Fall 2008 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION
TCJ Student is an annual publication of Tribal College Journal. Both the journal and this student issue are published by the American Indian Higher Education Consortium, an organization of the 37 tribally controlled colleges and universities in the United States and Canada.
Student Edition editor: Esther Belin (Diné) is a poet, a multi-media artist, and an educator. She is a graduate of the University of California-Berkeley and the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM. She received the 2000 American Book Award for her first volume of poetry From the Belly of My Beauty. She lives in Durango, CO, with her husband and four daughters.
On The Cover: “Osunkanlyuza” (The choice) by Sabrina Lynn Hodges (Delaware/Lakota/Irish) who is a senior majoring in Lakota Studies, Agriculture, and Natural Resources at Oglala Lakota College. Hodges uses beadwork, painting, and quillwork to express herself. Hodges’ pictorial beadwork, shown here, was displayed at the 2008 AIHEC Conference Art Show in Bismarck, ND. Photo by Tina Deschenie.
Introduction by Elizabeth Cook-Lynn
Black Jack and Coal Dust By Kenneth M. Taylor
I am Kinnikinnick By Amanda Irvine-Louie
My Rez Car By Andrea Goodwin
The Biscuit Brothers Go Fishing By Larry D. Madden, Jr.
My Big Sky By DeAnna L. Sosa
"Venison" Vyron By Shane Dixon, Sr.
Trotter's Trade By Nate Arbuckle
Hunting on the Reservation By Gerald “Joe” Kirkish
Page 2
Hail to the Grape Soda By Gerri L. Williams
Courageous Youth By Portia Koebach
Waiting for Spring By Melanie Howick Erickson
Elements of a Piast (Social dance of the Tohono O’odham) By Amy R. Juan
Here’s to Cruisin’ the Rez By Rayleene R. Elliott
The North Woods By Timothy J. Hearson
The Path We Will Walk By Thomas Conine
Soft Talker the Dawn Bearer By Kyerin Bennett
Page 3
Lorraine By Sharris Neary
A Road Less Traveled By Daniel Eli “Zeke” Gazelka
The Persistence of Life By Patrick Freeland
Baa áłchini ya áhólyáa By Laura Lee Yazzie
Resonance By Heather Snell
The Drive Home By Michael Morningstar
One Morning in Early September by Karen Little Thunder
Page 4
Just About a “Half Breed” By Kathryn Roper
The Gift of Life: Friendship By Sheena Begay
Finding Family By Christina Adam
Conflict in the Sand By Jason Young
Kingdom of Heaven By Micki Lindeman
I Had to Change My Life! By Royce Collins
Boozhoo, Anishinabedog By Marjorie Eagleman
 Kenneth Taylor |
Black Jack and Coal Dust
By Kenneth M. Taylor
Chapter 1 – The Mission
It’s springtime and the early morning sunlight bathes a sleek raven as he glides over the treetops and under the golden arches of McDonald’s. Blackjack’s mouth begins to water. Tilting his wings, he skillfully maneuvers his tail and wing feathers.
Blackjack and his family hold this place almost in reverence. It’s their favorite place to eat. Blackjack settles at the base of one of the two dumpsters; the rest of his family – mother, father and sister – drop directly on top of the other dumpster. Casually, Blackjack walks a few feet, checking things out. He stops and looks toward the sky expectantly. From out of nowhere, Coal Dust, Blackjack’s best friend, glides in next to him.
“Boo!” he says.
Blackjack hops off the ground and flicks his wings. “Damn! I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s downright spooky.”
“Sorry. Am I in time for breakfast?”
“You’re always on time for breakfast!” scoffs Blackjack. “Lunch, dinner and snack time too.”
He and Blackjack have been like brothers most of their lives and their families are also close. They visit with each other and often eat together. Coal Dust can’t recall a better friend. He’d trust his life to Blackjack.
Almost effortlessly and in unison, they both fly up into the dumpster. The smell of good food fills their nostrils as they poke and scratch in the mound of stuffed plastic bags – shrink-wrapped dinners waiting for their beaks.
“Let’s chow down!” Coal Dust yells. He turns to Blackjack, “Such delicacies these humans leave as offerings to us.” With beaks and talons they begin ripping open the plastic bags, gorging themselves.
Gullets full, Blackjack and Coal Dust run along the ground. With great effort they lift off and fly, skimming the tall weeds until they land on an island of flat bare earth in a mostly weed-choked vacant lot next to McDonald’s. A large lone cottonwood tree stands at its center. Blackjack and Coal Dust begin swiping their beaks along a small log. Suddenly everything is unnaturally still – no air movement, no noise. They stop cleaning their beaks. Nervously they look around, slightly crouched, their wings twitching, ready to take flight. The rest of the family seems unaware of the strange happenings. A massive cloud suddenly rolls in. An ominous deep rumble reverberates in the cloud’s inky depths. The rumble crescendos into a deafening clatter of thunder. Then, in a sweeping instant, Blackjack finds himself flat on the ground, half dazed.
When he finally opens his eyes, he has no idea how much time has passed. He lifts his groggy head. He tries to focus on his surroundings. Dead silence. Nothing seems to have changed. Everything looks the same – everything, that is, except him. He sees Coal Dust a short distance away trying to take off. Blackjack wants to follow but is too dizzy to stand. He tries to call out, but his voice won’t respond. Attempting to stand, he glances at his feet – there are toes where his talons should be, where his wings were, arms. His beautiful feathered body is fleshy. When he tries to yell, he lets out a horrendous human scream. He looks back to Coal Dust and sees him not in flight but lying on the ground a short distance away. Coal Dust is motionless.
“Coal Dust!” Blackjack cries. He rushes over to him. On his knees, he bends over his friend who lies limp and lifeless. Blackjack begins to sob.
Out of nowhere, the shadowy figure of an old man appears under the cottonwood. The sight startles Blackjack. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open.
The old man speaks in a calm and reassuring voice. “Not to fear, my grandson. Everything is as it should be.” Blackjack turns towards the old man. “Did you do this?” he demands.
“Yes…” the old man begins.
Blackjack leaps to his feet and rushes him, fists flailing. “You murderer! You murderer!” he shouts. “You killed my friend!” At a full run, he passes straight through the old man, slamming hard into the tree behind him. He crashes to the ground in a dazed stupor, breath knocked out of him. Shaken, Blackjack looks at the old man who is standing in the same place, a slight smirk spreading across his face. Head still ringing, Blackjack sees that the old man is untouched.
The old man, with skin a reddish brown as dogwood bark, stands tall and straight. A large black feather tied with sinew to his long glimmering salt-and-pepper hair dangles to one side. He wears lightly tanned leather pants, moccasins, and a shirt with an eagle’s head beaded on the back. Four- inch wide leg straps hang down the outside of his pants, decorated with three wavy black and white bead designs spanning from top to bottom. A shimmering circle of golden light arcs from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. Reaching into the leather bag that hangs from his right shoulder, the old man pulls out a bundle of clothing and a rolled up deer hide. Without warning he tosses the bundle toward Blackjack. It flies through the air in slow motion. When the bundle lands in front of Blackjack, it spills out a flint knife, a water gourd, dried meats and edible roots, along with a small leather bag containing some cedar shavings.
“Who are you?” a bewildered Blackjack demands.
“I am known by many names, but you may call me what your people have always called me.”
“Ronald McDonald?”
When Kenneth M. Taylor (Kiowa) writes a story, he always adds Hazipta (the BIA spells it Hawzipta) to his name in honor of his great-grandfather. Taylor, a Creative Writing major at the Institute of American Indian Arts,“loves to paint with words in story form.”
 Amanda Irvine-Louie |
I am KINNIKINNICK
By Amanda Irvine-Louie
I am ten steps down a path of bold horizons
I am sinking sand that sifts beneath my feet
I am the journey, destination, weary traveler
I am the ground where two opposing forces meet
I am the foe who challenges from bathroom mirrors
I am treachery wrapped in warm, woolen lies
I am kerosene, and shears, and wooden rulers
I am the reasons my grandmother still cries
I am the thrum of heartbeats echoing in sawdust
I am the pungent, silver smoke of sage-sent prayer
I am the cackling reminiscence of a trickster
I am the hiss of radiant rocks in laden air
I am ghost enough to walk where white is welcome
I am Death Camas, imposter of the plain
I am slipping in amongst them as they’re sneering
I am secret keeper of a Nation’s pain
I am met at Jump Dance doors with dark scowls barring
I am glared away from forty-niner fires
I am clumsy with the weight of that rejection
I am staggering with the flex of Lodgepole spires
I am dancing near the end of our beginnings
I am singing death songs with a knotted tongue
I am water, running thick with your intentions
I am blood, as thin in ancestors as in the young
“I am Kinnikinnick. I am the spu’us daughter of David Irvine, of the Pend Oreille Salish. I am proud to have been chosen by him to carry on the inheritance of his culture. Through my actions, through the raising of my children, through my education, through my contributions to my people, I honor him every moment I have breath. Thank you, Daddy, for giving me a belonging to something greater than myself. Without this, life might truly have been unbearable at times.”
Amanda Irvine-Louie is a third-year student at Salish Kootenai College in Pablo, Montana. Irvine says, “ Attending college here after graduating magna cum laude from The School of Hard Knocks has been like catching up with the Cheshire Cat after wandering around the rabbit hole a good long time.” Irvin-Louie continues, “ SKC has shown me a world that makes a heck-of-a-lot of sense… just not from any perspective I have been accustomed to holding. Everything falls perfectly into place so long as I am standing on my head. Ayes.”
She says SKC is a philosophical kind of place and that she has grown a lot from her continual exposure to original and critical thinkers who motivate others to think for themselves. Irvine-Louie adds,” What I’m growing into, I’m not sure. I’ll have to catch you up on that later, once I’ve figured out how far down the rabbit hole I’m willing to go.”
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My Rez Car
By Andrea Goodwin
Crazy-fun moments fill my memory with unforgettable images when I think of my 1990 Buick Le Sabre. It is a fairly cheap joy considering how many miles I’ve driven it. Seven-hundred dollars, one year and three months of joy, that’s what I call an unbeatable deal. A rolling joy, my car is everything to me.
When I heard the words “you pass” from the driver’s license examiner, relief flooded my body, and I couldn’t help but smile. Instantly, I knew I had to save money for a vehicle. Four weeks and two paychecks later, I had $700. I was driving in my mom’s car on Irvine Avenue when I spotted my future car. I took that 1990 Buick Le Sabre for a test ride. Overly excited, I didn’t care about its flaws. I only wanted it to be mine. The car was originally marked for $850. I decided it was worth a try to ask the owner to lower the price; he did! Since that day, I’ve had a car to call my own.
If you look at every little flaw, my car may appear to be an old junker; but if you look at it as a whole, it really is not that bad. As the sun hits my shiny blue and boxy car, it glitters. As I speed down the road, the wind whips paint chips right off my car, leaving them as dust, creating paint-less spots. Screws that once held my driver’s side door panel on are now the only thing you see because the door panel is missing. Due to a bent back window that won’t roll completely up air seeps in, creating a howling sound that gets louder the faster I go. Ever since my dad drove my car, I can’t seem to get the blinkers to work, so I have to use hand signals. On the bottom of my windshield, there are two long cracks, traveling in opposite directions.
My limited edition car was made for luxury when it hit the market eighteen years ago, so it has a lot of space in it. This one time I had three people including myself in the front and five people in the back. We were jam-packed. The big seats allow my friends and me to sit comfortably as we sink into the softness of the padded cushions. My car even has electronic touch climate control, which allows me to change the temperature with ease. I can electronically roll my windows up and down, but occasionally, they get stuck.
From the first time I stomped the gas pedal, I knew that my rez car and I would be inseparable. I remember one morning driving to school with a couple of friends and looking at the iced lake. I decided that’s where I wanted to be. Once my wheels hit the ice, I let my foot go heavy. Going fast, I was carrying on like kids will do. Ignoring the plowed trail, I went careening into the deep snow. Knowing that if I slowed down we would get stuck, I kept the speed at a constant pace of about 45 mph.
About half way across the lake, I hit an ice ridge. I laughed as my head hit the ceiling. Then, still laughing from the previous jump, we hit a bigger ice ridge. This time my butt was completely off the seat! After we got off the lake, I stopped at E-Z Stop, a nearby gas station. Looking for any new scratches or dents, I noticed that my bumper was completely torn off! Even so, having that much fun on the ice, I knew I had to go on it again.
One extremely hot day, I was giving a friend a jump when anti-freeze started spraying out of the radiator. Although I knew there was a problem, I didn’t get it fixed until two and a half weeks later! Now I care about my car so much that whenever it needs something I make sure to get it. I had to get a new fan when my car started to overheat. One day, my car wouldn’t start, so I fixed that problem by buying a new starter. When my tires blew out, I got new ones. The paint on my car chips off, so occasionally, I buy spray paint. When my car died once, I brought it back to life with a new battery. Sometimes my muffler falls off, making the engine unbelievably loud. I’ve had to have my dad weld it back on three times! Then there was the tape player, a thing of the past, so I replaced it with a Pioneer CD player. Out with the old, in with the new; that’s what I call an upgrade.
Despite all of my car’s flaws, it’s still my prize possession. I love everything about it from the rearview mirror to the engine. The road will never end for me as long as I have my rez car. A rolling joy, my car is everything to me.
“I am Anishinaabe and an enrolled member of the Red Lake Band of Ojibwe in Minnesota. I’m from the Ma’iingan (Wolf) clan. My Ojibwe name is Oshkii’baagaawasimo which means ‘green light’ and my hometown is Bemidji, MN.”
Andrea Goodwin, 19, is a freshman at Leech Lake Tribal College. She plans to graduate in the spring of 2009 with an Associate of Arts in Liberal Education-STEM Emphasis ( STEM meaning Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math).
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The Biscuit Brothers Go Fishing
By Larry D. Madden, Jr.
“Let me tell you about the biggest fish I ever caught,” said John. “It weighed fifty pounds easy.”
“It might’ve weighed twenty.”
The Biscuit Brothers had been fishing, drinking, and bragging all day. They sat on five-gallon buckets along a sandy stretch of the Arkansas River. Sluggish water, no wind, and few clouds made for one hell of a hot day. The heat was enough to drive a sober man insane. But the cold beer made it all bearable.
“What about that buck I shot? It was huge! Ten points easy. Killed it, one shot,” said John, the younger one.
“You shot the limb above that four-pointer and it bolted off a damn cliff,” said Steve, as he grabbed a beer from the cooler.
John sat like a frustrated lump, drinking his brew.
Steve lifted his surf rod and checked the line. “Hung up.” Reeling the line tight, he gave a few tugs trying to dislodge the five-ounce sinker. “Damn it, I’m goin’ to lose my weight,” he said, leaning back with the pole. The tension grew greater and greater until the line sang, and finally there was a gunshot snap. The sinker burst out of the water, flying straight and true, directly into Steve’s crotch. He grunted like a wounded hog, nearly fell off his bucket.
John laughed, dropped his beer, and then ambled over to his brother. “Damn, Steve, you awright?”
"Uhuggggg.”
"You’re OK; hold a cold’un between your legs.”
Looking sick, Steve groaned, “I’m leavin’. Quit laughin’, reel your shit up and let’s go.”
"Let me get in one more cast,” John said, walking back for his pole.
"Hurry up. I think my balls are broke.”
John laughed and began reeling. About twenty feet from shore a fish hit his bait so hard the pole was nearly yanked from his hands.
"Holy shit, I’ve gotta big one!” John screamed as he set the hook.
"Don’t be too rough. Let ‘im run.” Steve jumped up, his wounded crotch forgotten.
"Don’t give ‘im any slack.”
John held the pole with an iron hand. The rod bent double; the line screamed as it was ripped off the spool. The fish gave a mighty tug and pulled John off his bucket into the swirling water. Springing forward, Steve grabbed the pole, and dug his heels into the sand. Then he tried to walk backwards up the bank, but the big cat wasn’t going along with that plan. Hauled to his knees, Steve sat down and held on.
Meanwhile, John dragged himself from the river.
"Got ‘im?”
"Yah. This is one big sucker. I can’t move him. He’s headin’ down river.”
Steve held on while the sun beat down, and his sweat ran like a river.
John paced the beach drinking and smoking. Then inch by inch Steve began to slide through the sand.
"Grab me! He’s gunna pull me in!”
John pounced on his brother.
"He’s coming up! He’s going to roll.”
The water bubbled and split as a huge flathead broke the surface. A single beady eye glared at them from a scarred and weathered head. Then it rolled and dove back down.
The brothers took a deep breath and pulled back on the pole. Steve began to work the crank. “We’re wearin’ ‘im out.”
Time dragged by, but the Biscuit brothers remained planted to the same spot, straining and fighting something that might as well have been a whale. After a while John let go and ran to the truck for a gaff-hook. When he got back, Steve was being dragged toward the water again.
"Help me!” Steve screamed.
John dove atop Steve, stopping him. The brothers pulled together, working the monster closer to the shore.
"Get ‘im a little closer and I’ll gaff his ass,” John yelled into Steve’s ear.
Steve dug his heels into the wet sand, and pulled with all the strength left in him. The pole began to creak and crack. His hands ached and his grip grew steadily weaker.
"Take over. I’m worn out,” Steve said, carefully handing the pole over. The pole bucked and jumped as John began the arduous process of reeling the huge fish in. He worked the pole up and down, up and down, slowly working the monster closer to shore.
"Grab the gaff, he’s almost in!” John screamed.
"On it,” yelled Steve. As he waded into the brackish water, he saw the huge fish in the shallow depths. The enormous dark shape was the greatest thing he had ever seen.
Steve splashed out to meet the monster; the giant struggled to break free. Steve swung the gaff, hooking the big cat behind the head. The final fight was on. The humongous fish jumped, flopped, and rolled, desperate to free itself from the hook. Steve was pulled this way and that. John dropped the rod and rushed in to help. Together they battled the monster. Together they dragged the monster ashore.
"We did it! We caught the big one,” John cried.
"We’ve got one hell of a story to tell when we get back to town,” Steve said as he retrieved a couple of beers from the cooler.
About that time a game ranger, who’d spotted them from atop the dam, came strolling down the beach.
"Boys, looks like you got yourselves a big one. “Who caught it?”
"I did!” the brothers said together.
The argument raged from that moment on.
Larry D. Madden, Jr., 33, is married with three children, lives in Baldwin City, and attends Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, KS. He says,” After a 13- year hiatus, during which I was a construction worker and a security guard, I returned to college.”
Madden was born in Ponca City, OK, and grew up in Pawhuska, OK. He has traveled across the United States working different jobs. He participates in powwows, mostly in Oklahoma, and does bead work and other native crafts.
He says, “I have always enjoyed writing fiction, but I have never had the time to pursue it like I do now.”
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My Big Sky
By DeAnna L. Sosa
My big sky is grey today
yet spots of blue remain.
Distant thunder rumbles low
and soon will fall the rain.
Quiet echoes quiet;
birdsong lingers with the breeze.
Clouds drift slowly, never pausing,
as if they’ve somewhere else to be.
A bolt of lightning flashes
to the North—it caught my eye,
in this place where time stands still
and yet still passes by.
DeAnna L. Sosa is a full-time Business Administration major at Sitting Bull College on the Standing Rock Reservation. She has been writing poetry since the age of 11 and is now in her early forties. Her husband is a pastor and she leads worship. They have five children, four of them grown, and the youngest in second grade.
Sosa says, “I am not enrolled with a particular tribe, but I am currently researching my ancestry, and in the process of obtaining proof of my Indian heritage, which is Cherokee, Choctaw and Chickasaw.”
After completing her bachelor’s degree, she plans to start a business in Ft. Yates.
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“Venison” Vyron
By Shane Dixon, Sr.
As I walked down the sporting goods aisle at Fleet Farm, I came across some fly fishing equipment. I grabbed a 7-foot rod and acted like I was casting, starting at 10 o’clock, going back to 2 o’clock, and back to 10. As I stood there, I couldn’t help but think of my late grandfather, “Venison” Vyron.
My dad and uncles told me he was the best at throwing a hook and feather, but all who knew him agreed he was the greatest storyteller the reservation had ever heard. I think he got his name “Venison” Vyron because, even though he shot his gun only one time according to his stories, he killed hundreds of the biggest bucks in the area.
He was a logger with an unbelievable work ethic. Every time I saw him, whether it was at the sawmill, in the woods, or at his home, he wore what looked like the same dingy work pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a colorful flannel overshirt. His work jeans were stained with bar oil, and the left back pocket had a worn-out circle pattern from his can of Copenhagen snuff. His work boots were well oiled, and he looked like he wouldn’t be comfortable in anything else. His silver gray hair was parted from left to right and slicked back with a comb and Brylcreem. He had the eyes of an eagle, catching every detail and movement, as if making a mental note to file away in the back of his mind for later.
The pinch of snuff between his lip and gum somehow never affected his big smile that lit up any room he entered. His hands were old and rugged with calluses that showed he had been a lumberjack for over fifty years. It was an unforgettable sight to watch a 65-year-old man fell a towering one-hundred-foot-tall pine tree.
He always had a great story to tell me. He said one time he was ice fishing and it was so cold that the fish he caught had fur. Or how about the time he was trapping beaver on the Red River. When he sat down to take a break, he noticed a toothless otter having trouble catching fish. He said the otter crawled onto the bank and started to cry. Just then a porcupine waddled up and asked, “What’s wrong, brother?”
The otter replied, “I’m missing my teeth, so it’s very hard to catch fish.”
"Sit here and wait,” the porcupine said as he crawled up a tree, walked out on a branch that was hanging over the water, and hung upside down. When he let go of the branch, he hit the water with a big splash and came out of the river with three trout stuck to his quills. He shook them off next to the otter and said, “There you go, my brother. Eat well.”
When he finished telling a story, he would say, “Now that’s gospel,” or “There are only two other witnesses, the man upstairs, and old Ronny Delabrue. God rest his soul.” I knew he was telling a whopper if he winked at me when he finished his story.
One time I asked my grandpa if he could come up with a real dandy of a tale so I could enter it into a Liar’s Contest. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face and said, “Son, I can’t enter into those kinds of contests because I only tell the God’s honest truth.” Then he winked and smiled and finished his dinner. All I could do was grin and shake my head. It was at that point that I realized how much I really enjoyed his company.
He was a man’s man and a lady’s man all rolled into one. When he came into a room, he commanded respect without saying a word. He had charm and charisma that just seemed to spill out onto the ladies. He called it having “finesse.” But I think his biggest attribute was his generosity – the size of his heart. If you needed something and he had it, there was no question asked, he just gave it to you.
One day he was helping a friend cut down a tree for firewood when it fell the wrong way and landed on him, breaking his back. He spent the last two years of his life in bed at a nursing home, never forgiving himself for the small mistake that eventually cost him his life. I find it ironic that what killed him was the one thing he loved to do most, cut trees.
Now his legend lives on through all of the tall tales he told over the years. I am grateful to have heard a lot of them.
As I put the fly rod back on the shelf and walked away, I considered myself lucky to have spent time with such a great man.
Shane Dixon, Sr., 33, attends the College of Menominee Nation in Keshena, WI, where he majors in business administration. He graduated from high school in May 1992, and has worked in construction ever since. He has enrolled in business classes, hoping to start up his own business in the future.
Dixon plans to graduate from tribal college and pursue a bachelor’s degree in
business at UW Green Bay. He enjoys hunting, fishing, and riding his four-wheeler with his wife and children.
Dixon says, “I never thought I would like college English so much; now I can’t wait for the next assignment just to see what kind of story I can put on paper.”
Trotter’s Trade
By Nate Arbuckle
A perfect ruby medallion, ripples in a scalding pan.
Smoke squalls up its slopes, then knuckles back in
till it’s branded the muted hue of autumn’s withdrawal,
the undersides of trampled mats of maple leaves.
Its eye a feather of pink blood, pricked with sea salt,
this doe, her loin troweled by years of prancing,
of pummeling and trampling through ditch and valley,
was felled by a hunter’s eye and tumble of slug
as she hooked her neck tensely up to thicket
to mince on berries and emerald scrub.
Her wildness now distilled, captured, trimmed by heat and steel.
This puck of flesh mingling in a shallow glossy disc
of mace, cashew, chocolate, clove and apricot
left to rile in pulsing pops for hours;
liquefied to sleek coffee mud, Mole Rojo,
the majestic ingredient tapestry of Mexico,
centered on a square of polished bone, draped
in threads of light. Holding firm a scattered track across it,
wedges of orchard prizes, Macintosh made bronze
over a long low whisper of blue flame.
Raisins, milk skinned as raw diamonds,
now concave and precise with tang and age.
Cherries taut in their skins pursing thumb-sized oceans
of trapped rain teased by sunlight till tart and puckering.
Sensuous yet bellowing are these denizens of fall, of trail
vine and bush. Folded and seared, cleaved, massaged,
beaten and caressed, to tame them just enough
for our basking, in the season dwindling past eclipse
with lips sutured over tines of fork, skewered
with venison and chestnut, lacquered in wisps of cinnamon,
we pitch forward contently into winter’s lull by flex of throat
and heart. Hovering near talons of buttery candlelight,
hands cradling globes of burgundy, blood-warm.
We carve scintillating roads from the constellations
that crease the cheek, a breath below a shadow drifting
over her eye. Words meld, arch up to grip and nibble
the sweet bounty of coming days and years,
with the last fleeting taste of autumn on its heels.
Nate Arbuckle was born in 1976 and grew up in New Holstein, WI, near Lakes Winnebago and Michigan. The small German-influenced village was originally called Schleswig Holstein. Like his father, Arbuckle is Bad River Chippewa, of the Great Lakes Band of Chippewas, located near Lake Superior.
At age 18, he was “a culinary toiler” who hoped to reach “the upper strata of chefdom” by studying culinary arts at a technical college in Madison, WI, until he abandoned his studies.
Currently, he is a liberal arts major at Haskell Indian Nations University. He hopes his degree will serve as a “springboard” to a MFA in creative writing and a Ph.D. in English literature and literature theory.
Arbuckle says, “I’ve appreciated literature and poetry since I was a young miscreant. Blessed with a voracious yet passionate appetite for the process of writing, I am generating work for future publication.”
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Hunting on the Reservation
By Gerald “Joe” Kirkish
When the first shot was fired, I was standing by my tent. I was flat on the ground for the second shot. Feeling foolish, I belatedly remembered it was the first day of deer season. Brushing off the dirt and leaves from my clothes, I quickly looked around to see if some happy-go-lucky hunter was having a good laugh at me, after seeing my face buried in the dirt. Not seeing anyone, I was almost relieved when a twelve-point buck crashed through the undergrowth, startling me to the point of almost diving back to the ground. “Waawaashkeshi, you better run if you don’t want to be on the menu tonight,” I muttered as he flew by me. I could have sworn he winked at me as he ran out of sight. Shortly after, I heard someone thrashing through the brush, cursing and griping. A hunter soon emerged, bright orange and smelling of whiskey.
Living in a tent has its disadvantages, and having lived in a tent for the last ten years, I know the worst disadvantage is encountering intoxicated hunters. Not only are they a danger to themselves, even more importantly, they are a danger to me. All of a sudden, I didn’t feel quite so foolish for having dived in the dirt at the sound of gunfire. Waving to the man, I moved my coffee pot over the hot coals of my campfire as he approached. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air as I dug out a second cup and offered my new guest a cup of the strong brew.
Falling into the only chair with a grunt, the man removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hey Bro,” he began, “did you see a huge buck come running by here? That thing must be a world-class record if I ever saw one.” He accepted the cup of coffee I held out to him. As his rifle dropped in the dirt, I thanked the Creator that it didn’t fire. “I took two shots at him, but that baby was moving so fast, I never had a chance to hit him.”
“No,” I lied, “but I did hear something crash through the brush over in that direction.” I pointed in the opposite direction. Where I pointed lay an old logging road that was fairly level and easy walking, and I was sure it would appeal to the over-taxed hunter. Besides, it would take him away from my campsite. I would feel much safer the further away he carried his gun and whiskey breath. “Follow that old road about a mile, and you’ll come to a swampy area where the deer yard up in,” I said. “There’s some pretty good hunting on that part of the reservation.” The deer only used that area in the deep winter, but I thought all the signs left behind would have this guy believing he had entered deer heaven.
Sometime after the hunter trudged off with a thank you for the coffee and information about the deer habits, I glanced up to see Waawaashkeshi with his magnificent antlers again, standing a little off to the side of my tent. How long he had actually been there, I hadn’t noticed, and he didn’t bolt when I finally acknowledged him. “Waawaashkeshi, your fate may be to end up on the trophy wall of some hunter, but I figure you deserve a hunter who is worthy of you,” I told the buck. “When your time comes, you should have at least the pride of knowing you were taken down by more than a drunk with a lucky shot.” After I said that, the deer ambled away and melted into the underbrush.
The next few days passed quickly, as I prepared my camp for the long winter ahead. At night, I slept soundly after all the hard work I put in. I noticed more deer prints around my tent every morning. When there were only two days left to hunting season, I once again had the same visitor to my camp.
Stepping from his vehicle, the hunter greeted me with a wave and walked over to my campfire. “I want to apologize for my behavior the last time we met,” he began. “I am ashamed that I was in such a condition and carrying a firearm to boot. I would normally never behave in such a terrible manner. Not only did I disrespect myself, I disrespected the hunt. I was talking to a tribal elder, and he suggested I bring you this as a token of my apology.” He handed me a pouch of tobacco.
“I teach hunter safety at the local youth club, and I would revoke the Hunter’s Certificate of any student who was in the same condition I was in,” he admitted. “By the way, I went down to the spot you pointed out to me and found deer sign everywhere. After a closer look, however, I could see the deer hadn’t been there since last winter.” He laughed and said, “I truly deserved that.” Then drinking down another cup of my coffee, he soon departed to hunt his last day of the season.
I took the gift of tobacco and sprinkled it in the fire. “Waawaashkeshi”, I murmured, “I think that you have found a respectable hunter now worthy of you.”
Gerald Kirkish, who goes by Joe, is a freshman at the Keweenaw Bay Ojibwa Community College, majoring in Environmental Sciences. He is an enrolled member of the Keweenaw Bay Indian Community. In his first semester as a full-time student, Kirkish achieved a 3.9 grade point average and earned twelve credits out of twelve attempted.
Upon starting school last fall, his goal was to take only writing classes at the school. He says, “At the time my career goal was simply to write a novel, and I thought (incorrectly) that I could get by with a core curriculum consisting only of writing classes.”
Penny Olson, Liberal Arts advisor at KBOCC, convinced him to pursue a broader education. Kirkish says, “I realized that I was robbing myself of a very precious gift – knowledge, so I changed my major, but not my goal of writing a novel.”
Without the encouragement and guidance of Olson, Kirkish is sure that he would not still be enrolled in college. He says, “Her guidance showed me that a better education is a goal in itself. Without her encouragement, I surely would have succumbed to the discouragement from within.”