– Hi, everybody.

[crowd murmuring]

Hi, I’m Kristin Gilpatrick, I’m the marketing manager of the Wisconsin Historical Society Press. We’re really excited to be in Omro tonight. And to celebrate the publication of one of Omro’s own authors, Louis V. Clark III, Two Shoes. We call him Louis Clark, more formally, but I think around here he’s known more as Louie, if I’m not mistaken. And I’d like to just thank everyone for coming today. And to thank the Carter Memorial Public Library for hosting us, and also thank PBS Wisconsin, Wisconsin Public Television, now PBS Wisconsin, for being a partner in this, and coming to do what we help the Wisconsin Historical Society, of which the press is a part, to do what it does best, which is collect, preserve, and share Wisconsin history, and that’s what we’re here to do tonight, is to share part of Wisconsin history. And PBS Wisconsin is helping us to share it statewide, which we really appreciate. And I just want to say what an honor it is to introduce to you, longtime Omro resident, an Oneida Indian author and poet, Louis V. Clark III, also known as Two Shoes. Born and raised on the Oneida Indian Reservation in northeastern Wisconsin, Louie turned to poetry to continue the oral tradition of his community, the People of the Standing Stone. He is a member of the Iroquois Confederacy and of the Bear Clan.

And his writing has earned him a fellowship from the Oneida Nation Arts Program and an award from the Wisconsin Arts Board, among many other accolades. In his breakout memoir, which won a Midwestern Book Publishers Association Choice Award, How to Be an Indian in the 21st Century, Louis shared his life story in plain-spoken but profound prose and verse. Now we have published his follow-up as well, Rebel Poet: More Stories from a 21st Century Indian. In it, he takes a deeper, more nuanced look at the similar themes reflecting on the pain of discrimination and addiction, the struggle to maintain one’s cultural heritage, and the comfort of family and community. In a recent rave review of Rebel Poet in the Isthmus, Jay Rath called Louis “extremely clever and careful, a spell-binder, “calling the reader into a dream state. ” I’m so excited for him to share these wonderful stories with you today, and we are very honored to be part of the team that has brought him here. So please help me in welcoming Omro’s own, Louis Clark.

[audience applauding] [woman cheering]

– Oh, thank you, thank you. Thank you, thank you very much. Wow, how can I, I don’t even know if I can compete with that introduction, but when she said that I was part of the history, it was last Halloween when I was trick-or-treating with my son’s family, who’s in the back, Jordan, he’s a teacher up in Omro, and everybody was calling out, “Mr. Clark, Mr. Clark,” and I realized they weren’t calling me anymore, and I realized that I am history in Omro. [audience laughing] 40 years ago I left my home, our home to go to college. I had a plan, but life got in the way, and now 40 years later, I have returned to our homeland. This lacrosse stick was given to me a few weeks ago by a young man who said that I was always looked up to for standing up for myself in high school. I thought that the only one who noticed that I took a stand was the principal, who I visited so often in his office. The young man is now 60 years old, and it is an honor to be remembered.

Before I start, I’d like to invite everyone up to Oneida, my new, old home to visit. Go to the Oneida website and come for Apple Fest, or Harvest Fest next fall, it is just a wonderful experience, one which you will never forget. Or come and visit any of our other community projects. You are always welcome up in Oneida. I like to begin by letting my audience know just what a great life I’ve had. We live in a great time and a great country, no matter what, bottom line, we are truly blessed as a people. Personally, from where I started, I can’t say enough about indoor plumbing and hot water. [audience laughing] And recently, during one of these talks, I was privileged to meet a woman who many years ago secured a grant to bring indoor plumbing to the Bad River Reservation, showing just how important simple things are that we just take for granted. And as I’ve aged, I’ve come to understand that home is where our stories come from. I’ve been lucky, Oneida’s my home where I was born, when in 1984 we, my wife Debbie and I, came to Omro, Wisconsin and raised our family.

So we have two homes and I have many stories. I’ve done, my family’s done many things in life, many things in Omro: library board, church boards, sports, teaching, everything that a small town should be, but mostly we’ve been involved with baseball forever with no end in sight. It started in 1984 with Mr. Franzke and my oldest son Louis. I coached youth baseball for 19 years, aided by a multitude of helpers, parents, and ball players. But most notably my wife, who did the books for me. And she kept the dugout calm. And because I always called her “honey,” the kids started to call her Coach Honey. So after a conference with my family, 6 kids, 14 grandchildren, 4 spouses, and one gonna-be-spouse, it’s been voted that I start with my poem, “Little League Pitcher. ” “I’m the greatest little league pitcher “Of that there is no doubt “I’ve never had a batter “Who could ever hit one out “Though I never throw no-hitters “It’s just not what I do “I lay the ball in easy “They hit it where I want them to “I’m the greatest little league pitcher “Of that there is no doubt “My fastball is like lightning “My change-up like a drought “I never throw a curve ball “I don’t think that it’s a charm “And very few pro players “Make it with just one arm.

“I’m the greatest little league pitcher “Of that there is no doubt “If a batter acts like Babe Ruth “I simply strike them out “But if I see the batter “Really has no chance “I throw the ball and I hit the bat “And watch the runner dance “I’m the greatest little league pitcher “Of that there is no doubt “Whenever I walk out on the field “My family stands to shout “They think it’s really pretty cool “They think it’s kind of nifty “To see their Dad in little league “Although he’s over sixty. ” [audience laughing] Hello, or more appropriately, Shekoli! My name is Louis V. Clark, as you know, I am a storyteller, I am a poet. I come from two great peoples. My father’s people came from Poland. My mother’s people were the Haudenosaunee, the People of the Longhouse. In 1834, more than 700 of my relations left New York on foot. They journeyed more than 1,000 miles to Green Bay, Wisconsin. My father’s people traveled even further seeking freedom. I live in two worlds.

I was born and raised on the Oneida reservation of Wisconsin. I am a member of the Oneida Nation, the People of the Standing Stone. Onayoteak. And you have to forgive my pronunciations, I am just now learning my language. I was given stories as a child. And I’ve discovered, not without a fight, that stories become foundations. I’ve also learned negatives in life, if worn with honor, can be something worth having, giving us wisdom and giving us strength. Welcome, and thank you for coming. During the past eight years, I’ve had the opportunity to speak to many people, from many different demographics. And one reoccurring theme that I’ve heard is that people see something in what I am sharing.

And they like to see more. Some people have even shared that they’d like to see my writing in a more usual fashion. I don’t know if can do that, write in the usual fashion. I wasn’t raised in the usual fashion, I didn’t live my life in the usual fashion. I had stories; I feel as though I’ve always written, or at least formed stories in my head and sometimes put them on paper. I started writing poetry in the sixth grade, after hearing “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” by Longfellow. “One if by land, two if by sea “And I on the opposite shore shall be. ” And then the poem “If” by Kipling. “If you can fill the unforgiving minute “With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, “Yours is the world and everything that’s in it, “And–which is more– you’ll be a Man, my son!” And sometimes in my younger days, I would attempt to share these writings. Stories, poems if you will; I would end up being embarrassed, sometimes laughed at, so I hid my writings, but I didn’t stop writing.

And sixth grade boys who write poetry and are foolish enough to share it, they get beat up a lot. Now humbly speaking, the good Lord, the creator, brought many good people into my life. Most notably, my wife Debbie. She believed in me, and she let me work things out in my own time. There was my high school teacher Bruce Sanders, who said that I could write. There was the union, which ensured I would get fair pay and a chance to advance to higher-paying jobs to take care of my family, but not without a fight. And slowly, I did advance to where I had put, had my own crew; we were in charge of drainage of all county, state, and municipal roads in our area. But the shadows that followed me always raised questions. How would I succeed? Thankfully, I had great people working for me. Zim, J-burg, Rick, Chickie, Crazy, Joe, and Swamper, better known as Leroy, good blue-collar, heavy equipment operating men.

We marked each cross culvert that we installed with a poem and each of our names in a plastic time capsule. They all seemed to like the fact that maybe one day we’ll all be remembered, and let me tell you, hard working blue-collar men never complain about going back to work after a break or lunch if you start reading poetry to them. [audience laughing] Their favorite poem, which they had me read to any new crew member who would be assigned to us from time to time, or any new management personnel that happened to venture into the shop, the poem was called “Drunken Cow. ” It’s based on a true story, but remembering all good stories are partly truth and partly fiction. This poem is from my first chapbook, “Drunken Cow. ” “I went down to the canning factory “Sitting on the edge of town “Where they pick up all the corn “And sell it all year round “They tear off the stalks, the leaves and the cobs “Then they throw that all away “So the farmers come and pick it up “And feed it just like hay “Drunken cow “It sits there in the noon day sun “Until it’s raw and ripe “I never smelled anything that bad “Not even pickled tripe “Still the farmers go and gather it in “On the checkbook it makes no dent “They stuff it in the storage bin “And leave it to ferment “Drunken cow “Now cats and rats and mice and dogs “They won’t touch them a drop “But to Bessy and Bossy and all their friends “It’s become their favorite crop “They gather together underneath a tree “And munch it all the day “I do believe it’s a coming trend “For a cow to join AA “Drunken cow “I feed to to my cows and then “They grin from ear to ear “They stagger round and some fall down “Upon their derriere “I tell you this it ain’t no joke “Though some call it a spoof “I put up with these crazy cows “‘Cause their milk is 90 proof. ” [audience laughing] In 2010, I read an advertisement in the newspaper, it said, “If you write, send us some samples. ” Here I have to give credit and accolades to the Oneida Arts Department, Beth, and the Oneida tribe which had, over the years, sponsored publications that allowed many of us to see our work in print and keep the artistic spark burning in our souls. And I wanna thank the Omro Herald. I wrote baseball and basketball stories for many years, and they published every one.

It made me feel like my writing was important. And notice, the Omro colors in the tie? And the socks? [audience chuckling] So I sent in five poems to the address in the newspaper and they didn’t ask for money, but they did ask for more poems. Then I was lucky enough to come in contact with a Mr. James Parins from the University of Arkansas. He requested more poems, and finally offered to publish a poetry chapbook of my writings, sponsored by the Sequoia National Research Center. Here it is, here it is, here it is. It’s called Two Shoes, and I asked, “What’s the catch?” He said the catch was I would now have to go out and share my poetry. So the first thing that we did, my wife and I, was to go to town, and purchase this jacket with elbow patches on it. [audience laughing] I at least wanted to look the part. Well, now I had my name on a book, which seemed important at the time, and I attended open mics and shared two or three poems at each venue.

And soon, thanks to family and friends, I was being asked to do 20 minute readings. Then through a series of circumstances, thank you Ruth from the Oshkosh Library and a group of high school kids in Berlin, I began doing readings that lasted an hour or more. The speech with the high school kids actually went for two and one half hours, with all the questions that they had. Don’t worry, I won’t talk that long here. [audience laughing] Excuse me. Then one day in 2014, I received an invitation to do a reading at the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Annual Convention. And like an idiot, I almost turned down the chance because my youngest son was pitching that afternoon for a Lawrence University baseball game. The WFOP worked it out so that I could do the speech and not miss the game, but I did miss dinner. One of my fellow poets approached me after the speech and said that I should turn my speech into a book, so I did. Then I gave a speech to the Omro Kiwanis Club, and they said that I should send my book to the Wisconsin Historical Society Press, the oldest press publishing company in Wisconsin.

The Society requested a meeting, and after a series of unfortunate events– If you’ve ever been to State Street, has everybody been to, at the end of State Street, they don’t have a normal curb, it’s like a smooth curb. Well, the GPS lady said to turn right, so I did. And I drove through the UW-Madison campus on the sidewalk; less traffic there, food vendors on each side of the car, but the GPS took me right to the parking spot. Then I met Kate, who informed me that the Society does not accept poetry manuscripts. I was standing there like the Make America Beautiful Again Indian, with one tear coming down my cheek, when Kate and Cathy, the bosses, said that they liked my manuscript, How to Be an Indian in the 21st Century. They said they could hear my voice and that I was saying something important. They said that they would like to publish it. Then Cathy winked at me and said, “But don’t quit your day job. ” Here’s the book. It’s won a couple of awards and. . .

Tom and Dixie, two of my friends from Oshkosh who write, they did an interview for me on television called Author’s Corner and they won an award for it, and the Oneida Arts Department awarded us a fellowship. A curriculum for teaching the book has been developed by the Historical Society, and some elementary, high schools, and even colleges are using it in their classrooms. So I went around giving speeches, explaining how I learned that I was an Indian. And this is how many of us learned that we were Indians ’cause I was talking to my cousins and this from the book, How to Be an Indian in the 21st Century, it’s called “First Grade Lessons. ” “I was flat on my back getting hit in the face “When a young man informed me, what was my race “I was bleeding and crying but I couldn’t agree “I didn’t look like anything I saw on TV “I didn’t have a pony “I only had a cat “My Daddy didn’t wear a loincloth, thank god for that “I never smoked a peace pipe “Or burned someone at the stake “I was just a little kid “Oh, for heaven’s sakes “We thought that we were people, my relatives and I “Living, breathing human beings until the day we die “But religion called us savages, heathens if you will “They paint our face as mascots, “like animals that you kill “That’s the way it always is “The way it’s always been “But what about this Jesus “What color was his skin?” Excuse me. Some day, one of my great-grandchildren may say that my mother was Indian princess. She was special, but she was all too human. When the Greatest Generation came back from World War II, she was pushed to the back of the bus because she was a woman.

And because she was an Indian, she began to disappear. She won an award from Mrs. Roosevelt for her art during World War II and. . . And she played baseball, real baseball, like A League of Her Own during World War II, so I wrote this poem for her, it’s called “1944. ” “I wish that I would have known you “Back in 1944 “When dreams lay all before you “Life was knocking at your door “When mundane moments of memory “Were orchids bursting into bloom “I wish that I would’ve known you “But glory fades too soon “I saw your pretty picture “I heard your many stories “Vested fully in your prime “You reached for greater glory “Eleanor came from Washington “To acknowledge your talent in art “And baseball, like a league of your own “Earned a place within my heart “Your beauty was more than youth “With your catlike eyes of gray “Childlike innocence filled your soul “When you led your children to pray “Once upon a time “Before dreams crashed to the floor “I wish that I would have known you “Back in 1944. ” She married my father in Chicago in 1945 on a three-day leave. I had my first published book published in 2016, the same year that the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. [audience laughing] Coincidence, I think not. [audience laughing]

Actually, you don’t know how hard that is to work into a speech. [audience laughing] My father passed away while deer hunting; it was a blessing. When my daughter returned from Afghanistan, the white hairs are what I developed while she was there, she researched his World War II records. His ships came under enemy fire 42 times and he qualified for the Bronze Star, and he never told anyone. You take a strong woman, whose dreams are crushed, and a man dealing with the horrors of war. Well, little boys don’t understand grown up rules and problems. Maybe I’m still a little boy because I still don’t understand. I wrote this poem called “1960. ” “His and hers Kimonos “A muumuu for my Mom “Nixon wants the White House “Khrushchev has the bomb “Dino’s drinking every night “Singing words of love “Crouching low beneath my desk “Are bombs falling from above? “Tasting crackers that had no taste “Race riots in the South “Headed to Chicago on an oleo run “Daddy said shut your mouth “The fool he won’t notice “The smart man he won’t say “Friday night piano lessons “‘My Bonnie’ rolled away “Gin inside the goblets “Whiskey in the den “Momma tasted brandy “A nightmare now and then “Everything’s laughs and giggles “It was all for fun “No one was supposed to be hurt “Till we came undone “Sometimes the sound of a little slap “Echoes through the years “Haunting generations “Wrapped in bitter tears “The gossip of a Christian lady “Who didn’t know love at all “Made spectral shadows in my life “And happiness I can’t recall. ” Shortly after the release of How to Be an Indian, a young lady from the Menominee College came to interview me.

Her upbringing and my upbringing were quite similar, with the alcoholism and abuse that we each had to endure. She asked me if I’d change the way I was raised if I could; I laughed [laughs] and I said I’d change it in a minute. She seemed quite put out with me, as she declared that all she was was because of her upbringing. I hearken back to my childhood, watching television families, Leave It To Beaver and The Brady Bunch. They seemed like they loved each other, and they drank milk out of crystal water glasses. We drank out of plastic Tupperware glasses, so I wrote this poem called “Crystal Water Glasses. ” “Would ya, would ya, she said “I mean, if you could, you know “Change the way, no alcohol, no abuse, you were raised “Standing there, all five feet of her “A coal black braid hanging to her waist “Defiantly she spoke, I am what I am “By the way I was raised “In a minute, in a second, I screamed “Like a taser came my voice “I’d walk with Wally everyday, someone whistling in the sky “I’d drink milk, crystal water glasses “Go to the movies Saturday afternoon “Instead of sitting in the tavern “Waking to hear breakfast cooking, no sobbing in the hall “In a minute, in a second, “I’d have two brothers, three step-sisters “I’d throw the football to hit the oldest in the nose “Coming home, Alice, pouring milk, crystal water glasses “Mom and Dad would love each other “In a minute, in a second “And home would be a safe place. ” I also learned that crystal water glasses don’t last very long ’cause we break them all the time. [audience chuckling] Somehow or another the How to Be An Indian must be doing all right. I submitted another manuscript; they accepted.

I was interviewed on National Public Radio, which was interesting as it originated in Boston, the interviewer was in Albuquerque, and the show was in Anchorage, Alaska I believe. And the interviewer called me a “Rebel Poet. ” Maybe that is what I am. Some in the poetry establishment have called my work raw, but it is mine and I share it with you. The book is called Rebel Poet, and I didn’t get to do this cover so, I hope you like it. When I was born, Indians were disappearing. It was the whole, like the whole world was a giant magician and they put a piece of cloth over the United States and said, “Abracadabra,” and poof, now you see us, and now you don’t. Television was the new thing and cowboy shows ruled the airwaves. No one wanted to be an Indian. Dad loved the cowboy shows, John Wayne and any movie having to do with World War II.

We had a . 30-30 rifle that was similar to the gun that Lucas McCain from the show The Rifleman used. Dad loved that show; it was about a man, his son, and his gun. Dad would get out his . 30-30 and demonstrate how he could cock that firing mechanism just like they did on the television show. Years later, I too mastered this technique, so I was destined to be a hunter. Around 1960 at about four, five years old, I received the toy plastic . 30-30 rifle that shot a spring-loaded bullet. I don’t think that rifle lasted me ’til noon on Christmas Day. However, I did just show just how good my aim was.

For this poem, I want to thank an Omro baseball coach called Mr. Swanger, who put together a writing group called Wrenchie. Each week, a poet writes a poem and the next poet has to use the last line of the preceding poem to create something new. I created this poem, it’s called “1961 Lucas McCain’s Son. ” “I’ll never forget “the tiny gold stars “Dad flung over “the Christmas tree branches “how they streamed to the floor “making the carpet glisten. “I’ll never forget “that beautiful mess “open boxes “strewn about “packing tissue exploding “like lava pumping “from volcanoes of joy “and I “too young for midnight mass “five years old “with teenage sisters “sentenced to ‘be quiet’ “as the house slept “I cradled “my new . 30-30 Mattel Winchester “plastic-carved trophy “with Chuck Connor’s handle “a ‘chip off the old block’ “groomed to hunt “groomed to stalk “french fries, candy, sisters. “Hidden inside “tree branch camo “Mother came down the steps “(discretion was the better part of valor) “Christmas dinner noises “called out to Dad “he too “passed through “the danger zone “My oldest sister “who bought doughnuts “on Saturday mornings “earned her safety “The quarry, younger sister “eight years my senior “who watch American Bandstand “and denied me Mickey Mouse “came down rubbing her eyes “aim, trigger, hammer “MOTHER! “. 30-30 rifle gone. “Lectures, punishment “But did Dad smile “at his son’s accuracy?” [audience laughing] I was left to myself most of the time.

I had a doll, one arm missing and one eye gone. But it was mine, in fact, it was me. I had a dog that was more of a hindrance to my exploring than a companion bent on getting into the same type of trouble. Cookie was the dog’s name, and she never let me wander too close to trouble. She’d always push me away; she was my babysitter. Except when my sisters were home. They always had me play hide and seek. I’d always hide, but they’d never seek. They convinced me that I was the greatest hide and seek player of all time. But then I was sent off to school.

I’m sure that the teachers didn’t mean to burden their one student who didn’t know that he was different. I was taught that Columbus came to the country to save the heathen savages. Which was fine, until the day that I learned that the heathen savages were me. First, the shocking news that I was an Indian and then the truths revealed upon the playground that I was a stupid Indian, or a stupid Polack, and this was before Archie Bunker. My mom always told me that I was special, and that I was to treat those kids as special because they weren’t as special as me. This logic still tends to confuse me. My dad taught me about World War II and the Nazis and the Final Solution of Hitler. I was supposed to be big and strong and willing to fight for what was right. But it is hard and scary when you think you know what is right and nobody seems to want to stand by your side. Plus, if you ain’t tough enough, you end up getting hurt.

I wrote this poem called “What about God. ” “Just a little bit of quiet “In a world made of noise “No one would even notice “Boys just being boys “There’s always someone different “At least or so it seems “The first thing they take from you “Is you spirit, then your dreams. “It starts as just a whisper “A snicker or a groan “That finds you “in a crowed place “Feeling all alone “The unrepentant comment “That leaves you just confused “Is this really happening? “Am I being abused? “Inside you feel a pain “Nowhere for you to turn “Afraid to stand up for yourself “Afraid that you’ll get burned “One bad apple in the bowl “Can spoil the whole bunch “And if you’re looking different “You’re sure to take a punch. “No one cares to believe you “You think that it’s quite odd “That people can be so hurtful “And still believe in God “You take in all their actions “Their will that’s known as free “You question their belief in God “But does God believe in me?” I did spend a lot of time thinking. My dad always had the Wold War II stories about the concentration camps and the evil that happened around the world. I was told over and over and over again about how to be a good Christian. I would have to humble myself, all the saints humbled themselves. I didn’t understand, especially in third grade. And I always heard of people finding Jesus as though he was lost. I couldn’t understand being led to slaughter without putting up a fight, so I wrote this poem explaining just how I believed at the time, it’s called “Third-Grade Religion. ”

“I guess I’m not the brightest candle “Burning in the church “My flame is bouncing all around “I stumble in my search “Many things I don’t understand “Though all things have a cost “Then to find that my Lord Jesus “Would infer that he was lost? “Then to suffer, what does it mean? “Is pain a prerequisite “To enter heaven on my knees “And at his right hand sit “I’m perplexed when given thought “On how I must be humbled “I’m a man, on feet I’ll stand “In third grade this I mumbled. ” I guess I had an arrogance about me. I’d stand up tall and get knocked down over and over again. Someone said of me, “He always thinks he’s right,” and I couldn’t argue with that. I knew that I was often wrong, but whenever I attempted something, said something, or did something, by gosh I did always think that I was right. If I didn’t think that I was right, I hope and I pray that I wouldn’t attempt, do, or say what I did. Then I got older and I inherited a black walnut tree. When autumn comes, my black walnut tree releases the fruits of its labor, again, and again, over and over for weeks, or so it seems. One day, I counted 1,200 walnuts that I picked up. Which leads to the question, “What type of idiot would count all those black walnuts?” I get everything picked up and splosh, more hit the ground, and I hear God in that beautiful old black walnut tree.

He does have a sense of humor, as I realize that I’m not in control. Yes, I could cut down the tree, but then I’d lose something beautiful. So I humbly pick black walnuts day after day, knowing that he gave me this tree as a metaphor for life. And showing me that I can only do what I can do. I don’t have control in this life. Still, I’ll always attempt to stand up for what’s right. I added these words to the poem, “What About God. ” “Can I stand tall against this wind? “Can I on my journey stay? “A humble soul to right some wrongs “For this, on knee, I pray!” As a human being, I knew that I was supposed to stand for something, I probably did a lot of stupid things, said things that I shouldn’t have, got into fights that I shouldn’t have, and probably hurt people when I should have known better. I wrote this poem, “Playground Bully” about a certain individual who, for a time, enjoyed using my head as a trampoline. Someone would grab me from behind and hold me down while this individual jumped up and down with his knee on my head.

This may explain a lot about my thought process that I consider a great sense of humor. I just hope and pray that in my need, my never-ending fight to fit in, that I never became that bully. I know that I crossed boundaries now and then, but I owe a debt of gratitude to the bullies that beat me. They made me see that I never wanted to become them. The poem is called “Playground Bully. ” “My mind whispered secrets “Late at night–under covers “That hid the days harvest of bruises “Whispered softly, so no one could hear “‘He’s not so tough’ “I know, I know, I know, “I know, I know. “My salt-tasting lips “Washed with another night’s tears “Sang the mantra “To the gods of fear “Each night “Alone “In bed. “I know his secrets “I know his weakness “His size, his parents, something “Made him different “As my skin made me. “I felt sorry for him “Through hair-clenched fists “I beat him each night “He beat me each day “Then our union collapsed “A guardian angel hit him “And I wasn’t worth “The price any longer “I don’t miss him “But I’ll never forget him!” It was a hard time and a hard poem to write because it happens on school yards every day, and it shouldn’t happen at all. But on the bright side, I’d like to announce that I had one of my most memorable moments as a writer happen here.

Carrie, my editor, who I owe a lot to, offered that this poem should end with a period instead of an exclamation mark. Can you imagine, as a writer, actually having that argument, this debate? It was wonderful; I bullheaded, we stayed with the exclamation mark. I’m now going to break the flow of the story and poems here intentionally because that’s what it’s like growing up in an alcoholic family. We had some good times also, and I don’t really enjoy reading the poems that came from the dark side of my reality. I came to realize you can’t count on anything, but then again, every once in a while, smiles do appear. It’s called, “A Poem. ” “And so it goes “A long time ago “I fell “Or so my sister said “(Though I was pushed “Rings in my head) “From the car “Into the snow. “I broke my leg before I could walk “I broke my nose before I could talk. “It seems my guardian angel was “An accident waiting to happen. “I knew no fear “(nor common sense) “Strong, stubborn, willful “Never shedding a tear “To wash away stupidity “I climbed to the sky “With Momma’s fitted sheet “To prove I could fly.

“My sisters both screamed “My sisters both cackled “Before I could jump “I was ingloriously tackled “I adopted the motto “In God I trust “I’d rather wear out “Than sit here and rust. “My Daddy shook his head “Said someday you’ll pay “For all this foolishness “You commit today “I looked at my Dad “With a beer in his hand “I rose up tall “I took a stand “My motto is this “In God I trust “I’d rather wear out “Than sit here and rust. “So I broke in horses “They broke me too “I got hit by a car “I turned black and blue “I wrestled in high school “College and coached “Worked in the sun “Until I was poached “Jumped off a cliff “Why? I don’t know “To prove I’m a man “The seeds that I’d sow “Played tackle football “No pads feeling sporty “Separated my shoulder “Playing football at forty “Past fifty played baseball “I stole second base “To be honest a wild pitch “If you ask “Just in case “But I’ve stood by my motto “In God I trust “I’d rather wear out “Than sit here and rust. “Though now in my years “My wisdom abounds “Paid too much attention “To fools and to clowns “My Daddy was right “Though God I still trust “It may have been less painful “To sit here and rust!” I watched my father become a granddad, as I too have become, and I find I’m a bit more empathetic. “What have I become “He said slightly glum “As grandchildren invade his house “He staggers round “Like a half-drunk clown “Attempting to be quiet as mouse “When they’re finally asleep “And he tries to keep “His sanity going room to room “Flipping off lights “That burn day and night “Electric bills shoot to the moon. “All faucets are dripping “And he’s always tripping “On wet towels strewn on the floor “And set in concrete “Each toilet seat “Stands upright oh Lord what a chore. “To put the seat down “He’d say pound for pound “Is really an impossible task “Grandma says ‘shush’ “He says ‘can’t they flush’ “Is it really too much to ask? “Air conditioning is on “He’s almost gone “Out of his very old mind “The wind it is blowing “And he sits there knowing “Each window is open he finds “Ten pop cans are open “He sits there mopin’ “Barely is there gone a-sip “Against his own wishes “He’s doing the dishes “You’d think they would leave him a tip. “Now all is quiet “There is no more riot “And his wife asks him to dance “With a wink and a smile “He hasn’t seen in a while “He steps back and screams ‘not a chance. ‘ “Truth be told “His wife is not old “She’s the beauty that lives in each poem “But by the grace of God “He does fear the odds “At least grandkids eventually go home. ” [audience laughing] I fell in love; I saw this girl, blue skirt, blue blouse, white heels, looks, charm, and intelligence.

She was so smart that she wouldn’t go out with me the first year I asked her. Then her mother made her go out with me. I was 18, Debbie was 18, we were in love. I was working two or three jobs, we had money, so why not get married? She was, is my best friend. Debbie’s parents said no, but we were of legal age. I wanted to get married in the church. I might not have been a good Catholic, but I was a Catholic, and we were supposed to be a forgiving bunch. The priest said that we were too young. I said that we were going to get married, and it was up to the priest whether we got married in the church or not. We were married on February 14th, 1975 in the St. Norbert’s Chapel on St. Norbert’s College campus. And 11 months later, we started a family, and Dr. Seuss and I became real good friends. My beautiful wife Debbie urged me to go to college. I wrote this poem for her, it’s called “Rainbow Woman. ” “Here you are safe “She said without words “As pain fell from my eyes “Rolling like thunder “‘Cross the purple horizon “Sobs muffled in a pillow “Here you are safe “Her hands said “Caressing gently “My head “My heart “These are not tears “These are not tears “Mumbling in humiliation “Indians don’t cry “Here you are safe “Her breath “Soft upon my neck “In silence a blessing “Our breath united “Calm like a mirrored lake “Here I am safe “In the spirit “In the love “Promised in youth “Held though the years. ” We were living high on the hog, but it really wasn’t the type of life that we envisioned for the family. We just wanted something better. We had plenty of money, we went out Saturday nights, we had friends; we wanted more.

We read Black Elk Speaks, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, and the Gospel of Matthew. Then we started to think differently. We started to look seven generations ahead. How what we do today affects tomorrow, and I wrote this poem, “Tradition. ” “No tobacco “No beer “Branded by stereotypes “Johnny Cash, Ira Hayes “An idol, a hero “Punished for living “A healthy lifestyle “For far too long. “No tobacco “No beer “Allowed first in line “Soup kitchens, Councils “Broccoli, decaf “Skim milk “Point of Order. “No tobacco “No beer “Do they even know me? “My name? “My history? “Do they care? “No tobacco “No beer “No respect “No tradition. ” So we ran away. We lived more traditional, we were a family, we worked together, we went to school together, we played together, we raised and butchered chickens together, and despite the protests and crying– that was just from me– we picked green beans together. It seems we picked a million green beans, didn’t it? People started to look up to our family.

A lot of people revealed their Indian backgrounds to us, and I wrote this poem, “Same Old, Same Old. ” “He smiled at us and said “My great-grandmother was “An Indian princess “Born and bred “Within the boundaries “Of the great Cherokee Nation “I love the Indian ways “Fry Bread and Pow Wows “Jingle Dancers and Casinos “Then he walked away “Taking his smile “My wife looked at me “And she said ‘You look skeptical. ‘ “I replied, “‘I have reservations. ‘” [audience laughing] I earned my degree; it took 25 years of night school, but I did it. No, hold the applause. [audience laughing] All of our children have earned their degrees and I’m honored, the family is honored that the woman I love, wife, mother, grandmother is a sophomore in college. I wrote this poem after a campus emergency food run, nothing like Mom’s homemade bread, cookies, and chili. It’s called “Pi R Squared. ” “I went down to the grocery store to get some peanut butter “For my child away at school “with instructions from their mudder “In a strange store east of I don’t know “I felt so all alone “I stuck out like a sore thumb so far away from home “When a strange lady grabbed my arm “and pulled me to her side “‘Do you think you’re smarter than a fifth grader?’ “‘Well, of course I am,’ I lied. “A fifth grader would have yelled like hell “When approached by someone strange “All I did was shake my head and agree to play her game “Spin the wheel she smiled at me “And so that’s what I did “Around and around and around and around “Stopping at a question for first-grade kid “The question was easy, I did just fine “Getting the math test right “The second-grade question came to me, “‘p. m’ that means it’s night “The third-grade question came and went “The fourth-grade question too “Then the final question a fifth grade one, “What was I to do? “If I’m right I win a chance to go to a Packer game “Or a chance to star on television “With Aaron Rodgers’s name “They wanted to know the symbol for pi r squared “I knew they were going down “Everyone knows that pie aren’t square “Pie are really round. ” [audience laughing]

All in all, I’d say life has been great. There are a ton of poems in this book dealing with the darker side of life. It was difficult enough to share them on paper that I avoid them in my speeches. But as I said, with love as our foundation, I’ve had a great life. There have been some highs, some lows, but because of the foundations of the family that my wife and I have established, with love at the center, we’ve been able to reach for the stars, and this poem pretty much sums it all up. It’s called “Job Jar. ” “I meant to clean the car today “Erase the ‘wash me’ tattoos “Destroy evidence of “Birds’ bombing raids “Scrub bugs’ last acts “From the windshield “I meant to clean the car today “Leftover popcorn “From the five-dollar cinema “Sunflower seed shells “From a would-be ball player “I meant to clean the car today “The tic-tac-toe “On the dust-covered dash “Finger-painted windows “Root beer stains and mud “I meant to clean the car today “But my son said, ‘Hey Dad “Do you wanna play catch “Hit a few “Catch a few “Pretend a bit?’ “I meant to clean the car today “Oh well!” [audience laughing] In the book Rebel Poet: More Stories of a 21st Century Indian, I delve quite deeply into the dark side of growing up in a dysfunctional household. I also reveal more of the humiliation that one has to endure when judged by his skin color rather than by his character. The poems that I wrote allowed me to cleanse the hurt that I felt, to release the pain and anger.

I only touched upon them in my speech because it isn’t a subject I care to talk about. However, through my writing, I hope and I pray that by sharing these things, that perhaps somehow, some way, I can help others who may be experiencing similar lifestyles, and maybe they can see that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. That light is love and contentment. Let me thank Julie and her staff here at the Omro Library: Joan, Wendy, and Susan. Thank you to Omro and everyone who’s been a part of our lives here. Thank you to the Wisconsin Historical Society Press, to Kate, Christian, Kerry, Cathy, Chris, and everyone who takes care of us down in Madison. Thank you to my family, Debbie my wife, Louis and Alissa, Dawn and Andy, Renee and Jeff, Jacob, Jordan, and Hillary, Philip and his soon-to-be-wife Tristan, and most importantly, the next generation: Faith, Danny, Julia, Eliza, Asa, Camryn, Mara, Hope, Morgan, Elenore, Harrison, Zoe, Noah, and Jack. Got it! [audience laughing] And thank you all for coming. One last thought, as Don Miguel Cervantes said, and I’m paraphrasing, but the worst thing in life is to see life as it is instead of seeing life as it should be. Let’s all see life and attempt to live life as it should be.

My last poem is called “The Christmas Gift. ” “I saw the face of God today “As he sat next to me in church “His toothless grin “As I held his hand “Our eyes met “When we said hello “The choir sang “Bells were ringing “We both turned next to pray “A little old man “In a tattered coat “I saw God’s face today “A certain smell “Drifted through the air “All across the pew “So I smiled “For in my years “Jesus had his smell too “With shaking hands “Into his purse “He put something “On the plate “A human being so worn away “I saw God’s face today “I clasped his hand “With hollowed eyes “He smiled into my soul “A hint of mint “As he walked away “A little old man “In a tattered coat “I saw God’s face today!” Thank you for listening, are there any questions?

[audience applauding] [Louis laughing]