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Donna's Poems
I am the Mudblood
by Michael Walkingstick, Cherokee


I am the mudblood...
I am the cur, the poor mixed up kid with
dark skin and light eyes.....
I am the fragment of what was and what is.....
I am the mudblood

I am the progeny of generations of deceit
and lies, the offspring of Red
dead covered with flies
I am the son of mothers who died frozen in
the snow in Kentucky, the
embryo of forgotten blue-black haired
women with names that a white
tongue cannot pronounce
I am the mudblood

I am a mudblood
descended from protestant Gaels who sought
freedom in a new land
the same folks who stole it by slight of hand
and their religion replaced the chants and
songs handed down by the Adawehi,
sounds that lasted for generations.....
I am the mudblood

I am mudblooded
dirty and shoeless on flint rock hills,
walking the blacktop in search of dollar bills....
and we were rich compared to our neighbor
I am mudblooded

I am a mudblood
sent away to a school far from home,
beaten up by the fullboods and then
their backs turned to me left alone...
spit on for my light eyes
I am a mudblood

I am the mudblood....
never enough Red and too much White
but not enough to attain the right
to live amongst blueblooded capitalists
who send their kids to college
while my Red brothers fight their wars
I am the mudblood

I am the mudblood
and I answer to a given Christian name
followed by a surname butchered
by a census taker's careless translation
the same name that a guilty America now
finds in fascination
and tries to emulate in some new age adoration
I am the mudblood

I am a mudblood
impure and a mongrel of shared
chromosomes, no legacy to proclaim, no
claim to fame, no rules to the game
none that I can find to live by anyways
I am a mudblood

my CDIB fractionalizes my blood
and all those integers only stir up the mud
the silt that flows in my veins
the freckles on a high forehead
the clumsiness in my diction
I am the mudblood

my clan Brothers leave me uninvited
outside the Circle, my face slighted
the rich kids beg for more
while a drum beats a slow steady stomp
I am the mudblood

I retreat into time and space of my own creation
and here I find solace in my part of the Nation
my Grandfather's brown calloused hands
I remember on my shoulder
a crane feather in my hair
I am the mudblood

I am the mudblood
and my children will be muddy as well
only time will tell
if they will find their place on either
side of the dividing line
between red and white
or if they too will deal with their demons
or struggle with their light eyes and
their 'dark' name
they will be the mudblood

I am the mudblood
Howa!! Nihinahv?
Ha! how easily I may have forgotten
How easily I remembered, huh?
I am the mudblood, come what may Asquadvhi,
that is all I have to say.


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