Wanting to Say Things: The Power of Stories
AN ANTHOLOGY OF NATIVE AMERICAN LITERATURE
from "The First Annual All-Indian All-Indian Horseshoe Pitch and Barbecue” by Sherman Alexie in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven
There is something beautiful about the cool grass beneath a
picnic table. I was there, almost asleep, when my love crawled under, wrapped her arms around me, and sang into my ear. Her breath sweet and damp with Kool-Aid and a hot dog, mustard but no catsup, please. The sunlight squeezed through spaces between wood, fell down knotholes, but just enough to warm my face.
There is something beautiful about an Indian boy with hair so black it collects the sunlight. His braids grow hot to the touch and his skin shines with reservation sweat. He is skinny and doesn’t know how to spit. In the foot race with other Indian boys he wins a blue ribbon, and in the wrestling match he wins a medallion with an eagle etched in cheap metal. There are photographs taken; I use them now as evidence of his smile.
There is something beautiful about broken glass and the tiny visions it creates. For instance, the glass from that shattered beer bottle told me there was a twenty-dollar bill hidden in the center of an ant pile. I buried my arms elbow-deep in the ants but all I found was a note that said Some people will believe in anything. And I laughed.
There is something beautiful about an ordinary carnival.
Editor's Imitation
There is something beautiful about the overgrown
backyard and the chain-link fence surrounding it. I was there, tiptoeing on the cinder blocks surrounding the garden plots and pretending they were a balance beam, when my mom came over, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her muddy shirt. She told me to get back to work and finish pulling weeds before nightfall. The sun hid and cicadas began their chorus as I pulled on my gloves again, but all I could think about was how the dandelions still had so many wishes left in them.
There is something beautiful about the greeter at Walmart with graying hair and face like an ancient map. She has been sitting on the same chair all shift, legs swinging inches away from the ground. She has smiled at everyone who has passed by, silently hoping that they have enough to buy groceries to feed their children, silently praying that they have enough to more than just survive.
There is something beautiful about ripped shoes and the miles they contain. For instance, my old sneakers told me about the races they want to run. I tied the dog-bitten laces but heard them cry We’ve already made it this far.
There is something beautiful about cracked sidewalks and the grass growing in-between the seams.