I am afraid of that deceptive face
handsome dark-eyed intelligent
in structure a sheep’s face or a camel’s
with an animal’s acceptance and dignity
that masks a cruel soul I have seen before
but even more of that melodic voice
a deep and long-vowelled cello song oozing
through a beige throat draped by long folds of skin
two knobs at its fearsome base, and to its
menacing and oddly tuneful hypnotic beat
“Linda LeGarde” I rise as learned the hard way
to stand at the right side of the desk
eyes front straight ahead face to face with Miss Shawn
chilled by the meter of that voice
my left hand touching home, my desk
fixed and stable, warm wood with floral iron grillwork
a trellis passage to the tranquility and safety
of sitting behind the boy who blocks her view of me
but I have risen now and stand exposed
eyes front straight ahead face to face with Miss Shawn.
“Your family is Indian. What tribe are you people from?”
And while above thirty-three other iron-trellised desks
pale faces turn to watch the glare of my misery
curious and glad it’s not them, at the thirty-fourth desk
the other Indian child in class looks away,
sympathic and sorry it’s my turn. He knows;
he’s had more than his share. I stand
exposed and in need of cover
try not to look afraid
eyes front straight ahead face to face with Miss Shawn
and can’t look down, that’s not allowed
as she takes two steps and I can’t help it
my eyes drop and I can see it all so clearly.
Brown leather teacher shoes with chunky heels. Two extra
pairs on the shelf by her desk. Brown teacher dress, chunky
pin over the left breast. More teacher dresses gray beige
maroon in her closet at home. Teacher car in the parking
lot, tan Chevy with tan upholstery. It has a spare key and
a spare tire. She’s never had a flat. Never run out of gas.
Her house is large and everybody sleeps in beds. Her garden
is for decoration with no pit for burning trash. When she gets
bored she talks about these things and sometimes her college
days, spent on the moon for all I understand what she’s
talking about.
My uncle, who went to Indian school awhile and got left
behind. My uncle, kinder more decent certainly smarter and
more interesting than Miss Shawn. My brothers and sisters
who would have to have Miss Shawn for sixth grade after me.
My dad teaching us kids the most important word in the
Chippewa language, migwech. Indians. Chippewas. Visiting
joking laughing. My aunt setting her mother’s hair.
“Nindaanis, are them pincurls good and tight?”
“So tight, Ma, you won’t be able to shut your eyes.”
My cousin, who got slapped by his teacher for not speaking.
Timmy, the other Indian child in class, getting slapped
by Miss Shawn for smiling during singing time. Miss Shawn.
I don’t want to tell her.
Exposed, I look for shelter with a lie.
“Navajo.”
“Oh. NAH vuh ho.” Amazingly, she says
that I may sit down. And I have survived
unharmed, to take my place again behind
the boy who blocks her view of what I see.
It’s not such a bad day at school, after all.