Rez Road

The place we live isn’t very big

compared to all that once was ours.

This reservation we call home

is ten miles long and six miles wide.

But even though it’s not that large,

a nice new state superhighway

cuts through the middle of maple forest —

hunting grounds where we found medicine plants.

My Grandpa Bigtree has always had

what our people call a really well

developed Indian sense of humor.

He says it all worked out for the best.

It’s made hunting a whole lot easier

for us, although it now takes two —

one to stop traffic and one to run

out into the road to pick up game.

Although I know he’s only kidding,

he’s shown me how, if you know how to look,

you really can find our old healing plants

growing next to that four-lane road.

Sometimes tourists stray off the interstate

down onto Frog Street, where our Indian school,

box lacrosse rink, and meeting house

all crowd together with churches

and trailers and well-worn houses

in need of paint, some with cars

without wheels up on concrete blocks

parked like lawn ornaments in their front yards.

No one ever gets rich when they stay here.

Living on the rez, you learn how to share.

Tourists just don’t see the things we see.

They’re looking for tipis and chiefs in war bonnets,

not some dark-haired kid wearing sneakers

and headphones, bobbing his head to Indian rap.

Yeah, things seem different

than they did long ago.

Some of our own people

don’t even know how

to speak our language,

though we teach it in our school.

Some hit the road and don’t come back.

But some of us, like Grandpa Bigtree,

know that hidden roots still give you strength.

There will always be another day.

Four winds will always remember our names.

No matter how many roads they build,

Mother Earth is always beneath our feet.