So You Wanna Be An Indian

 

So you wanna be an Indian with your beads and feather and exotic furs or skins.

You wanna cash in on minority programs and grants and being noticed.

And you wanna rub shoulders with Brando and go to cocktail parties because,

suddenly you're interesting and everyone wants to be your friend.

So you wanna be an Indian, go to powwows, dance like one.

But you don't want to live on a reservation or in some cheap hot & cold frame

on the other side of the tracks in a city north of nowhere.

And you don't want to think about Sara, 34, with her bloated, cirrhotic

belly, dying, and her seven kids, or have your non-Indian friends catch you

grinding corn on a metate, or see the peppers and onions hang from the

ceiling and kitchen walls in your home.

And you don't want to work the potato fields in Idaho or sell turquoise

jewely on the street in Flagstaff.

And you don't want to marry a drunken Indian and get beaten up all the time.

And you don't want to pray the old way, offer your flesh or fast four days.

And you don't want to go to prison for fighting for your rights.

Okay.

Go Ahead. Be an Indian.

Native Americans will survive you, too.

 

Author Unknown