Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful (3 page)

settle down and comb her hair.

The children crept up and stroked it,

and she felt beautiful.

Such wonderful people, Africans

Childish, arrogant, self-indulgent, pompous,

cowardly and treacherous—a
great
disappointment

to Israel, of course, and really rather

ridiculous in international affairs,

but, withal, opined Golda, a people of charm

and good taste.

If “those people” like you

it is a bad sign.

It is the kiss of death.

This is the kind of thing we discuss

among ourselves.

We were about to throw out

a perfectly good man.

“They are always telling me

I’ve got to meet him! They

are always saying how superior

he is! And those who cannot

say he’s superior say ‘How
Nice
.’

Well! We know what this means.

The man’s insufferable.
They’re

insufferable. How can he stand

them
, if he means any good to us?”

It so happened I knew this man.

“You’ve got to meet him,” I said.

“He
is
superior, nice, and not at all

insufferable.” And this is true.

But the talk continued:

If “those people” like you

it is a bad sign.

It is the kiss of death.

Because that is the kind of thing

we talk about

among ourselves.

I am so thankful I have seen

The Desert

And the creatures in The Desert

And the desert Itself.

The Desert has its own moon

Which I have seen

With my own eye

There is no flag on it.

Trees of the desert have arms

All of which are always up

That is because the moon is up

The sun is up

Also the sky

The stars

Clouds

None with flags.

If there were flags, I doubt

The trees would point.

Would you?

I’m really very fond of you,

he said.

I don’t like fond.

It sounds like something

you would tell a dog.

Give me love,

or nothing.

Throw your fond in a pond,

I said.

But what I felt for him

was also warm, frisky,

moist-mouthed,

eager,

and could swim away

if forced to do so.

There are five people in this room

who still don’t know what I’m saying.

“What is she saying?” they’re asking.

“What is she doing here?”

It is not enough to be interminable;

one must also be precise.

The Wasichus
^*
did not kill them to eat; they

killed them for the metal that makes them crazy,

and they took only the hides to sell. Sometimes

they did not even take the hides, only the

tongues; and I have heard that fire-boats came

down the Missouri River loaded with dried bison

tongues.… And when there was nothing left

but heaps of bones, the Wasichus came and

gathered up even the bones and sold them.

—Black Elk,

Black Elk Speaks

^*
Wasichu in Sioux means “he who takes the fat.”

Sometimes I feel so bad

I ask myself

Who in the world

Have I murdered?

It is a Wasichu’s voice

That asks this question,

Coming from nearly inside of me.

It is asking to be let in, of course.

I am here too! he shouts,

Shaking his fist.

Pay some attention to me!

But if I let him in

What a mess he’ll make!

Even now asking who

He’s murdered!

Next he’ll complain

Because we don’t keep a maid!

He is murderous and lazy

And I fear him,

This small, white man;

Who would be neither courteous

Nor clean

Without my help.

By the hour I linger

On his deficiencies

And his unfortunate disposition,

Keeping him sulking

And kicking

At the door.

There is the mind that creates

Without loving, for instance,

The childish greed;

The boatloads and boatloads

of tongues …

Besides, where would he fit

If I did let him in?

No sitting at round tables

For him!

I could be a liberal

And admit one of his children;

Or be a radical and permit two.

But it is
he
asking

To be let in, alas.

Our mothers learned to receive him occasionally,

Passing as Christ. But this did not help us much.

Or perhaps it made all the difference.

But there. He is bewildered

And tuckered out with the waiting.

He’s giving up and going away.

Until the next time.

And murdered quite sufficiently, too, I think,

Until the next time.

We must say it all, and as clearly

as we can. For, even before we are dead,

they are busy

trying to bury us.

Were we black? Were we women? Were we gay?

Were we the wrong
shade
of black? Were we yellow?

Did we, God forbid, love the wrong person, country

or politics? Were we Agnes Smedley or John Brown?

But, most of all, did we write exactly what we saw,

as clearly as we could? Were we unsophisticated

enough to cry
and
scream?

Well, then, they will fill our eyes,

our ears, our noses and our mouths

with the mud

of oblivion. They will chew up

our fingers in the night. They will pick

their teeth with our pens. They will sabotage

both our children

and our art.

Because when we show what we see,

they will discern the inevitable:

We do not worship them.

We do not worship them.

We do not worship what they have made.

We do not trust them.

We do not believe what they say.

We do not love their efficiency.

Or their power plants.

We do not love their factories.

Or their smog.

We do not love their television programs.

Or their radioactive leaks.

We find their papers boring.

We do not worship their cars.

We do not worship their blondes.

We do not envy their penises.

We do not think much

of their Renaissance.

We are indifferent to England.

We have grave doubts about their brains.

In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance

or sing

share the intelligence and thus the fate

of all our people

in this land.

We are not different from them,

neither above nor below,

outside nor inside.

We are the same.

And we do not worship them.

We do not worship them.

We do not worship their movies.

We do not worship their songs.

We do not think their newscasts

cast the news.

We do not admire their president.

We know why the White House is white.

We do not find their children irresistible;

We do not agree they should inherit the earth.

But lately you have begun to help them

bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer;

Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry,

a traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer,

merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer:

reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor;

Agnes Smedley, a spy.

I look into your eyes;

you are throwing in the dirt.

You, standing in the grave

with me. Stop it!

Each one must pull one.

Look, I, temporarily on the rim

of the grave,

have grasped my mother’s hand

my father’s leg.

There is the hand of Robeson

Langston’s thigh

Zora’s arm and hair

your grandfather’s lifted chin

the lynched woman’s elbow

what you’ve tried to forget

of your grandmother’s frown.

Each one, pull one back into the sun

We who have stood over

so many graves

know that no matter what
they
do

all of us must live

or none.

Who has not been

invaded

by the Wasichu?

Not I, said the people.

Not I, said the trees.

Not I, said the waters.

Not I, said the rocks.

Not I, said the air.

Moon!

We hoped

you were safe.

Listen,

stop tanning yourself

and talking about

fishbelly

white.

The color white

is not bad at all.

There are white mornings

that bring us days.

Or, if you must,

tan only because

it makes you happy

to be brown,

to be able to see

for a summer

the whole world’s

darker

face

reflected

in your own.

*

Stop unfolding

your eyes.

Your eyes are

beautiful.

Sometimes

seeing you in the street

the fold zany

and unexpected

I want to kiss

them

and usually

it is only

old

gorgeous

black people’s eyes

I want

to kiss.

**

Stop trimming

your nose.

When you

diminish

your nose

your songs

become little

tinny, muted

and snub.

Better you should

have a nose

impertinent

as a flower,

sensitive

as a root;

wise, elegant,

serious and deep.

A nose that

sniffs

the essence

of Earth. And knows

the message

of every

leaf.

***

Stop bleaching

your skin

and talking

about

so much black

is not beautiful

The color black

is not bad

at all.

There are black nights

that rock

us

in dreams.

Or, if you must,

bleach only

because it pleases you

to be brown,

to be able to see

for as long

as you can bear it

the whole world’s

lighter face

reflected

in your own.

****

As for me,

I have learned

to worship

the sun

again.

To affirm

the adventures

of hair.

For we are all

splendid

descendants

of Wilderness,

Eden:

needing only

to see

each other

without

commercials

to believe.

Copied skillfully

as Adam.

Original

as Eve.

No one can watch

the Wasichu

anymore

He is always

penetrating

a people

whose country

is too small

for him

His bazooka

always

sticking up

from some

howling

mother’s

backyard.

No one can watch

the Wasichu

anymore

He is always

squashing

something

Somebody’s guts

trailing

his shoe.

No one can watch

the Wasichu

anymore

He is scalping

the earth

till she runs

into the ocean

The dust of her

flight

searing

our sight.

No one can watch

the Wasichu

anymore

Smirking

into our bedrooms

with his

terrible

Nightly News …

No one can watch

the Wasichu

anymore.

Regardless.

He has filled

our every face

with his window.

Our every window

with

his face.

Now I am going

to rape you,

you joked;

after a pleasure

wrung

from me.

With playful roughness

you dragged my body

to meet yours;

on your face

the look of

mock

lust

you think

all real women

like

As all “real” women

really

like rape.

Lying

barely breathing

beneath

your heaving

heaviness

I fancied I saw

my great-great-grandmother’s

small hands

encircle

your pale neck.

There was no

pornography

in her world

from which to learn

to relish the pain.

(She was the thing

itself.)

Oh, you who seemed

the best of them,

my own sad

Wasichu;

in what gibberish

was our freedom

engraved on

our chains.

When they torture your mother

plant a tree

When they torture your father

plant a tree

When they torture your brother