Pudgy Indian

One of the things I hate most
is being called "chief."

It is a designation beset upon me
by white folks
who make their own determinations
on how to treat me because of my RACE
but are too arrogant or whatever
to ask
or to just talk to me like a
human being.

And don't tell me you're honoring me
through your racist designation.
Giving me names
by visualizing racist views
of my race
is not honoring me
or any Indian for that matter.
If you really want to honor us Indians,
give everything back.
Purchasing and possessing stolen property
is a crime
afterall
and I aint gonna feel nothin' but pissed off
when you call me "chief"
and pretend it is honoring.

Wanna know what I feel when you call me "cheif"
even as a joke?
Of course not
why would you wanna know how I feel
when you don't even ask
whether or not
you can designate
a racist name
upon my personage
but I'm gonna fucking tell you anyway:

My first desire
is to beat your face
to a fucking bloody pulp,
but I rein in those desires.
I cling to them
because somehow
after all the racism I face
in this whitey society
I still manage
to curb my urge to kill.

Then I feel humiliated
because there aint anything I can really do
about your racist behavior toward me.
If I beat you to a bloody pulp
like my desire screams at me to do
I would be arrested,
probably lose my job,
not be able to feed my family,
while you,
whitey,
remain on the outside
to maintain your racist rhetoric
and probably hate Indians even more.

Then I feel anger.
Anger that motivates poems like this.
Anger!
The anger I want to use
to pull knives real and imagined
and cut your throat
real and imagined.

And I write poems
because it is not right
for me to feel humiliated
from your racist lips.
I toss aside the humiliation
and write poems like this
so maybe you'll think next time
racist.
Just maybe,
just maybe,
my baby won't have to grow up
and hear shit from you folks.

I am already training her.
I tell her the things she will hear
from folks like you
and others as well:
"You don't look Indian."
"You're not a 'real' Indian."

I have to teach her to defend herself
in this racist world
where whitey still hides
behind white hoods
in one form or another.
I have to train her to face
the reality of a racist culture
that allows itself to dominate
and define
who we are.

And you...
you claim to honor me by calling me "chief."

I claim to honor you by calling you "peckerwood."
I claim to honor you by calling you "cracker."

What? Aren't you proud to be white?

Don't call me "chief."
Just give everything back,
you who possess everything stolen from us
and DARE to call it your own.

Don't worry,
Indians share,
unlike some other folks I know.