Go child,

It is bittersweet to leave the reservation.

The home you are so familiar with

You see news from home and feel guilt by association

It is the only place you have ever known

That has been the one place you can call home

There is that feeling when you leave

It is for the best you want to believe

You hope that is what others perceive

You don’t want to be that “City Indian”

That feels guilt within

But then you see your friends dying

You see their grandmothers crying

You see tribal council talking in circles

They wear their Indian print shirts and get real verbal

Break promises like the government taught them

Talk about what can’t be done instead of what can

Yes, you feel guilty when you leave the reservation

But go child, and get that education

Because the only way you can help your people

Is when you learn to fly like an eagle

Home will always be there

Waiting for those who care

Go child, do what you have to do

Generations depend on you

Your ancestors are proud of you








One thought on “Go child,

  1. That made me think of some words from my native Scottish Highlands:

    Running in the moors
    Running in the hills
    And then to school at the end of summer
    Five years of age,
    Without a word of English in my head

    Here is your book,
    Here is your pen.
    “Study hard”, that’s what they told me,
    “And you will rise up in the world,
    You will get ahead.”

    Twenty years for the truth
    I had to wait
    I had to search
    Twenty years of lies
    They denied me knowledge of myself.

    I learned many things
    The English language, the poetry of England
    The music of Germany
    The history of Spain
    And even that was a false history

    Then on to further education
    Following education, more education
    Like idiots on the end of a string
    Our heads filled with a sort of learning

    Twenty years for the truth
    I had to wait
    I had to search
    Twenty years of lies
    They denied me knowledge of myself.

    And I did rise in the world
    I found my suit, I found my shirt
    I found a place in the eyes of men
    Well away from the freedom of the moor

    But why did they keep our history from us?
    I’ll tell you they are frightened
    In case the Gaels rise
    With searching and penetrating questions.

    Twenty years for the truth
    I had to wait
    I had to search
    Twenty years of lies
    They denied me knowledge of myself.

    When I started searching
    I could not believe my eyes,
    evil works.

    “Many a thing I have seen in my own day and generation. I have seen the townships swept, and the holdings being made of them. The people being driven out of the countryside to the streets of Glasgow and to the wilds of Canada, such as them that did not die of hunger and plague and smallpox while going across the ocean. I have seen the women putting the children in the carts which were being sent from Benbecula and the Iochdar to Loch Boisdale, while their husbands lay bound in the pen and were weeping beside them, without power to give them a helping hand, though the women themselves were crying aloud and their little children wailing like to break their hearts. I have seen the big strong men, the champions of the countryside, the stalwarts of the world, being bound on Loch Boisdale quay and cast into the ships as would be done to a batch of horses or cattle in the boat. The bailiffs and the constable and the policemen gathered behind them in pursuit of them. The God of life and He only knows all the loathsome work of men on that day.”

    Twenty years and still ignorant

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