Poems and Hollers from a Candy Apple Indian
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Poems and Hollers from a Candy Apple Indian - Dana Lowery Ramseur
Copyright © 2021 Dana Lowery Ramseur. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN (Print): 978-1-09836-821-0
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09836-822-7
Contents
Introduction
Apples and Indians
My Father’s Poem
Whose the Elder?
What I like
Little Boys will be Big Men
Tri-Racial-Rage
My Mother’s Tears
Dark Tranquility
Who am I?
I am
Please pardon the mess
Memory Loss
Eagle in the Sky
Recipe: Collard Sandwiches and Kisses
Mama’s Hands
Breaking Up
Ancestral Ruins
Orchids
You
Your Ancestral Indian Queen
Not better, just different.
Down on the Lumbee River
Quilted Stories by Our Grandmothers
Walking near the River
Am I a Feminist…did you mean Indigenous?
Walking into a Room
When I go Home
Headstrong Child
The bird and the bees
TWO SPIRIT TATE
I told you so…
My Manifest
Period.
I am Mr. Roger’s Neighbor
INDENGINERD #music
Headstrong Lumbee Girl
Lumbee Joke for the Ladies in the House:
Childhood Minutes
GRANDPA’S ACRES
Mirror
Zeb and Barnie
Smart Class, Dumb Me
Learning to Love Flowers Again
INDENGINERD #fantasy
Strong-Lowery
Growing up
Recipe: Chow Chow Tears
In my brother’s words: Lumbee Women
In my brother’s words: Home
Shoeshine Kid
Dolan’s Words to an Anthropology Class
Evan’s Acceptance to his Passion
The journey to Alwayston
Blame
Ill as a snake
My hair
Directions Home
I don’t pray
South of the Border
No one is listening anymore.
Hushed whispers from an endangered house party on the Lumbee River
Let me
Love me Like my Demons do
See/She my world
VIETNAM: 2,398
Rain Queen
Faith, hope and love
Shooter
Bone57%Marrow
What flowers will forget:
August
An Almost Aunt
No longer Daddy’s Girl
XIII
I spy with my younger eye:
Arrows in the Earth
Dark Magic
Lessons from Math Class
Ian and Chris
Looking
Listen to silence/Sound of Silence:
Alone with So Many
Eight Elements
A purpose.
Thanksgiving with Natives
What we survived.
We and the Snowbaby
deafening silence:
Between and behind
Recipe: Chicken Bog
Beach haiku
Deep Inside
Ugly Bits
Recipe: Chicken N’ Dumplins and Being Dumped
Eras
Recipe: Snow Ice Cream
IT’S A TRAP
Recipe: Chicken and Pastry and Pain
Pinecone Patchwork
Maggie’s Quilt
Twelve Layer Chocolate Cake and Twelve Resolutions
RESOLUTIONS
What boys like, what men want.
The weight of lies
LIBRARIAN MINDED
Bless this Weather
My births mark
Save the (lum) Bees
Lumbee Warpaint
Colorism
Native Girl Problems:
Lumbrarian Witticism and other Bumper Sticker Ideas
REBEL
MY IMAGINED RHODA’S LETTERS
About Author
Dedication
To my two sons, you are all that matters.
To all of the people who have
received letters or poems from me,
you are welcome, or I am sorry.
Please know if I wrote to you,
you were symbolic in
the tapestry of my life.
Epigraph:
Every woman is a rebel.
― Oscar Wilde
Introduction
If you were to meet me for the first time, you would walk away with the confirmation that I am an extrovert. I am animated with my hands, love the feeling of words flowing out of my mouth, and my mind races to grasp the next clever line as we speak. If you truly knew me, you would realize that I’m overcompensating for how shy I may be feeling if I am talking a lot. I realized recently
I am a closeted introvert. I crave the company of others but have a tipping point of exhaustion too. I have always felt most like myself with pen and paper. This book is a collection of poems and poetry that I unearthed from my youth and some I added after reading my past voices. By revealing them to you, I once again put myself in a thrilling yet compromising position. I am also a glutton for punishment.
Apples and Indians
I never really liked apples; they always hurt my teeth, except for the ones with candy on them; those were different. I first heard the slang term when I was in elementary school visiting my cousin. There was a lot of paperwork for me to attend, and I was excited to go. I recall two things, the walls and floors were brown, like a silly putty brown, and the boys called me an Apple Indian.
They explained I talked funny, like a white girl, so I was like an apple, red on the outside but white on the inside. I never felt white; in fact, I dreamed of having hair like a white girl, the kind that is feathered and held together by Aqua-Net hairspray. I never felt white, and in fact, I feared that if someone passed me by and touched my hair, they would know that I was different, not black, but not white. The boys picked and picked on me all day long, and before the school day ended, I found a pen and wrote on the bottom of my canvas shoes, screw you
…it was my first act of defiance, and the first curse word I ever threw. On the
bus ride home, I casually put my foot across my leg
so all those boys could see the words.
I never really liked apples,
except for the ones with candy on them;
I am a Candy Apple Indian.
My Father’s Poem
As a small boy I dreamed of living in a land
other than the