poets teach us about mourning, ghosts, memory, and birth

Cherokee author, poet, scholar and activist Qwo-Li Driskill is a Colorado native, earning their bachelor’s degree from the University of Northern Colorado. Following that, they went on to receive their M.A. from Anitoch University Seattle and a Ph.D in Rhetoric and Writing from Michigan State University.

Driskill has published numerous essays, pieces of creative writing, and two books. The book Asegi Stories: Cherokee Queer and Two-Spirit Memory was published in 2016. In this book, Driskill paints a picture of Two-Spirited persons, going back to early colonial and Cherokee history to better understand the way Native Americans viewed gender and sex before colonization.

As Driskill’s book explains, “In Cherokee, Asegi udanto refers to people who either fall outside of men’s and women’s roles, or who mix men’s and women’s role.” Ultimately, Driskill’s goal is a “re-storying in the present” through a “retelling and imagining of stories that restores and continues cultural memories.”

Before the colonization of the western world, Cherokee and other Native American cultures did not identify gender on the binary recognized by western culture as man and woman. This “term ‘Two-Spirit’ is a contemporary term being used in Native communities to describe someone whose gender exists outside of colonial logic…[and] references Indigenous traditions for people who don’t fit into rigid gender categories.”

In Driskill’s book, we learn that before 1868 “the concepts of ‘heterosexuality’ and ‘homosexuality’ did not exist” and they were terms created by Karoly Maria Kertbeny. In short, these concepts “are recent European and colonial inventions” that we cannot impose upon different cultures, especially colonized Native Americans.

Since the publication of Asegi StoriesDriskill has added new approaches and language to queer studies conversations, providing a space that fits Cherokee and Native American persons. By reading through colonial texts, Driskill helps us understand the colonial lens imposed on the Native Americans, and how that has shifted sex and gender identity for many Two-Spirited persons.

Driskill’s careful interweaving of Cherokee and colonial perspectives provide Two-Spirited persons a re-written history. Now, those people struggling inside the western binary and gender constructs can return to their cultural beliefs, and learn how to re-interpret their identity in light of those cultural traditions.

Tal’-s-go Gal’-quo-gi Di-del’-qua-s-do-di Tsa-la-gi Di-go-whe-li/ Beginning Cherokee
BY Qwo-Li Driskill 
I-gv-yi-i Tsa-la-gi Go-whe-lv-i: A-sgo-hni-ho-’i/
FIRST CHEROKEE LESSON: MOURNING
             Find a flint blade
             Use your teeth as a whetstone
             Cut your hair
             Talk to shadows and crows
             Cry your red throat raw
             Learn to translate the words you miss most:
             dust                     love                    poetry
             Learn to say         home
My cracked earth lips
drip words not sung
as lullabies to my infant ears
not laughed over dinner
or choked on in despair
No
They played dead until
the soldiers passed
covered the fields like corpses
and escaped into the mountains
When it’s safe we’ll find you
they promised
But we were already gone
before sunrise
I crawl through a field of
twisted bodies to find them
I do everything Beginning Cherokee
tells me
Train my tongue
to lie still
Keep teeth tight
against lips
Listen to instruction tapes
Study flash cards
How can I greet my ancestors in a language they don’t understand
My tear ducts fill with milk
because what I most love
was lost at birth
My blood roars skin to blisters
weeps haunted calls of owls
bones splinter
jut through skin
until all of me
is wounded
as this tongue
Ta-li-ne-i Tsa-la-gi Go-whe-lv-i: A-ni-s-gi-li/
SECOND CHEROKEE LESSON: GHOSTS
             Leave your hair
             at the foot of your bed
             Scratch your tongue
             with a cricket’s claw to speak again
             Stop the blood with cornmeal
             Your ancestors will surround you as you sleep
             keep away ghosts of generals presidents       priests
             who hunger for your
             rare and tender tongue
             They will keep away ghosts
             so you have strength
             to battle the living
Stories float through lives
with an owl’s sudden swooping
I knew some Cherokee
when I was little
My cousins taught me
My mother watches it all happen again
sees ghosts rush at our throats
with talons drawn like bayonets
When I came home speaking
your grandmother told me
I forbid you to speak that language
in my house
Learn something useful
We sit at the kitchen table
As she drinks iced tea
in the middle of winter
I teach her to say u-ga-lo-ga-go-tlv-tv-nv/ tea
across plastic buckets of generic peanut butter
wonder bread diet coke
Try to teach her something useful
I am haunted by loss
My stomach is a knot of serpents
and my hair grows out
as owl feathers
Tso-i-ne-i Tsa-la-gi Go-whe-lv-i: A-nv-da-di-s-di/
THIRD CHEROKEE LESSON: MEMORY
             Raid archeologists’ camps
             and steal shovels
             to rebury the dead
             Gather stories like harvest
             and sing honor songs
             Save the seeds
             to carry you through the winter
             Bury them deep in your flesh
             Weep into your palms
             until stories take root
             in your bones
             split skin
             blossom
There are stories caught
in my mother’s hair
I can’t bear the weight of
Could you give me a braid
straight down the middle
of my back just the way I like
So I part her black-going-silver hair
into three strands
thick as our history
radiant as crow wings
             This is what it means to be Indian
Begging for stories in a living room
stacked high with newspapers magazines baby toys
Mama story me
She remembers
             Great Grandmother Nancy Harmon
             who heard white women
             call her uppity Indian during
             a quilting bee
             and climbed down their chimney with
             a knife between her teeth
She remembers
             flour sack dresses
             tar paper shacks
             dust storms         blood       escape
She carries fire on her back
My fingers work swiftly as spiders
and the words that beat in my throat
are dragonflies
She passes stories down to me
I pass words up to her
Braid her hair
It’s what she doesn’t say
that could destroy me
what she can’t say
She weeps milk
Nv-gi-ne-i Tsa-la-gi Go-whe-lv-i: U-de-nv/
FOURTH CHEROKEE LESSON: BIRTH
             Gather riverbank clay
             to make a bowl
             Fill it with hot tears
             Strap it to your back
             with spider silk
             Keep your flint knife close
             to ward off death
             and slice through umbilical cords
             Be prepared for blood
Born without a womb
I wait for the crown of fire
the point where further stretching is impossible
This birth could split me
I nudge each syllable into movement
Memorize their smells
Listen to their strange sleepy sounds
They shriek with hunger and loss
I hold them to my chest and weep milk
My breasts are filled with tears
I wrap my hair around their small bodies
a river of owl feathers
See they whisper We found you
We made a promise
This time we’ll be more careful
Not lose each other in
the chaos of slaughter
We are together at sunrise
from dust we sprout love and poetry
We are home
Greeting our ancestors
with rare and tender tongues
About Patti Digh

Patti Digh is an author, speaker, and educator who builds learning communities and gets to the heart of difficult topics. Her work over the last three decades has focused on diversity, inclusion, social justice, and living and working mindfully. She has developed diversity strategies and educational programming for major nonprofit and corporate organizations and has been a featured speaker at many national and international conferences.

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