Notes on My Present and Past
After Natalie Scenters-Zapico
With Statements From Century of Dishonor from Helen Hunt Jackson 1881
I made a pact with myself, to speak more joy,
to fill the hollow of myself with juncus and Elderberry
Wanting to become something ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Considerable
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀numbers of these Indians
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀are also to be found on the outskirts
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀of white settlements, as at Riverside,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ San Bernardino, or in the colonies
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀in the San Gabriel Valley.
Call me Unamerican or UltraAmerican
as I learn new words that are really old words
I seek the weft and warp of myself. But not the
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ they live like gypsies in brush huts, here
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀to-day, gone to-morrow, eking out a miserable
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ existence by days’ works, the wages of
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ which are too often spent for whiskey
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀in the village saloons.
I have unraveled the shame
from bone, unloomed myself.
Will not hide family, who soaked
their tongues in alcohol, a burn to
something that tastes sweet
enough to mistake it for freedom.
We do not forget:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ From tract after tract of such lands
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ they have been driven out, year by year,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ by the white settlers of the country, until
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ they can retreat no farther; some of their villages
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ being literally in the last tillable spot
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ on the desert’s edge
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ or in mountain fastnesses.
Within Father’s family lives a canyon,
without deed or treaty. A history we plant
within us. Rid ourselves
of the invasive, the thorny thistle–
replant deerweed and sage. Remark on
how this cleft housed us whole. Remember:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Southern California to-day many fertile valleys,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ which only thirty years ago were like garden spots
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ with these same Indians’ wheat-fields, orchards,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ and vineyards. Now, there is left in these valleys no
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ trace of the Indians’ occupation, except
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ the ruins of their adobe houses;
We track the traces–
point out our marks even when
books erase our names. Father can
not find the entrance–But somehow,
we know the way; we write our own
books. Cousins weave
baskets. Knot the first spirals.
Buds of re-birth. And
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ the Government cannot justify
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ this neglect on the plea of ignorance.
the name for rainbow
in Spanish is Arcoı́ris–the arch
and iris, named for the goddess of
peace. I do not refute this beauty but
treasure the ability to say: aswiin tokuupra–
there is a flower in heaven.
All The Tongva Words I Learn Are Poems
After Michelle Peñaloza
Shiraaw1 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ this language sleeps like our rivers. Slow to awaken.
Netoongen2 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ a cave of longing. My mouth opens
Tamaavet3 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀enter the magic, growing something powerful.
Tepoo’4 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the bitter spills out. A sour drought of grief.
Shúyyok5 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you see how I now bloom?
Woyoot6 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I learn new names–the first beings, our beginnings.
Paahavet7 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ waiting so long for my morning star, a direction.
Shyee8 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I lean my body toward healing. Each word the smallest cure.
Tehoovet9 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ the first word that comes easily is good. A good day. Good job.
che’eevet10 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ I am good. It sings in me, this place. I try mapping it. Ask
‘Wiishmenok11 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ is it love or desire to want the wanting?
Yaraarkomokne12 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ trying to remember each new word; puzzle a sentence into joy
Honuukvetam13 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ so my ancestors will hear my voice
Tokuupar14 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ singing toward sky, a heaven where blue & green are the same word.
1Language
2My mouth
3Magic
4Bitter
5Bloom
6First being to die, a god
7Morning star
8Cure/heal
9Good
10Singing place
11Love/like/want
12I remember
13Ancestors
14Heaven/sky
Casandra López is a California Indian (Tongva/Luiseño/Cahuilla) and Chicana writer who has received support from CantoMundo, Bread Loaf, and Tin House. She is the author of the poetry collection Brother Bullet and has been selected for residencies with Storyknife, Hedgebrook, and Headlands Center for the Arts. Her memoir-in-progress, A Few Notes on Grief, was granted a 2019 James W. Ray Venture Project Award. She teaches at UC San Diego.