Tag Archives: Indian

Them Dang Poon-Jabs….

In case you hadn’t noticed, I added a few category. It’s duly entitled “Message to the White Man”–for a book I decided to start writing entitled “Message to the White Man in America”. That’s the only teaser I’m going to give you for now; more on this later. This is my first installment on this subject.

What is the number one problem in America? If you’re White, you will probably say the economy. If you’re a person of color, you’ll probably say it’s something domestic and/or socioeconomic. If you’re Black, my money’s on “racism”. So what is the answer?

Sorry, but “all of the above” is not a valid answer. Remember, the question is “What is the number one problem…”  Every nation has problems, but each nation’s problems are rooted in something else. Some nations’ can trace all of their problems to drugs as their root. Some, tyranny. Some are rooted in ethnic violence or disunity. Others are traced to greed or corruption. In America, there is no denying that America’s “Original Sin” is slavery. We have a great design–the combination of the Bill of Rights, our commitment to Democracy, the separation of Church and State, and our system of checks and balances. Yet we still suffer from poverty, economic strife and domestic problems, because at the root of all good in America lies the evil of Chattel, Black Slavery. Our rise to economic growth was based on the fact that unlike the rest of the world, we were able to build our infrastructure and the entire Agricultural and Industrial industries on FREE labor for 400 years. America is a country addicted to cheap or free labor. We were based on having groups of people we were able to oppress:  Slave labor, the acquisition of land from the Native American, the suppression of any voting power of anyone who was not White and male… We owe our greatness to every group of people we ever wronged, and we never truly had to reimburse them for what we took. The War on Terror, for example, is an extension of our addiction to simply taking what we want by force or manipulation and while we now have to pay for labor–we have fooled the American taxpayer into financing it. I could go on.

And foo-foo to those of you who think that “God Blessed America”. Let me remind you what happened when Satan approached Jesus on the mountain:  He said, “Bow to me and all of this will be yours.”  America was at that mountain top, she did Satan’s work with every group of people she ever encountered in the history of this nation, and she was rewarded well. So when you look all around you and you see what looks good:  Wealth, Beauty, Prosperity, Power–know that Satan has his hand in all of it. There is nothing that exists in America that can be called “better” than what is found someplace else that does not come with a heavy price. But more on that later.

When America makes it right–when her people who enjoy the fruits of the evil labor of their ancestors finally acknowledge and make an attempt to right the wrongs–then maybe the Creator of the Heavens and the Earth will finally allow us to enjoy what we’ve built without having to look over our shoulders.

That said, I have a theory. Racism today exists not in the form of epithets and vile hatred and commitment to violence like we’ve had in the past. It exists today in the form of mild feelings that we can mask and deny (or not even notice), in soft discrimination, in comments we make and passive-aggressive acts and feelings, and in the form of resentment.

A few years back, I had a business in Yuba City, California, about an hour north of Sacramento. I went to see a shopping center in the area and waited for the owner, who is an older East Indian man named Mr. J. Mr. J had an interesting history. He arrived here dirt poor, without his family, who was still in India. He was staying with friends in Los Angeles but could not find a job in those days, because as he put it–he was so dark that they “treated him like a Black man, only worse–even worse than a Mexican.”  A man he met was recruiting laborers for a farmer who did not want to hire illegals. He was providing a free place to live and a certain amount of money. He sold off the few belongings he had, paid the recruiter for the job lead, and took a bus to Yuba City where he was hired right away.

He turned out to be just a few notches above a slave. He was paid very little, and out of that, had to pay for his lodging, his food, and was fined for everything they “did wrong”. He sent money home to his wife, paid off his debt to his employer, and saved enough money to finally leave the farm. He took a job with a restaurant, and one thing led to another, and he bought a house. He brought his family to America, educated his children, opened an alterations shop and laundry… soon the man owned property all over Northern California, including a restaurant, a fabric store, a convenience store, and a few retail centers–including the one I put my business in. Along the way, he helped many men of White, Black and Hispanic descent get on their feet and  improve their lives. God, my friends, blessed this man.

So, while I’m waiting for Mr. J, a young White man in his late 20s came out of the liquor store near my space-to-be and asked if I was planning to open a business there. Yes, I answered. He asked what I would open, and after some questioning he gathered the courage to question my ethnicity. I answered that I was Black and Filipino. He told me, in a low, resentful voice:  Good, because them goddang poon-jabs are buying up everything.

Racist.

I had about ten minutes to take this young man to school.

But not today, we’ll have a part II to this article. But let me say this. Racism has taken on a new form, and if you’re not in the know–you wouldn’t even know it was there. You might even discover that you may harbor some racism yourself. Economic hardship and a little genetic engineering (or biological warfare, depending on how you look at it) has caused this centuries-old disease to fester and linger in this country. This category is to diagnose and help you find a cure.

Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Love It or Leave It: A Thanksgiving Poem

The only real Americans

this poem was inspired by a painting i saw in a 1973 issue of National Geographic. the artist’s name is Charlie M. Russell. unlike many of that day (1800s) he did not characterize the Native American as savage. he handwrote in place of his signature a note:  “they are the only REAL americans”. so, here goes:

AMERICA:

love it, or leave it

they are the only real americans among us

skin as red as Sonora floors

he speaks the sound of clouds

and chants the thunderous

roar of a thousand horses

he is the door to the land

that birthed your patriotic pride and joy

closer to creation

than you may never know

with suicidal brotherly arms

they embraced the withering disintegration

of future generations

bondaged, brave, blind

bandaged, barbaric

tough and raw

with their bark still on

Iriquois ignorance

Judas justified

killing for keeps

left lying, dying on lifted lands

Muskogee, Comanche

molten manhood pooled in bands and

massacred mangled puddles of

sanguine sap that rosies the palms

of every hand

from the tears in eagle eyes

to the towers of Babel

they reach for skies

outstretched like arrows on a bow

for a God who has abandoned US

heard the lies about

the God they trust

trust us

bust us

justice

just us

just see

just me

trust me

treat me

treaty?

hmm…

words not worth the paper

they defile

with worshipped stars

and stripes striking pre-emptively

while the birth of a new nation

blindfolds the death of another

our once fertile, found red ground

sprouts a poisonous sea of green

drops a crocodile tear for offspring unseen

nourishing the seed of wrath in repose

stomachs churn

turned up nose

at the thought of blood spilled in His name

concrete gravestones stain

sacred stolen soil

still, they live here in vain

flying the banner of entitlement

BPA reveals splashes of its DNA

Red men

White skin

Blue eyes

forensic folly hints at

original sin

border fences line long

and line high before purple mountains

seams to keep gates of hell

open to hatred

they justify darkened Manhattan skylines

terror has found its way home

the rooster is calling

Illinois, Sioux me

you are a 4WD Cherokee

stranded on fruited plains

with Blackfeet and bloodied hands

still wet with blame

they are the only real americans

but someone stole his name

chanting Cheyenne wishes

for a Mighty Wind

to blow the unforgiving Sun

across our weeping, spacious skies

cast us into infernal Cree summers

Relentless, consuming

Like the wrath of centuries-old debts untold

he is Eskimo

he is Navajo

he is Paiute

Algonkin

Dakota

Miwok

Yuki

Shawnee

Chippewa

Maidu

Chickasaw

Yakima

Umpqua

Coyote

Shoshone

Witchita

Arapahoe

Pomo

descendants turned to dust in the womb

we will never know him

exiled onto desert tombs

with dehydrated tongues

and bleached histories tell

of killing blankets and crying trails

celebrated in the mockery

of drunken college punks in drag

rather than filling pride

birthmark badges

and federal IDs

savage aborigines

Godless and primitive

wild, like bitter berries

he is the sexy Masala in your good hair

the tan tint in Creole Rue

the safe haven for your forefathers

detours found Railroaded Underground

he is your ancestor’s brother

one-eighth on your grandmother’s

cousin side

mixed breed pride hide inside

erased so effectively

genealogies forgot him

overlooking a pasture of

bare Bison bones

when a word was whispered in the wind

from the past:

Remember

you are his worthless white wetbacks

thanks for Pilgrim-giving

shoulda let you starve on that rock

he prays for the strength of al Qaeda

the resilience of racism

and the swift, just hand of Noah’s Flood

911 was a joke in his town

for him, it was a Pow-Wow

twin teepee in the sky

made you realize

what it feels like to never die in spite of

eternal hunger

he wants his God-damned land back:

My people are broken

Like your promises

And it’s too late to atone

You’ve worn out your welcome,

America,

GO HOME.

Love it or leave it

© He Spit Fire

2007

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