This is a true story told to me by a man I met last year. It was a quick encounter but one I will never forget. When the man found out that I write poetry, he asked me to tell his relative’s story. I’m always glad to tell a story I think is important.
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After writing the poem, I was worried that I may not have remembered the interpretation of the man’s name correctly. I have read that many Native American names are spiritual, and I didn’t want to be offensive if my interpretation (or memory) was incorrect.
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So I wrote to the good folks at Native Languages of the Americas, and they gave me a thumbs up. Please check out their link. It is full of interesting information.
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They do not know me. I’m not Native American, and I am not affiliated with the site. I just thought it was very nice how quickly I received a helpful answer.
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The details in the poem all come from the man’s story. The only thing I added was “Whitey’s” as the name of the bar. I have used that name for bars in other poems, and it seemed to work for this one.
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There’s Been A Recession On The Reservation
For A Long Time
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They call him Jim Beam
but his real name means
Eagle of the Sun.
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His dark arms have
sweated in tobacco
fields for fifty years
under the whip crack
of blue noon day rays.
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He coughs up blood
and pieces of lung
from Marlboros,
red clay dust,
spray from planes.
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Jim Beam drinks
all night long,
burns his paycheck
at the neon flame
of the casino
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where big tittied women
throw back their heads
and laugh to the beat
of his swirling life.
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His sisters who made it
have money, college.
They came back strong
to help the young ones
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learn about their fathers,
their mothers, pride,
language, songs.
On the reservation,
a new day has dawned.
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But under a streetlight
after a knife fight
he didn’t start
at Whitey’s Bar,
it’s too late
for Eagle of the Sun.
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
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This poem was originally printed in my chapbook, Price Reduced Again, courtesy of Backpack Press.
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