My Name Is Wind-River

I sit in a big strange box with strange people, With only a window to the world I know. Hearing a name that is not mine: “Wind, Wind, Wind…” “Slow learner,” I hear the teachers whisper. Bring me back to the rocks of my father’s sweat lodge, I shall count them faster than these silly shapes on this paper! “Wind, Wind, Wind…” I don’t respond. My classmates laugh when I say there are 13 months, But when I start to describe over 30 different types of birds They stop laughing and leave me alone. Alone. Where I already am all the time. Surrounded by white-washed walls and American values. “Wind, Wind, Wind…” They would say now, put down the scissors. Curled lockets of my black hair cascade down around my feet. You’re making a mess, they’d say. But aren’t you happy now? My hair is cut. My culture shed. My name is Wind, which is a lie and your idea. And I’m a “slow learner,” which is a lie and your idea. As my father told me, when they look at you They mistake a basket of gifts for an empty glass.