Poem: Indian Trail in 48073

The divided up blood quantum,
Between divided up treaty territories,
Between divided up hearts,
Separated souls,
Dispersed between colonial county and state lines,

Christianity on the land,
In our governments,
Blessed the ink to sign the document,
Sign the treaty,
Sign away a culture,
A people,

As a kid I followed the remnants of this,
In a suburban town where there was an “Indian Trail,”
My Mom took me there after going to Meijer's one day,
We turned off Crooks Road in 48073,
Near the old “historic” farm houses,
Park on the side street,
And got out of the car,
We walked up the very small hill,
Between a few suburban trees,
Planted in 1964,
While the suburbs were booming and building,
Gas station and church,
Prayer and work,
Fuel and sinning,
This small spot was left for our people,
My Mom told me about this spot,
It was a small corner of a suburban lot,
There was a rock with a sign,
This was a trail of my ancestors,
On a summer day,
My Mom shares a little bit of Anishinaabe lore and legend,
We walk down that lil’ hill and back into the car,

The memory sticks with me to this day,
I thought of major roads leading out of the mega metropolis heading north to my home,
I never considered the big city of Detroit my home,
The land seemed hurt and sad,
Eager I always followed every trail I could in Southeast Michigan,
Was it an “Indian Trail,”
My peoples trail,

Then I followed that trail to the train tracks like so many of my ancestors did before,
The train tracks as a refuge,
13 year old boy-girl-tomboy-she-he-her-queer,
I knew all the viaducts,
My hands scathed the surface,
I crumble particles of paint attempting to cover graffiti from my hands,
Then hyperactively picking up and chucking a rock,
To an unknown location,
The fuse of anger,
Almost got me in trouble,
So I leap into the bushes,
Kneel down and hide,   

Like many Indian kids,
Like many Indian adults,
We ended up on a modern "Indian trail" we often called the railroad tracks,
A place to vent,
A place to connect with industrial disconnection,
A place to smoke-drink-drug,
A place to cast dreams as pennies,

When I grew up I wanted to be a train engineer,
Just like the "guy in the green hat,"
A wayfaring stranger,
An unknown,
Or was this feeling in my blood?
Because Great-Grandpa was a train engineer on the Soo Lines in the UP, 

The sunsets were beautiful,
Especially when it was time to head home,
The night birds swooping,
Bats flying about,
The train light off in the distance,
A light,
A metaphor,
To resist temptation,
To resist what so many Indian's couldn't,
To walk away and rise above,
To resist beautifully.