As an Indigenous Writer, I Push and Protect My Readers, My People, and Myself

I started writing a long time ago because I, like any good Native American, needed stories to keep myself alive.

Even writing that feels like playing into a stereotype, into some kind of trope of the Indian as Myth Talker, Myth Maker. I don’t mean it that way, though. I mean it to say, we were historically forbidden our languages, our practices, our beliefs, our clothes and hair, our food and drink, so what else did we have to tether ourselves together if not orality, not stories? And, further, why do I feel as though saying Yes, stories are very important to my culture, we remember them, we tell them, we honor them is some kind of conceit, an admission of primitiveness, despite there being, what, ten thousand novels about suburban white marriages falling apart?

Whenever I think of my own writing, it is always with the fear that all the Native stories that the wider world can stomach, will stomach, have already been told. I think this is the fear for all writers from underrepresented or forcibly marginalized backgrounds—that the story we’re trying to tell won’t be read or will be passed off as some lesser imitation of a better-known work or writer from our communities. In workshops, in reviews, in interactions, I’ve heard it spoken or implied: Be silent; it’s been said before.

In my young career, I’ve also continually grappled with the fear that whatever I write is not just a reflection upon me but a reflection upon my tribe and culture. That no matter what I write I am still a Native writer and what I write about Natives, if it’s read, shapes what people think of my people, their fears and doubts, their lives, their sacrifices. It’s in these circumstances that I feel the pressure to explain, to disclose my thoughts and my motivations, to explain again—to do it as many times as I need to to stave off misinterpretation. I hear: Say more.

I don’t have any firm answers, nor am I trying to make a universally known edict. However, I do hope this essay, through illustrating my fears, burdens, and syntactical and stylistic decisions, will help other BIPOC writers not only ask if their work is responsibly done but also consider to whom they might imagine themselves responsible. (Hint: I’m responsible to and only to my people.) I hope to also assuage some of the guilt they might have about the work itself and provide some clarity on what I do when I feel stuck in a moment, in my personal relationship with the work.

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Whenever I see a new book by an Indigenous author, my first instinct is always happiness. For them, for us. Then, the panicky thoughts set in: Am I too late? Has my time finally expired? How could I have been so stupid? I hate this feeling. It plays into a capitalistic mindset, one that preaches, If my brother is at the table and eating, then there will be no food left for me. It makes me feel separate from the Indigenous community at large. I do not wish to see my fellow Indigenous writers as competition. I wish to instead see them as proof, real and concrete, that we have and will do it. To see them otherwise is a symptom of a much-deeper problem in publishing and our American society.

The words of Native authors have surrounded me, molded me, and taught me for the majority of my life. I am grateful to them in a way that goes beyond words. I am thinking specifically about the writing of Louise Erdrich, Joy Harjo, Leslie Marmon Silko, Terese Marie Mailhot, Tommy Orange, ................... , and Vine Deloria Jr. I’ve needed their words and continue to do so, and yet I fear that their words somehow invalidate and lessen my own. This is not a self-produced fear, but one that comes from the burden placed upon Native writers by the writing establishment, by MFA programs and award committees, by low-balled advances that say We already have one of those, why do we need another? My identity is my gift, a blessing, but it is also the thing used by others to pigeonhole me, to make me feel as though there is not enough space for me in all the wide world. Because, in truth, there will probably never be a time that I am not seen by publishers, agents, academia, and the like through the lens of my identity.

Once, after discussing a piece of mine in a small workshop, a white woman said, Yeah, you talk about “your culture” A LOT.

I said, Oh. Oh. Well. It’s important to me.

It seemed then that I was taking up too much space. It was becoming uncomfortable to those around me that did not, and could not, possess my identity. Other times, to not talk about my culture, to not brief others on it, to not intervene before misunderstanding could occur, becomes a grave misstep. How am I supposed to know which of these binaries—silence, explanation—people want from me? And when?

I will always be a Native writer, not just a writer. This is a gift, yes, to be seen for what I am, but also a burden, one that at times feels too heavy to carry.

One of the ways I have helped alleviate this burden is to be very responsible about my work. There is no part of me that doesn’t realize that this is, fundamentally, unfair. That to be able to write about anything and everything without fear or much consequence is a privilege, one I will probably never obtain. Still, I have empowered myself by thinking of the work as important, as something that has to be carefully done, something honorable.

I will always be a Native writer, not just a writer. This is a gift, yes, to be seen for what I am, but also a burden, one that at times feels too heavy to carry.

I felt this most profoundly in an article I wrote for Atlas Obscura, “In Search of the Origins of Native American Grave Houses in Oklahoma.” I was very aware of the delicate nature of the topic and the ways in which I would have to be very careful to not reveal too much, a difficult task in an article meant to be illuminating (but again, illuminating for whom?). In preparation for the piece, I conducted a series of interviews with tribal members, elders, and the like. I focused heavily on the experiences of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, a tribe historically connected to one of my own, the Yuchi. To write the essay responsibly, carefully, honorably, I made sure to be in conversation with other Native people.

My nonfiction writing is at its best when it is collaborative. However, collaboration for many writers, for many Native writers, isn’t possible. This can be for a variety of reasons: illness, death, closed practices, deep familial wounds, or a lack of understanding on why one would want to reveal when so much has already been taken. What, then, do we do when our modes of reaching out are cut off?

We turn inward, to our specific writing choices and the way these choices impact our work. In this case, the syntactic and stylistic decision that is most helpful for me is that of the redaction.

Redactions function in several ways in my work, but they often take on the modes of protection and pushing. In protection mode, they work to conceal the identity of people close to me, or people I would rather not pull through the mud with me, or people I would rather the reader not know about. In pushing mode, I use blacked-out text to make readers figure out the blank space for themselves and/or push them into an uncomfortable liminal space, spaces that I (as an author and a human being) must make my home. In other words, redactions can be both silence and explanation, but they function purely on my own terms and for my audience, my community.

Redactions are exemplified in my essay “Life and Death in Strawberry Land,” which deals with the death of my father, my hometown, and the people within that place.

In protection mode:

Once the Washington Post article goes live, however, there is pushback, there is outrage. From the community leaders, the tribe, my  ...................  coworker’s sister’s husband. The study is flawed. The study is skewed. The Cherokee Nation works hard to correct the moniker, but it sticks. There are problems—pervasive, societal, systemic, influenced by race, and yes, the places we live—but they can’t be told by just numbers. Strawberry Land is still at the bottom, but not as far as they thought.

In pushing mode:

It’s my turn to tell this story, so you will listen. In this next dream, ................... ................... ................... ................... .

Both examples can be inferred upon, but protection mode is usually the easier to guess at, which makes it serve its purpose well. It is not my intention to confuse the reader, nor shock them, only to make them understand that what I reveal is my decision, and theirs, and that to keep something from the audience is not bad writing but simply a device, a tool to use and discard at will.

To be a ................... writer is to hold oneself, and one’s culture, up to scrutiny. I lay bare what has been ignored, willfully misunderstood, or, sometimes, systemically repressed. My work is an attempt, like all writing, and it is one I must undertake with careful consideration and responsibility, something that is not always true for other writers.

However, this does not mean that my and other Native writers’ writing cannot be playful, fun, or free. It does not mean that we have to sacrifice or give more, causing ourselves more anguish for the sake of being published, recognized. It only means that this is where we are in the present moment, and we deserve to be read and heard and held, just like anyone else. And, until the day comes where structural inequities are undone, are spoken about in ways that aren’t conjecture, and reparations are given, we will keep writing. We will write for our cultures, people, tribes, and the like, but we will also write for ourselves.

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