Ridin’ the 40 Home

A page from Smoked Mullet Cornbread Crawdad Memory 

(for big sis K.R.)

They say everything is bigger

in Texas, that is propaganda.

Riding back from Albuquerque

sister at wheel. We talk, squawking

clicks, a pair of ravens making

magic with our tongues.

Keeping language carefully —

cuz we women know words are spears.

Holding breath through Texas,

Tribal plates, eagle feather, beaded

tobacco pouch swinging from rearview

mirror like lighthouse guiding coppers:

INDIAN WOMEN TRAVELING.

Texas don’t like their Indians or Mexicans.

Why tolerate neighbor Indians crossing

invisible borders—never really there

to begin with? Our chatter slows. 

Silence, along I-40 through Tejas.

Sis’s car big enough to hold

eight, more with determination.

Carried folks from half the tribes

in Oklahoma to and from meeting.

Indians pilled up one on top the other,

individual lines drawn through Traverse

representing “the I-35 dividin’ line—

two different countries,” sis says.

Southeast Indians and Plains Tribes.

Sis’s car is a mini Okie Indian County.

In this car Indians slept, prayed, played.

Gone to NAC meetings crawled in

worn, tired from prayers, peyote,

fasting, mourning, rites and rituals.

This wagon sheltered, kept Indians both

sides of I-35 safe, out of cold. Housed so

many prayers doors burst vibrate singing

with medicine in languages old as earth.

                                                     

We pass the Oklahoma state line,

exhale, our tongues come back to life.

Not that we were worried, riding in

purple peyote wagon, full of prayers

weren’t no way we wasn’t getting home.

Pick up conversation as if silence never

shrouded us, as true sisters can—half

with words spoken, half with knowing

in marrow, memory, whispers in blood.

Looking up Oklahoma sky rolling by stars

are so close you can ask them to dance,

move, twirl for you, blink and keep

an ever-watchful eye. Eyes of those who

walked on before us. Oklahoma night sky

hangs low over plains stretching to meet

endless horizon. We roll forward rhythm of

wheels making music— I swear hear

Three Dog Night sing

“Well I never been to Heaven,

but I’ve been to Oklahoma…”

First published in Smoked Mullet Cornbread Crawdad Memory, Mongrel Empire Press, Norman, OK 2012. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rain Prud'homme-Cranford (Louisiana Choctaw/Creole/Mvskoke/Metis/Celtic) is the Sutton Doctoral Fellow in English at University of Oklahoma, She won the 2009 First Book Award in poetry for Smoked Mullet Cornbread Crawdad Memory (Mongrel Empire Press-Fall 2012), from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas, (NWCA). Her second book, Miscegenation Round Dance: Poèmes Historiques, is currently under review and she is working on her third poetry and prose manuscript: RAW: Lwizyàn Mestizà Unsilences & other poetical oddities. A self-described “TriRacially Fluffy and Fabulous” Louisiana Méstiza, she is of Louisiana Choctaw, Louisiana Creole,  and Mvskogean descent paternally, and of Canadian Métis and CelticAmerican ancestry maternally. She was raised and grew up along the Gulf south in Mvskogean-Creole homelands. Creative and critical can be found in: Tidal Basin Review, Natural Bridge, SING: Indigenous Poetry of the Americas, Yellow Medicine Review, American Indian Culture and Research Journal, Louisiana Folklife Journal, and various others. Rain is the National Secretary for Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers and as of 2012 the Assistant National Director of NWCA. She is the newly appointed Editor-in-Chief of the NWCA Literary and Art Journal (Red), launching Spring 2013. She lives in Oklahoma City, near her sister beadwork, regalia, and mixed media artist Tee Shawnee and family where the sisters collaborate and laugh with family and children.

Scenes From a Naturalist’s Sketchbook

By Tiffany Midge

My father tells me the stars don’t exist,

having burned out year’s ago. These are what remains,
tricks of the eye.  We are standing beneath
a congress of firs lit by stars—
flickering candles in night’s windows.
After my mother dies he tells me
everything still exists, it’s all still alive.
I think of the intrepid current of a Cascades’
creek that nearly drowned me—
the rapids I was saved from banked by stones
each with a name my father knew: Terrigenous,
breccias, shale.  In the Gulf of Mexico
kerchiefed women, aunties of Jorges and Jose,
peddled giant sea turtle shells to tourists—
my father shrugging them off: Gracious, gracious, no, no.
I think of remote camps, my father leaving
for hours on expedition, returning with a hat
full of berries he swore he’d outrun a bear for.
Nanooch Tropical Gardens, Thailand: My father
chain-smoking Chinese cigarettes beneath
an umbrella of palms, the esplanade full of howler
monkeys and sun bears, an exhibit of giant butterflies.
Everything still exists, it’s all still alive.
We net smelt at a Pacific coast beach,
our fingers stained purple from gutting fish,
our faces stinging with salt spray, canvas Keds
drying on a line; tacky residue of campfire
fish on our hands, the meat part smoke, part sweet.

Whatcom Creek

It’s been four years since I’ve seen my father

and here we are taking in the mayhem
like a couple of tourists who’ll later
buy bright, glossy postcards of the salmon
belly-up and gutted along the pier.
He’s still handsome, my father, still smokes
the filter-less cigarettes, year by year
their tar flowering like badly-timed jokes
in his dark lungs.  I used to pray for him
before prayer was futile as these fish
pitching their fruiting bodies into dim
bleary tombs.  This same time next year I’ll wish
for more time.  I’ll wish for redemption,
but only ghosts will rise, I imagine. 

First published at Drunken Boat No. 15 
Readmore  http://www.drunkenboat.com/db15/tiffany-midge 
Copyright © Tiffany Midge. All rights reserved.

Tiffany Midge’s book “Outlaws, Renegades and Saints, Diary of a Mixed-up Halfbreed” won the Diane Decorah Poetry Award.  She’s most recently been published in North American Review, The Raven Chronicles, Florida Review, South Dakota Review and the online journal No Tell Motel.  An enrolled Standing Rock Sioux and MFA grad from University of Idaho, she lives in Moscow, Idaho (Nez Perce country) and teaches part time with Northwest Indian College.

Dances With Halmoni

By Dr. Sook Wilkinson, Ph.D.

As a young girl growing up in South Korea, the only people I saw dancing were halmonis-- the grandmas. In my era, young women from “proper” families were told not to smoke, drink, dance, talk too much, or be loud. Modesty in everything was the norm, and humility was considered a virtue. 

Unless you majored in dance, like my sister did, you wouldn’t move your body in front of other people, especially in public. I secretly envied the halmonis. They seemed to have all the freedom and fun that was forbidden to me. 

I couldn’t wait to become old enough to be a halmoni. And now age has given me what I’ve always longed for. 

GG is my special name for my granddaughter, my wiggle dance partner. When she hears music, she hunkers down on all fours and wiggles up and down using every part of her body. Thanks to GG, I’m learning the secrets of dance. 

Recently as I watched her do her usual wiggle dance, I sat down and analyzed the movements. What I discovered is that both Gangnam Style horse dance and GG’s wiggle dance have something in common – lots of hip movement.  I was never taught to dance growing up in Korea, which makes the popularity of the Korean rapper Psy’s Gangnam Style in the US a surprise to me. Too shy to try these dance moves in front of others, I tried them in my own living room. I found it to be a great exercise, because when I moved my hips, my whole body moved just like GG’s. 

Today I can picture myself along with the halmonis in Korea doing Gangnam Style horse dance at picnics, laughing and talking loudly, and drinking Soju, the rice wine.

GG became the ultimate "trump card" in my life even before she was born. This tiny granddaughter who has become an addition to our family has motivated me to change my priorities in life and resulted in my daughter and I becoming closer. Although GG lives more than 2,000 miles away in San Francisco (while I'm in Michigan), but thanks to technology like video chats and Face Time, I “see” her frequently.  Even so, my arms itch to hold her wiggly body and dance with her.

When our two children, TJ and Gina, were born, my mother traveled several times all the way from South Korea to stay for months to help raise them. She was the best Halmoni, with a capital “H” that my kids could have had.  They knew that she loved them no matter what and that they couldn’t do anything wrong (ever!) in her eyes. Even though there was a language barrier, the bonding they developed with their Halmoni is unbreakable. It’s the kind of bonding that comes from deep trust and lots of shared experiences, the kind that instills a sense of unconditional acceptance and security in a child. 

I’d been waiting for a long time to become a halmoni just like my mother. With the announcement of GG’s upcoming birth, I knew instantly that I needed to retire from my work as a psychologist. To make myself available to my daughter and my grandchild, I knew I needed to re-prioritize my life and make room for them. 

GG was only one month old when her first Christmas came around. My daughter and son in law sent me a tiny envelope as their Christmas gift, and we put it under our tree. On Christmas Day, as I opened their gift, tears welled up in my eyes. Inside of the envelope was a note that read “All I want for Christmas is a visit from Halmoni!” 

Now that GG is older we have had wonderful experiences together: strolling along Lake Michigan in Chicago; traveling to Spain, and building a sand castle on the beach in Cancun. I’m the happiest when I’m GG’s nanny Halmoni.  And it makes it even better when my husband can join us as GG’s “manny.”

There comes a time in life when things, no matter how precious, beautiful, and expensive, don't mean much. What matters most are experiences with family and friends that enhance the quality of my life. Centering my thoughts on GG keeps me grounded. Visualizing her big smile at seeing my face appear from peek-a-boo, her cry of relief when rescued from the top of a stairway, her spontaneous wiggling whenever she hears music, her concentration and proud look taking her first couple steps are moments that wash away all the ills of the world. Finally, I am able to focus on the simple things in life, and feel content all over.

Copyright © Dr. Sook Wilkinson, Ph.D. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Sook Wilkinson, Ph.D. has enjoyed a wonderful life in America.  As a native of South Korea, she came to the US at age 22 with $100 in her pocket. Since then, she has become a renowned clinical psychologist, author, and a respected community leader while raising a son and a daughter with her husband, Todd.  Michigan has shaped her life profoundly and she is committed to giving back to her community and state.

As a passionate advocate for active participation in her communities, she gladly accepted the opportunity to serve as the Chairperson of the Michigan Asian Pacific American Affairs Commission, appointed by Governor Granholm. Through her leadership, the Asian Pacific American community is gaining much-deserved recognition and visibility. 

Professionally, Wilkinson holds the highest level of license to practice psychology in the State of Michigan and has been in clinical practice for over 30 years. A leading expert in the field of international adoption, she authored Birth is More than Once: The Inner World of Adopted Korean Children and co-edited After the Morning Calm: Reflections of Korean Adoptees . She also authored the script to the documentary, We the People, about the history of Asian Americans. Her leadership extends to the Upper Peninsular serving on the Board of Trustees of Northern Michigan University in Marquette, appointed by Governor Granholm.