On the Last Frontier
by John Berry
"What kind of Indian are you?"
Obviating the obvious,
That I am a human being first,
Although being labeled Indian
Historically gives the lie
To being human.
Labels and pigeon holes
Being required,
Perhaps bar-codes
Will become in vogue
For people too.
Start with the largest group,
Please!
Of course being tagged
A mixed-blood
Implies corruption,
A denigration
From the pure.
Who gets to decide?
You call it corn,
Our people call it maize,
I call it 100% corn,
But it seems to grease
The ways
Most everywhere.
I'll happily say,
I'm not white
Or red,
I look pink to me,
Cross blood colors,
You get em when you mix em,
Can't unfix em.
And do you happily sing,
"All the colors of the wind"?
Although white
is the favored flavor yet,
In movie land.
I call it plain vanilla boring.
Favored flavors being
Apple and,
Don't even mention,
Chocolate or Caramel,
Or, forbidding,
Lemon Yellow.
God save us that anyone
Remember where
A real big chunk
Of the menu comes from.
Human appetite(s)
Are wide.
Maybe if I wear
Feathers in my hair,
And act Tonto,
You won't need
The bar-code.
What-Da-Ya-Say.
There,
Wasn't that a good
N'dn phrase.
volume 11(6)
This poem is copyright © Oklahoma 2001, John Berry, all rights reserved.
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