I didn't know what he meant
the day he gave me that name.
My skin much too pale to be Indian,
I was busy trying to find the lie,
was it in my skin? 1/8 of
a culture didn't seem enough,
and I didn't know I could
claim it as mine.
Secretly I wondered, though,
back in the sheltered arms of Caucasia
what it meant, really meant,
to be Crazy Eye, Steady Hand.
My mind imagined Pocahontas.
I was still in the mothers war
for daughters pretty enough
to be princesses.
This knowledge an orphan in my head
pure in its truth, and yet lacking
the guidance it was meant to be
nestled in. The stories that give
meaning to words, to names
and the culture that knew me in
just one man, about five minutes,
and four words.
