The Spanish settlers/missionaries used to call the Dineh “Navajo”.
an insult,
‘n I hear that it means “throat cutter”,
but ain’t nothin’ but speculation,
ain’t nothin’ but estimation,
bein’ that navaja means “knife” ‘n all.
hear my mom talkin’ heritage,
“Navajo, Navajo, Navajo”
self identification.
one of few family heirlooms:
“The Kerry Dream”,
ain’t no other title,
just “The Kerry Dream”.
ain’t no poet you ever heard,
but story goes,
a great, great grandfather, Irish come immegrant,
never spoke to why he left,
but he was practical, had better things to do;
woke up in the middle of the night,
‘n wrote down his longin’ for the long lost Isle.
ain’t goin’ back,
can’t go back,
didn’t ever talk,
but it ain’t like the IRA weren’t big,
ain’t like he didn’t love his country.
We call ourselves throat-cutters,
we dream of gunpowder ‘n treason, ‘n ‘n freedom,
we spend Christmas Eve at Midnight Mass,
tappin’ our toes hopin’ that god ain’t watchin’ our crossed fingers.
I, I, I got freedom ‘n fightin’ in the veins,
‘n it ain’t,
it ain’t,
I ain’t nothin’ like that.
I don’t even know if I’m related to the President of ours,
but that don’t mean I don’t beam every time I see a half-dollar.
I ain’t brown-skinned Dineh fightin’ for recognition,
I ain’t ex-IRA banished from what I love,
I’m a white-boy without enough common sense,
I am opression internalized,
turned on myself,
heritage denied.
denied,
‘n I got freedom fightin’ pumpin’ in these veins,
but it,
it don’t,
it don’t mean much,
I am “Navajo”, not Dineh,
‘n I am “Irish” like St. Patrick’s Day parades.
–
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,”
