Success was merely a fever dream to my father, the rotten addiction blood flows through our veins, holding no restraints to the possibility of surviving past adulthood, showing its true, how one drink, becomes two, then three, then four, never to be set free from the grasp of the force that seems to enforce native blood intruding into the livelihood of my families life, the addiction that pushes me to the ledge of my mind. Yet, the definition of success can’t be reached, my identity being stretched, and the structure of my life being threshed, where my dreams are etch-a-sketched on a board, my childhood being stored there. Growing up my success relied on the scores I got and going to the reservations to help those in need, growing up to fit right in, into the “typical American” seed. I overthink to the brim of the mason jar, it breaks apart, starting to fall far from the tip of my tongue, all I hear is a silence, until my words shatters at the bottom, the realization hits, my success isn’t determined by my creative energy, or the way I convey my emotions so naturally, instead it’s determined by the scores I get on a test, If I don’t pass the tests college is merey, a story to me, just like it was for my father , why try so hard to keep my emotions in lock and key, when the reality is that my mental sanity doesn’t matter, the only thing the school seems to care about is the way I can stand in class and recite the pledge of allegiance, while the substitute teacher tries to make sense, of why I refuse to stand and recite these lies, as I stand and cry, how is America, full of freedom for all, when they pushed my people onto reservations, Americans just can’t stand sharing land with “Squaws” I walk on the cliff of my words, I tilt my foot over the open air, questioning the choices that led me there. The little voice in my head leading me to this rickety bridge. Scared the fears will slip from the tip of my tongue, I return my foot to the ground, and walk to the bridge, broken down, and unsteady. Holes in every piece of wood, So where does that leave me? digging my own grave, trying to obtain the straight A student look, to create a happy ending to my creation. The cliff under me, the idea of falling, or failing. Like my mind is free to set sail, and hear my thoughts echo a wail from the abyss But fever dreams are in my blood, and the shovel is in my hand, and yet I never know if I am going to make it out as a miracle or a mess. A Squaw’s useless success. Or a miracle considered, one of the best.
Jordan Rousseau. 11 A “Squaws” Success
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