Callaloo articles from January 1994

Callaloo archives from January 1994

From Mabel McKay: weaving the dream. (excerpt)
January 1, 1994... It was a summer Monday like so many others. Wash day and one-hundred degree heat. Only today Old Sarah didn't leave her granddaughter under the willow tree. After she watered and tied the horses, she lifted the frail seven year old to the...

All I wanted to do was dance. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I haven't danced in years Indian or white but when you asked I didn't hesitate and moved onto the floor with you feeling hopeful and hopeless. How can I say this and mean it? How can I say this and make it seem real? I have never danced with...

Cline. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Before the old Tribal School was condemned, I swear Patsy Cline used to sing after lights went out at the end of the day. After the old Tribal School was condemned, I swear Patsy Cline sang continuously, night after night. Our HUD house was...

The alcoholic love poems. (poem)
January 1, 1994... 1. Alcohol is a drum calling me. Alcohol calls me. Sometimes it's so hard not to hear that drum. Sometimes it's so hard not to dance. 2. You told me once that the best sex we ever had was one winter night in February after I had...

Sittin' on the dock of the bay. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Otis Redding died only a few days after he recorded his last song. Otis Redding died only three days after he sang his last song. I want it to happen that way for me. I want to die only after I've written that last poem, those words...

Running from the Mafia. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I dreamed the Mafia chased us across the Great Plains. On horseback, we escaped because the Mafia drove Cadillacs that kept getting stuck in the mud. I don't know what this means, don't even know any Italians personally, and am ashamed to...

Nothing. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Nothing sings in our bodies like breath in a flute. It dwells in the drum. I hear it now that slow beat like when a voice said to the dark, let there be light, let there be ocean and blue fish born of nothing and they were there. I turn back to...

Great measures. (poem)
January 1, 1994... The first time a lover held me I was young and gave myself to creation. I was hand, body, liquid ruled by dark seas that swallow the edges of land and give them up to another place. I am still this measure of brine, ancient carbon, the pull...

Other, sister, twin. (poem)
January 1, 1994... She began with two lovers on the swept floor of earth. She was what passed between them. She was a gourd too heavy for the vine and full of her own wet seed. Her grandmother kept the red bag that held her stem so she would not forget the...

Where mountain and atom meet. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Ancient haze lies on the mountain smoke-blue, strange and still a presence that eludes the mind and moves through a deeper kind of knowing. It is nature's breath and more-- an aura from the great I Am that gathers to its own spirits that have...

Star vision. (poem)
January 1, 1994... As I sat against the pine one night beneath a star-filled sky, my Cherokee stepped in my mind and suddenly in every tree, in every hill and stone, in my hand lying prone upon the grass, I could see each atom's tiny star-- minute millions so...

The real thing. (poem)
January 1, 1994... "We're the most exclusive Indian shop in New York City. We only sell the real thing." Coyote-smooth, the man lured a covey of customers to where he held up a weaving three feet by two. "This rug is genuine Navajo. You know it by the tiny flaw...

"Poetry is what we speak to each other": an interview with Jimmy Santiago Baca. (Interview)
January 1, 1994... This interview was conducted by telephone from Charlottesville, Virginia, on August 2, 1993. KEENE: Mr. Baca, in your book of essays, Working in the Dark: Reflections of a Poet of the Barrio, you speak at length and eloquently about how the...

Healing earthquakes. (poem)
January 1, 1994... (8 years old) One white, one black, one brown -- my uncle draws a pistol from his back pocket and shoots one of the pigs in the brain. It flops head in trough to the ground dead, as brothers slurp their brother's blood. I watch, horrified......

Ko'olau. (poem)
January 1, 1994... light in the crevice never seen mosses palai kala'au bamboo crescent moon stones fragrant clack clack from the shadows hunehune rain aloft on the wind steamy rocks falls of crustaceans blue caves far away choked with grasses wet fully...

You will be undarkened. (poem)
January 1, 1994... you will be undarkened by me led astray to native waters sunned until old mango hills rise leafless you will come long and flowing poured slowly through the gourd of laughter spring of weightless yearning you will swell at evening's light...

Refusal. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I I can't believe it shot through the chest in the doorway, pregnant lover holding your little son's hand, bags of dope and beach towels on the floor didn't you think not to open the door killers waiting by two's and three's in the death...

Journey's end, Santa Barbara. (poem)
January 1, 1994... 1. any point on a circle reflects any other point & i am reminded to notice reflections i cast; thoughts i would ignore that were indeed seeded by me 2. neither fantasy nor reality sit behind windows of luck & circumstance a blue jay...

Unpacking the years. (poem)
January 1, 1994... in a mood in a moment blanketed in memories a familiar odor returns from a somewhere tucked away in a photograph album or the melody of a song. a gardenia night remembered: late summer, dressed in black chiffon, her hair in a 1940's pageboy...

Trying to get back home. (poem)
January 1, 1994... sometimes it is hard to be here when so much of me is there the place i come from is warmer slower than this place a chorus of crickets and frogs the loudest sounds you hear at night this place you could stay lost in no one stops to speak...

The patriarchs. (poem)
January 1, 1994... rings around the moon tell the story grave words can not heal this hurt they sold our mother long ago for the price of a book and a place on top a few words wove that spell with ragged breath they live for war and they are always hungry they...

Star dancer. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Gran'ma didn't make fry bread her Indian hands refused the mold Instead she chose a different path imposed her will in other ways White-laced lilac, cedar trees and roses surrounded her white plaster house Never wanted a different life after...

Yei dream. (short story)
January 1, 1994... Last night two masked gods came for me, appearing like floating images at the door of my hogan. Talking God summoned me with his own special cry. "Wu hu hu hu, Wu hu hu hu," he called. The great Yeibichai's voice reached out for me through the...

A long way. (short story)
January 1, 1994... Red, my schoolmates' "Red-Indian"-red, I crayon-cartooned myself, curved like a clown-grin moon snuggled between awkwardly embracing, scarlet stars, the time, the time, the time Dad murmured to Mother, "Sweetheart, let's us..." My mind, that...

Oaxaca - summer 1989. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I who am accustomed to travel I who climb the mountains and plunge the depths of my heart I who enter the heart of mother earth and feel her fire in the womb's darkness I who see the mirror my own conciencia put before me and do not run away...

For Nelson - leader, tribal person, elder. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Summer 1988, on the occasion of Mandela's 70th birthday, when the South African government offered him a six hour visit with his family(*) Oh Mandela, Mandela I sing your name in the name of all peoples locked in and up in the very cells...

Shapechanger. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Would you let me tell you of a woman who found her way when the sun met the dusk and the power of the sands kept her by the sea as only she could do? She walked into the waters, hands outstretched. She greeted the waves and sang to her self as...

Dog Song. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Baffin Island, June 1992 I waken to a strange sort of singing, a high clear voice so like a child's that I must go out into this dawnless dawn and look in vain for a human face as the song continues ululating and long without words spoken in...

For Littlecoon in Oklahoma two years after his death. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Grandfather Louis, I am in Oklahoma again where the wind knew your name and danced a whirling pattern across your path, each time you tried to leave, circling you back, always back to Tahlequah. Though you have departed there are still lives...

Oligawi. (poem)
January 1, 1994... It has been said in the western world that sleep is the little brother of death. But our old people knew that was not so. Sleep is older than death, and dying only a sort of rest, a path between dreamings. When each new child wakes for...

Corners. (poem)
January 1, 1994... On the corners in front of package stores men are angles of smoke the wind pushes to the edge of the world On those sharp corners they've forgotten a world once round, and, forgotten, that wind blows them over an edge sharper and more...

I learn a simple lesson about our society. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Late November on our way to work you pulled the cord and the bus stopped this side of the Alameda tube. "I've got to get out of here," you told me abruptly, quietly. "Please, don't follow me." I looked in your face but you wouldn't look back....

The chaos of angels. (short story)
January 1, 1994... When the Upper and Lower Worlds of the Southeastern Indians collide in the Between World, there is a reaction in This World. Our ancestors called it "haksuba." Today, we say "chaos." Haksuba or chaos occurs when Indians and non-Indians bang...

Yellow wolf spirit. (poem)
January 1, 1994... It is the wolf running across lightbeams that underscores the powers of vision. All else may fail out here on the road. All else may become perilously a search for meaning, in the way a theorist can count only the yellow lines, unable to learn...

Peopling winter. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Ice winds and snow are not imposed upon us. Abiding winter completes the circle we need and makes vivid other realities, its metaphors examined by wary tropical sensibilities abducted from the cranial island's magic songs. Strongest of our...

Brewing trouble. (short story)
January 1, 1994... The day G. Heileman Brewing Company releases the first shipment of Crazy Horse Malt Liquor, Grey Jay Bunker sits on a bench, hunched over, reading the bottle. Suddenly, he straightens up, stuffs it back in the paper sack, winds the top of the...

Hici. (short story)
January 1, 1994... "Don't worry, son. Your Aunt Lucille knows what to do when it hurts." I put my arms around his neck, and he lifted me from beneath the covers. I held one hand over my throbbing ear and tensed each time I felt the pulse of pain....

Stars, tadpoles and water. (poem)
January 1, 1994... as a youth I often wondered why everything needed a specific name why a Star swimming in the dark night sky was not a Tadpole swimming in water on the earth to understand that the Crow is the keeper of knowledge is to say a great many people...

Short-lived journal. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Day 1 I have a no-dinner one-drink smile and after two whiskey and cokes I can walk up the heavenly staircase of any woman's body but after three Coyote is bragging for me to the beautiful nameless face who smiles listens smiles nods with...

Whose mouth do I speak with. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum. He worked in the woods and filled his pockets with golden chunks of pitch. For his children he provided this special sacrament and we'd gather at his feet, around his legs, bumping his...

Soft. (poem)
January 1, 1994... it was that subtle the way we wrap our hands around warm clay mugs the way we close our eyes before we drink fresh brewed coffee the way we narrow a smile to keep the cold from hammering our teeth the way we curve our wrinkled fingers around...

Bear. (poem)
January 1, 1994... He smashed the window pane. His anger curled, paws reach down to touch the woman's screams. Dogs barked too late. Her scratched brow is bloody. He seeks a home taken from the woods, stolen by claws and hammers, nails and planks, glass panes,...

He stands there ... (poem)
January 1, 1994... He stands there. An impression of woods behind... a stand of sugar maples, leaning in the winds an armless tamarack. He stands there, legs cemented to earth, a wild iris in his left hand and it isn't summer; a bloody rabbit's leg gripped in...

Potlatch ducks. (poem)
January 1, 1994... Sleek, We sneak just so, past the tall blades of grass across the flats of Minto Canoe glides, no sound our paddles dipping the water like ancient spirits in dance Ducks abundant we'll take plenty to the village, but mother earth urges...

Recovery. (poem)
January 1, 1994... I know a scream I know a scream. I know a scream. You want to hear it? I could stand on the mountain now amidst the twisted pine and I know a scream, that comes, that comes from a lost hollow.

Fearless warriors. (short story)
January 1, 1994... To put it mildly, the girls were not in a good mood. In fact, they were acting as cold as the wind buffeting our car as we drove home through the fall night. The two of them, Barb, my girlfriend, and Marie, William's, sat in the darkness of the...

Nothing but Cherokee. (short story)
January 1, 1994... The day Granddad walked into the Webster County Roadside Bar and blew a bullet hole through the bartender, he was nothing but Cherokee. His mother lived on the reservation, and no matter how much of his heritage he tried to avoid, there was no...

What would Pocahontas think now? Women and cultural persistence.
January 1, 1994... In a classic case of sexual stereotyping, Joseph Gilfillan, an Episcopalian missionary, described the Chippewa Indians in Minnesota c. 1900--the tall, graceful male bounding through the forest, unburdened except for his bow and arrow, while...

Memories. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Writers)
January 1, 1994... My grandpa told me when he was growing up things were different than now. He didn't wear fancy clothes. He didn't have money like we do. He was poor. He had to swap stuff. He had to make things himself. Like he had to make his own stove....

The greatest gift ever. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Writers)
January 1, 1994... "What!?!" I asked confused. "I said, I found out where Malackaminikus is. If we find him, we could get the father out! All we have to do is find him and we can find out all we want to know about it. The truth." Justin emphasized the word...

Success. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Writers)
January 1, 1994... I am a creature from two worlds--two sides of a border. North, in America, is where I am from. I was born here. I wish to make myself here. I know I belong here, but I feel like a foreigner in this "Land of the Free, Home of the Brave." South,...

Grandma. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... She sits quietly on the floor outside the house, where as a child I spent my days at play. She runs her hand through the sand, talks to all of her friends: the ants, the lizards, the leaves, the trees. She speaks no words, but still all is...

Which way ... (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... I am almost there at the top. Now I am confused. Why? Which way? Which way do I go now? Either way I will go on. One way will make me stronger: their way. One way will make me remember: my way. Which way...

A day in the life of Two-Deer. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... One bright, sunny morning Two-Deer decided to go hunting. He got up and grabbed his bow and headed off toward the nearest mountain. He walked around the mountain for a couple hours and didn't see anything. It was about noon, and he decided to...

The brush cracks. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... the brush cracks as he approaches I steady my gun that rests on a dead tree limb as he comes into my sight he lifts his head and sniffs the wind trying to catch wind of me I sit patiently in my stand high above as he goes to the salt lick I had...

Oh great eagle. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Writers)
January 1, 1994... Oh Great Eagle, whose voice I hear calling in the wind, deliver for me my prayer to the Great Spirit. On wings of power soar into the sky and deliver my message. Tell him of my life tell him of my wishes. Tell him I pray to him, and that I...

The pit. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... The images swirl about, blurry and wet They seem to mix, forming a tempest of bodies None have names, only faces Moving to the same beat, like a hypnotic tone Calling them not entirely against their wills No one can resist, the feelings drive...

Soul searching. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... I have always been affected by why my father does not like the word Chicano; and now that I call myself Chicana one day and Mexican-American the next, I find that I am on a soul-searching journey to find my true identity. I feel that I must in...

The warrior. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... So young and strong, knowing where he belonged Struggling for what was right, knowing this could be his last fight. He carried many honors and great respects, knowing he'd also carry great regrets. Another war has come and gone, he held great...

The deer. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Once there was a man named Deion and a woman named Starla. Deion was married to Starla, and they had been married for five years. One day Starla discovered she was pregnant. Seven months later Starla had a boy, but something was wrong. It was...

Bus. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... A highway runs across the desert-- a black ruler-thin scab. Along it, a bus crawls. The passengers read, or sing, or take pictures as they move along on a dog's back across the sand and mesquite and silence.

American dream. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... 1990 something. Los Angeles, CA. Pico-Aliso Housing Projects. I stand on my balcony gazing out into the street. I hear cars on the 110 freeway people leaving downtown going back to the suburbs. They pass through my neighborhood that I don't...

Why I don't like the 3 days before Thanksgiving. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... My Grandfather was a very, very funny man. He was always joking around with my cousin and me. I was only four years old the last time I saw him, but I still remember him very clearly. He would say something like "See ya later alligator."...

The incontinuity of his mother's blood. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... I saw Bass Catcher flexing his biceps in the shower. Each arm was raised slowly then cocked with a fist near his ear. He let the tension flow down his back, easing the arms back out and repeating it over and over. I went over and took my leak,...

Staying afloat in a chaotic world: a conversation with Ray Young Bear. (Interview)
January 1, 1994... Editors' note: Since his 1972 novel Winter of the Salamander, Ray Young Bear has been admired for his ability to communicate a strong and authentic Native voice. Now, with the recent publication of Black Eagle Child: The Facepaint Narratives,...

Our bird aegis. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... An immature black eagle walks assuredly across a prairie meadow. He pauses in mid-step with one talon over the wet snow to turn around and see. Imprinted in the tall grass behind him are the shadows of his tracks, claws instead of talons,...

Porkskin panorama. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... I rename the continent to suit me everyplace I stop I shop for porkskins I prefer the brandname PIGGY PUFFS make mine B.Q. queensize salt intake makes me swell at the end see me saddleslump over the steering wheel I'll be a pig blimp woman...

Rainmaker's visit. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Atop the Mesa clouds come to sit down, their misty breath enfolds me. With each drop I melt quietly into my Mother.

This close coyote. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Some people say "KI-yote," it's true, but to us his name has always been "Ki-YO-tee." As our song says, "Coyote, coyote, nothing coyote." This also is true, and it is said this way: I was thirteen when the barber laid bare my high forehead...

Breaking dread. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... The March wind bangs against the brownstone window, startling Joe from drifting into the rubble of the alley and apartment house across the way. It has persisted for endless turns down this night's wheel as if trying to force the cold into the...

Indian medicine. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Dwight Warrior wished he hadn't been lost in thought. He was afraid he had missed an important landmark somehow and was now just plain lost. The young woman's directions had seemed simple enough, and he had set out confidently an hour ago. But...

Poem on his birthday. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Under the emptying clouds by the shaking elms on the broken grade where the rapid foxes crowd his heels, on his rough lawn this day in the blinding showers of snow, this snowbound day in a cloud-bound time, he hears no birthday toll in his...

If I were to tell a story. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... about a trip I had taken, I would have to talk about other things. They would not seem relevant. And you would get bored. If I talked about a trip, it would not be that particular trip, but I would have to go back to the first trip the sun took...

I hear a medicine man. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... His ghost churs the walls of my house. He speaks to me of folding up the quilts on my unmade bed. Of packing the car and taking my cat north. Hey tonka. He sits on a white horse, black hail spots on its hips, streaks of lightning down its legs....

The moon was the biggest ... (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... The moon was the biggest and brightest that it had ever been in the seventy-three summers that Bug's grandmother lived on the reservation. "It was massive, Bug, and as bright as the sun. The whole town gathered in the center of the square...

Keresian dawn. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... The compact Quest Ship settled on the sun-baked landing area without difficulty. The six occupants were eager to be out of the close confines of the starship after their two standard light year journey. While in hyperspace, the expedition team...

Night vision. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Thunderbird wrings out the sky against this tethered apartment while across the street a woman walks the rain and doesn't seem to mind car headlights splashing past Overhead a crane constructing a skyscraper shuts down concrete slabs...

On Lake Titicaca. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Between Bolivia and Peru I forget who I am and the guides continue to keep course. Here the waves against the boat and the old man braced against the tiller are important. I turn and look directly at him. Not a word parts his lips and I think...

The season. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... In a week or so we will be travelling these days it's the season and it feels good to be on the move because before we know it we've returned and settled into a stationary existence of boardrooms and timetables where we'll find ourselves...

A tangled perfection. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... The rain opens the garden and still you don't hurry but continue steadily with your task at hand Your care gentle and precise. Tend if you must, I say (when you finally come in soaked, laughter on your lips) but let it remain a tangled...

Chesterfield pkwy. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... once i thought that the grasses grew in the sunshine only. until i was awakened by the sound of them growing quietly, an octave lower than crickets but in tune with the moon.

New York Times in the supermarket. (poem) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... I'll probably get old and ramble like George Looks Quick standing there next to shelves of tomatoes, almost invisible among the scurrying tourists. Sometimes so much anger gets lodged inside me day after day, I wonder if I'll ever make it to...

Bimini honeymoon. (short story) (Special Section: Native American Student Writers)
January 1, 1994... Dr. Carruthers was taking the new doctor on a tour of the State Mental Hospital. "And this, Dr. Bradley, is the cafeteria, where limited security patients are fed." They paused inside the doorway to look around. Dr. Bradley was exhibiting...

The world of pottery: a conversation with Marian Naranjo. (includes related article) (Interview)
January 1, 1994... SUE DEAN: Marian, you live at Santa Clara Pueblo, on the Rio Grande. How does this influence your work? MARIAN NARANJO: Being here, with my people, gives me inspiration and strength. Pottery has been used since the beginning of our tribe in...