Novena to Bad Indians

“The only good Indians I ever knew were dead.”—General Philip Sheridan

Day 1.

Indian outlaws, banditos, renegades,

rebels, lazy Indians, sinful Indians, you gamblers

who squatted out behind the church instead of assuming

the missionary position behind the plow;

oh, lusty Indians who tied bones to sheets

thrown out of the women’s monjeria, climbed

up that swaying skeleton of salvation

and made unsanctified love all night, oh,women

who tossed down those sheets, hear my prayer.

Day 2.

Hail troublemakers, horse thieves, fornicators, I implore

you, polygamists, Deer Dancers, idol-worshippers,

chasers of loose women, heathens who caroused

in the hills, stole wine from the sacristy,

graffiti’d Indian designs on the church wall,

told Coyote stories instead of practicing Catechism,

torched mission wheat fields, set fire to tule roofs,

ran away, were captured, flogged, put in stocks or irons,

ran away again—help me, suffer me, in this hour of loss.

Day 3.

I ask for your grace, you dirty Indians, you stupid Indians

who wouldn’t learn Spanish or English, lazy bastards

who mumbled “no quiero,” when asked to load wagons

with tons of stinking skins, who chased the bottle

instead of cattle, who were late for Mass, confessed

everything and regretted nothing, took the whip

thick as a fist, laughing; you who loved soapstone

charms, glass beads, eagle feathers but wouldn’t learn

proper usage of land or gold; have mercy on my weakness.

Day 4.

Queens of earth, you women who sold yourselves

for a tortilla, a handful of beans, the dog’s meat;

sons of incorrigible cattle thieves like Juan Nepomuceno

who could no longer find elk or deer or salmon;

cabecillas, ringleaders like Hilario, who endured

the novenario for throwing a stone at a missionary –

twenty-five lashes on nine separate days – and then,

on nine consecutive Sundays, forty more, oh my martyrs

grant me strength, grant me courage in my desperation.

Day 5.

Oh magnificent Aniceto, who refused to name thieves

of money, chocolate, shoes, string, knives from the presidio –

thirteen years old, you took a flogging in silence;

oh renowned Yozcolo, alcalde from Mission Santa Clara

who raided mission stores, freed two hundred women

from the monjeria; dear Atanasio, found guilty of stealing

from the comisario, shot dead by a firing squad at seventeen

years of age, begging for your life as you knelt in the estuary

at Monterey – guide me out of the stone walls of this cell.

Day 6.

Accept my praisesong, you women who aborted

pregnancies conceived in rape by soldier or priest,

attend me, barren Indian woman stripped and prodded,

who refused to let Father Ramon Olbes examine

your genitals or test your fertility – you, who bit him,

suffered fifty lashes, shackles, imprisonment, a shaven head,

forced to carry a wooden false baby for nine days;

blessed Apolinaria, midwife, curandera, dancer,

keeper of potent medicines – heal me.

Day 7.

Ever full of faith, Pomponio, who cut off your heel

with your own knife to slip out of leg irons, terrible

heart of Toypurina, shaman revolutionary who dared

raise your gods against Spain’s, blessed Chumash woman

who heard the earth goddess Chupa tell you to rebaptize

neophytes in the tears of the sun; Licquisamne,

most merciless Estanislao, telling the Padre,

“We are rising in revolt . . . we have no fear

of the soldiers”; make me unrepentant.

Day 8.

Oh valiant Venancio, Julian, Donato, Antonio,

Lino, Vicente, Miguel, Andres, Emiliana, Maria Tata

who suffocated Father Andres Quintana at Santa Cruz

before he could test his new wire-tipped whip;

oh Nazario, personal cook to Fr. Panto at San Diego,

who slipped 'yerba,' powdered cuchasquelaai,

into the padre’s soup after enduring 124 lashes

(you said, “I could find no other way

to revenge myself”); I beseech your tenderness.

Day 9.

Oh unholy pagans who refused to convert

oh pagans who converted, oh pagans who recanted,

oh converts who survived, hear our supplication:

make us in your image, grant us your pride.

Ancestors, illuminate the dark civilization we endure.

Teach us to love untamed, inspire us to break rules,

remind us of your brutal wisdom learned so dearly:

even dead Indians are never

good enough.

—Deborah A. Miranda
(published 4/1/13)

Note: The source of this poem, besides all the “Bad Indians” I found in my research (these are all true stories), was an article from the New York Times titled “Bad Indian Goes on Rampage at Santa Ynez.”

This poem first appeared in Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir, by Deborah A. Miranda (Heyday Press, 2012). We thank the publisher for permission.