I just finished reading a collection of poems by
Simon Ortiz titled "Sand Creek." I've read quite a bit of Native
American poetry, but this collection felt the most relevant to me and to
the Chamorro experience. There are some ways that the Native American
experience in all its variations connects to those of Chamorros. The
ecological spirituality can be nice, but also feels very abstract and
very disconnected from the present at times. The family ties and
closeness to the land carries the same beautiful, but sometimes abstract
weight. The centuries and layer of oppression and injustice also hit
home, so do contemporary feelings of loss and cultural erosion. What
made the difference in Simon Ortiz's volume was the scattered mentions
of militarism and its role in Native American culture today. Military
service has married itself to Chamorro culture over the past century,
but the same can be said for different tribes across the US. From
marganilized, infantilized and feminized positions within US colonial
society, Chamorros and Native Americans signed up for the military in
order to reclaim a feeling of power and masculinity. They also did so in
hopes of improving their lives economically, getting opportunities they
felt were impossible otherwise. Both communities generally celebrate
the positives. After all from mess attendants, to cavalry scouts, to
Navajo Codetalkers to nowadays generals and admirals, it is pretty
exciting to think how from such tortured and despicable and violent
histories native peoples have accomplished so much. But these narratives
do so much damage as well. They gloss over historical marginalization
and also deny contemporary forms of it. They create false feelings of
inclusion, for example, for Chamorros, the fact that they serve in the
military so much, and wear the uniform and "fight for freedom" does
little to nothing to solve the colonial status of their islands.
Below is one of the poems:
**************
Busted Boy
By Simon J. Ortiz
He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old,
likely even fifteen. Skinny black teenager, loose sweater.
When I got on Bus #6 at Prince and 1st Avenue,
he got on too and took a seat across from me.
A kid I didn’t notice too much because two older guys,
street pros reeking with wine, started talking to me.
They were going to California, get their welfare checks,
then come back to Arizona in time for food stamps.
When the bus pulled into Ronstadt Transit Center,
the kid was the last to get off the bus right behind me.
I started to cross the street to wait for Bus #8
when two burly men, one in a neat leather jacket
and the other in a sweat shirt, both cool yet stern,
smoothly grabbed the kid and backed him against
a streetlight pole and quickly cuffed him to the pole.
Plastic handcuffs. Practiced manner. Efficiently done.
Along with another Indian, I watch what’s happening.
Nobody seems to notice or they don’t really want to see.
Everything is quiet and normal, nothing’s disturbed.
The other Indian and I exchange glances, nod, turn away.
Busted boy. Busted Indians. Busted lives. Busted again.
I look around for the street guys going to California.
But they’re already gone, headed for the railroad tracks.
I’m new in Tucson but I’m not a stranger to this scene.
Waiting for the bus, I don’t look around for plainclothes.
I know they’re there, in this America, waiting. There; here.
Waiting for busted boys, busted Indians, busted lives.
Simon Ortiz, “Busted Boy” from
Out There Somewhere. Copyright © 2002 by Simon Ortiz
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