Sacred Rape, a Noble Whore

The Curse (for the 50 State Tour & Solemn Assemblies)
© 2003 Randy Woodley

wasn't it 1492 when Columbus sailed the azure ocean?
salty water lapping shores separating neighbors
come into our house—there is no honor in dispelling a neighbor
but unruly neighbors are a curse and bad religion is a plague
came the call from every corner with mangled crosses and dubious preachers
came, you came to our land…our lives…our homes

"virgin land," mother earth milk & honey flowing from her breast
—you saw fences
"virgin trees," Sequoia mammoths decorating a vast green park
—you saw timber
"virgin tribes," going…gone—left from a greater civilization
—but you did not see me
land…trees…"ours" you say—and the tribes just a blight on your conscience
cut the land, cut the trees, cut the tribes…
this is the clarion christian call
rape the land, rape the trees, rape the tribes…
ignore my blood and tears when you pray

i am a red Indian, a raped virgin—you make me a "noble whore"
thrown into a dark corner with the trees, and the land, and "lost civilizations"
my spiritual reservations are the places you relegate to me compartments fit for non-human species
—churches made from acreage and board feet

good Indian—come to church, makum' god happy
good Indian get job, makum' government happy
good Indian keep quiet…subdued…silent
quietly turn your vile abuse, your bitter loss onto yourself and other bad Indians
then…you makum' everyone of us Americans...happy cause we got your land
and we got your trees
and never forget…
never, ever forget—that we got god—so we got your souls!

where do the souls of dead Indians go?
where does one go after rape and torture, robbery and slavery,
disease and holocaust?
perhaps we join the land and the trees
lingering with the spirit of Jesus on earth to curse savage christian civilizations
we die slow…but we die early and we die often
yet, we die knowing a secret that you don't even care to know
-that your land will not rest
-and your trees will make only crooked crosses
-and your children will breathe their last breathes in despair
…groping for an identity that you could not steal for them
…grasping for an honor that always eluded them
…clinching for a God…and land…and trees…and
tribes…that were never theirs

and herein is the lesson,

true gifts can't be stolen
because love takes flight where control makes its nest
and Jesus? O, Jesus…
You crucify Him anew with every sacrifice that we make to accommodate you
wasn't it 1491 when there was no haunting?

(This poem is from my friend Randy Woodley)