PROOF
(a made up story that COULD have happened)

I carried five dollars and a bag of tobacco to
Old Buffalo Grandmother, way out on the rez, and
explained how even though Mom tried to raise me mainstream,
I wanted to prove once and for all that I’m an Indian.
Buffalo Grandmother accepted my gifts, inviting me inside,
then shut off her boombox and said,
              We can be part of the mainstream with pretty good success,
              but in the end we’re still Indians, more or less.
I told her about driving around the country attending all the powwows.
              Watching fancy dancers and filling up on greasy fry-bread
              won’t make you Indian, (that’s what she said).
I told her about the dream catchers and all the feathers inside my car.
              That dream-catcher and those feathers make your car look perky
              but the dream-catcher’s made in China and the feathers are turkey.
I sat up straight like a brave, and stared out her cabin window.
              Gazing to the horizon with a noble profile and a stoic face,
              won’t get you much of anyplace.
I folded my red bandana into a strip, and tied it around my head.
              And if you gaze at the horizon
              while you’re driving to the powwow,
              even with turkey feathers all around
              and dream catchers hanging down
              and a red bandana on your head
              you could end up dead
              or stuck in a ditch way off the road
              or rear-ending a truck with a heavy load
              or getting a traffic citation to pay
              but it won’t make you an Indian, no way.
I rolled up my sleeve and showed her my good, dark tan.
              You can even tan your bum cleavage and the soles of your feet,
              and still not be an Indian despite all the heat.
Nonchalantly fingering my braid, I told her about walking through the forest
with my wooden flute and my painted drum.
              Drunken deer hunters might shoot you (maybe they should)
              if you solemnly stumble through the wood
              tooting your flute and thumping your drum
              with your braid hanging down to your sunburnt bum
              but it won’t show you’re an Indian, just that you’re dumb.
Getting up to leave, I mumbled my disappointed goodbye, but she stopped me with a gesture.
              On the other hand, you can be fishing in a lake, or in the back yard with a rake,
              or strolling to the grocery store, or on the avenue trying to score, or
              waiting at the crossing for a long freight train, or riding your bicycle in the rain,
              attending a meeting in your five hundred dollar suit, or washing the dishes, or
              just daydreaming, making silly wishes, playing guitar in a rock and roll band, or
              walking home in the morning with your shoes full of sand, and
              suddenly realize you’re an Indian, that you always have been,
              and you won’t have to prove anything to anybody, ever again.
She stood up and showed me to the door.
Outside, father sun smiled down just like before.

©2004 Thomas Hubbard