone
synchronized, magnetic, as if the court were a river,
as if the rim were a dam, as if the air were a ladder
leading the Indian boy toward home.
Some of the Indian boys still wear their military hair cuts
while a few have let their hair grow back.
It will never be the same as it was before!
One Indian boy has never cut his hair, not once, and he braids it
into wild patterns that do not measure anything.
He is just a boy with too much time on his hands.
Look at him. He wants to play this game in bare feet.
God, the sun is so bright! There is no place like this.
Walt Whitman stretches his calf muscles
on the sidelines. He has the next game.
His huge beard is ridiculous on the reservation.
Some body throws a crazy pass and Walt Whitman catches it
with quick hands. He brings the ball close to his nose
and breathes in all of its smells: leather, brown skin, sweat
black hair, burning oil, twisted ankle, long drink of warm water,
gunpowder, pine tree. Walt Whitman squeezes the ball tightly.
He wants to run. He hardly has the patience to wait for his turn.
"What's the score?" he asks. He asks, "What's the score?"
Basketball is like this for Walt Whitman. He watches these Indian boys
as if they were the last bodies on earth. Every body is brown!
Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
Walt Whitman dreams of the Indian boy who will defend him,
trapping him in the corner, all flailing arms and legs
and legendary stomach muscles. Walt Whitman shakes
because he believes in God. Walt Whitman dreams
of the first jumpshot he will take, the ball arcing clumsily
from his fingers, striking the rim so hard that it sparks.
Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.
Walt Whitman closes his eyes. He is a small man and his beard
is ludicrous on the reservation, absolutely insane.
His beard makes the Indian boys righteously laugh. His beard
frightens the smallest Indian boys. His beard tickles the skin
of the Indian boys who dribble past him. His beard, his beard!
God, there is beauty in every body. Walt Whitman stands
at center court while the Indian boys run from basket to basket.
Walt Whitman cannot tell the difference between
offense and defense. He does not care if he touches the ball.
Half of the Indian boys wear t-shirts damp with sweat
and the other half are bareback, skin slick and shiny.
There is no place like this. Walt Whitman smiles.
Walt Whitman shakes. This game belongs to him.
Background courtesy of Zed Zed's.
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