American Poem by Tureygua Inaru

It will be the death of me.
When they say 'She's American'
my heartbeat flickers like a dying lightbulb
a light someone turned on
when I didn't want them to.

We are 'gritty'. 'Pioneers'. 'Brave'. Loud'. 'Stubborn'.
All the character traits that are clipped like dead ends
as soon as they blossom in young girls
because girls are supposed to be quiet and obedient.

'But she's an American.'
'Adventurous, even for an American.'

But I am an American Indian.
And there were Indian cowboys, I
want to ride on a horse without a saddle
onward into the plains of the Wild West, without a map
while my never-cut hair blows in the wind
and only optimism guides my way.

These thoughts are going to kill me.
I don't want to be an Indian on a reservation
or a US-owned territory—I want to be me.
I want to be free.
I want that elusive, promised, American Dream
the Dream that was promised to people who are not me
the ones who don't look like me
who come from far away
the Dream for which people who look like me
died so they can have.

I want this so-called waking Dream.
I want that freedom.
I would sacrifice being a woman
or an Indian
to be an 'equal human'
protected, by God
from the elements, rattlesnakes, slave catchers
and anything else that would harm me
as I blaze my own trail in this land.

After a day of blazing my own trail
I am tired and must rest.
As I sleep, the American Dream
forms a protective circle around me
and fights off all my enemies.
As I sleep, I am cradled
in the soft womb of an open field
held inside of God's beautiful sky.