I open the door
(this Indian girl writes that her brother tried to hang himself
with a belt just two weeks after her other brother did hang himself
and this Indian man tells us that, back in boarding school,
five priests took him into a back room and raped him repeatedly
and this homeless Indian woman begs for quarters, and when I ask
her about her tribe, she says she's horny and bends over in front of me
and this homeless Indian man is the uncle of an Indian man
who writes for a large metropolitan newspaper, and so now I know them both
and this Indian child cries when he sits to eat at our table
because he had never known his own family to sit at the same table
and this Indian woman was born to an Indian woman
who sold her for a six-pack and a carton of cigarettes
and this Indian poet shivers beneath the freeway
and begs for enough quarters to buy pencil and paper
and this fancydancer passes out at the powwow
and wakes up naked, with no memory of the evening, all of his regalia gone)
I open the door
(and this is my sister, who waits years for a dead eagle from the Park Service, receives it
and stores it with our cousins, who then tell her it has disappeared
though the feathers reappear in the regalia of another cousin
who is dancing for the very first time
and this is my father, whose own father died on Okinawa, shot
by a Japanese soldier who must have looked so much like him
and this is my father, whose mother died of tuberculosis
not long after he was born, and so my father must hear coughing ghosts
and this is my grandmother who saw, before the white men came,
three ravens with white necks, and knew our God was going to change)
I open the door
and invite the wind inside.
Sherman Alexie
1996
