“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.
¡Que confusión!
a cantar tu própio mundo