Saturday, January 14, 2006
Beware of White Men in Suits Who Sit Behind Desks
David Letterman invited me to be a guest on his show. Me! Of all people! Why me? Doesn't he know me? He must! That's his job, which makes me more suspicious of this white skinned man in a suit.
This runs through my mind as I stand behind the curtain at the side of the stage. I hear words going over a speaker but pay no attention until I hear my name called. Suddenly, I'm pushed from behind and propelled almost stumbling onto the stage.
I get half way to the white skinned man with short hair sitting behind a desk and stop. I eyeball him suspiciously.
"Mmmmm! Ugh!" I think to myself. "Mmmm! White man...Killum 98% all Indin! No likem white man! No trustum white man."
I look out at the audience. All are clapping. I see a beautiful Indian woman in the front row. She is dressed in her finest clothes. I walk up to her and extend my hand.
She is shocked and suprrised at being given my attention. Why? I don't know. But she shakes my hand. I hold her hand gently, but don't let go. I ask her name...she tells me. I ask her nation...she tells me.
"White men scare me," I say, pointing over my shoulder at David Letterman. "Especially white men in suits who are sitting behind desks. Never underestimate the destruction white men in suits can do. But I know white men get nervous when they are outnumbered. Wanna come up on the stage with me?" I ask.
Her warm hand jerks from mine. She covers her lips with both hands and says, "no," from behind her fingers. "I couldn't."
I reach again for her hand and she gently offers her left. I see the ring. I look at the white man to her right. "That your husband?" I ask, pointing at him with my lips.
"Yes," she laughs as I hold her hand.
I look him up and down. He is blonde, blue-eyed, with short hair and skin as white as the paper I'm writing this story on. I look him in the eye. "You must be Cherokee," I say.
His eyes widen with surprise. He sits forward and grabs my left hand and said, "How could you tell? My great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess."
I smile softly and look at his wife, whom I can tell is embarassed that he didn't get the joke. I look back at the Cherokee, squeeze his hand and say, "nice to meet you," and release myself from our brief bond...but not from the bond with his beautiful Indian wife.
"C'mon," I request and gently tug and am surprised when she stands in agreement. She smiles.
"Don't worry," I tell her. "He won't bite now. He'll be outnumbered. Whitey won't get us if he's outnumbered."
She let me guide her by the hand to and across the stage to the comfy sofa beside the desk of the white man in a suit. We sit together and both cross our legs at the same time, right over left.
I see the whole audience is laughing. I realize they heard the whole conversation through a microphone. I eyeball David suspiciously as he wipes tears from behind his glasses with his index fingers as he comes down after a hard laugh. My eyes squint. He's outnumbered now.
"Whatchoo want, whitey?!" I ask, which sends David into a serious bout of laughter.
David laughs so hard he falls backwards. He hits his left knee on his desk, continues backward and hits the back of his head on the floor. He is still laughing, but visibly wounded. He rolls slowly over onto all fours. He is drooling and laughing and his ass is pointed at me. I realize I am seeing David in a way most people don't. I am worried that the thing may be loaded and could go off at any moment.
I see medics coming to help David and realize my interview is probably over due to my dangerous performance art.
I look at the Indian woman beside me. She has fallen onto her side on the sofa and is laughing deleriously.
The whole audience is laughing. But there is one laugh above all of the other laughter. It is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing. Worse yet, it sounds familiar.
I squint and shade my eyes from the artificial light in what is naturally a dark room.
I see an Indian in the back. He is standing clutching his belly with his left hand and pointing at me with his right. His laugh is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing.
I stand and take a few steps forward as I continue to shade my eyes. I recognize him.
"IS THAT YOU, COYOTE!?"
[This story is dedicated to Tony G., who tells one of the best Coyote stories I have ever heard, because it happened to him. This story, however, is fictional. David Letterman would never invite me to be on his show.]
This runs through my mind as I stand behind the curtain at the side of the stage. I hear words going over a speaker but pay no attention until I hear my name called. Suddenly, I'm pushed from behind and propelled almost stumbling onto the stage.
I get half way to the white skinned man with short hair sitting behind a desk and stop. I eyeball him suspiciously.
"Mmmmm! Ugh!" I think to myself. "Mmmm! White man...Killum 98% all Indin! No likem white man! No trustum white man."
I look out at the audience. All are clapping. I see a beautiful Indian woman in the front row. She is dressed in her finest clothes. I walk up to her and extend my hand.
She is shocked and suprrised at being given my attention. Why? I don't know. But she shakes my hand. I hold her hand gently, but don't let go. I ask her name...she tells me. I ask her nation...she tells me.
"White men scare me," I say, pointing over my shoulder at David Letterman. "Especially white men in suits who are sitting behind desks. Never underestimate the destruction white men in suits can do. But I know white men get nervous when they are outnumbered. Wanna come up on the stage with me?" I ask.
Her warm hand jerks from mine. She covers her lips with both hands and says, "no," from behind her fingers. "I couldn't."
I reach again for her hand and she gently offers her left. I see the ring. I look at the white man to her right. "That your husband?" I ask, pointing at him with my lips.
"Yes," she laughs as I hold her hand.
I look him up and down. He is blonde, blue-eyed, with short hair and skin as white as the paper I'm writing this story on. I look him in the eye. "You must be Cherokee," I say.
His eyes widen with surprise. He sits forward and grabs my left hand and said, "How could you tell? My great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess."
I smile softly and look at his wife, whom I can tell is embarassed that he didn't get the joke. I look back at the Cherokee, squeeze his hand and say, "nice to meet you," and release myself from our brief bond...but not from the bond with his beautiful Indian wife.
"C'mon," I request and gently tug and am surprised when she stands in agreement. She smiles.
"Don't worry," I tell her. "He won't bite now. He'll be outnumbered. Whitey won't get us if he's outnumbered."
She let me guide her by the hand to and across the stage to the comfy sofa beside the desk of the white man in a suit. We sit together and both cross our legs at the same time, right over left.
I see the whole audience is laughing. I realize they heard the whole conversation through a microphone. I eyeball David suspiciously as he wipes tears from behind his glasses with his index fingers as he comes down after a hard laugh. My eyes squint. He's outnumbered now.
"Whatchoo want, whitey?!" I ask, which sends David into a serious bout of laughter.
David laughs so hard he falls backwards. He hits his left knee on his desk, continues backward and hits the back of his head on the floor. He is still laughing, but visibly wounded. He rolls slowly over onto all fours. He is drooling and laughing and his ass is pointed at me. I realize I am seeing David in a way most people don't. I am worried that the thing may be loaded and could go off at any moment.
I see medics coming to help David and realize my interview is probably over due to my dangerous performance art.
I look at the Indian woman beside me. She has fallen onto her side on the sofa and is laughing deleriously.
The whole audience is laughing. But there is one laugh above all of the other laughter. It is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing. Worse yet, it sounds familiar.
I squint and shade my eyes from the artificial light in what is naturally a dark room.
I see an Indian in the back. He is standing clutching his belly with his left hand and pointing at me with his right. His laugh is loud, obnoxious, and overbearing.
I stand and take a few steps forward as I continue to shade my eyes. I recognize him.
"IS THAT YOU, COYOTE!?"
[This story is dedicated to Tony G., who tells one of the best Coyote stories I have ever heard, because it happened to him. This story, however, is fictional. David Letterman would never invite me to be on his show.]
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