Men on the Moon
There are essentially two types of stories in Simon Ortiz's Men on the Moon: stories that illuminate a part of the human experience through a story about a specific emotion or event (e.g., "Feeling Old" or "Feathers") and stories that reflect upon stories themselves (e.g., "You Were Real, the White Radical Said to Me" or "What Indians Do"). My favorites belong to the latter category, stories that are reflective, beautifully written (like poetry, really), and meaningful in a way that gives the whole collection, really the whole endeavor of writing or telling stories, significance.
In "You Were Real, the White Radical Said to Me," for instance, Ortiz writes about having agreed to read his poetry publicly, Ah man. Ah man, I don't know why, but I do. I do it for myself, for my people, for the source, for the words that are sacred because they come from a community of people and all life. I do it because I ache for help and because we all need help.
And that's the way I read the poems that night. And that's the way I sing the songs that night. And that's the way I tell the stories that night.
The words come from Clay, the old man who carried a brown leather bag on his shoulder when he went from family to family teaching them.
They come from the Felipe brothers who led a New Mexico state unto Acoma land and wiped him out.
They come from the brown man with stifled and troubled dreams sprawled at the corner of 5th and Mission.
They come from the frozen and unfortunate winter of Beauty Roanhorse on the reservation road between Klagetoh and Sanders Bar.
Ah man. Ah man, they come from me. They come from them. They come and they come, and I return and return them. (126-7)
Similarly, in "What Indians Do," Ortiz writes about singing a song and watching his audience's response:When the song is finished, the muscles in the Indian man's face are set tensely for a moment, and then he smiles. And I know that the words mean something, that the meaning of the stories, the songs, the words continue. They continue. They continue. (139)
In "You Were Real, the White Radical Said to Me," for instance, Ortiz writes about having agreed to read his poetry publicly, Ah man. Ah man, I don't know why, but I do. I do it for myself, for my people, for the source, for the words that are sacred because they come from a community of people and all life. I do it because I ache for help and because we all need help.
And that's the way I read the poems that night. And that's the way I sing the songs that night. And that's the way I tell the stories that night.
The words come from Clay, the old man who carried a brown leather bag on his shoulder when he went from family to family teaching them.
They come from the Felipe brothers who led a New Mexico state unto Acoma land and wiped him out.
They come from the brown man with stifled and troubled dreams sprawled at the corner of 5th and Mission.
They come from the frozen and unfortunate winter of Beauty Roanhorse on the reservation road between Klagetoh and Sanders Bar.
Ah man. Ah man, they come from me. They come from them. They come and they come, and I return and return them. (126-7)
Similarly, in "What Indians Do," Ortiz writes about singing a song and watching his audience's response:When the song is finished, the muscles in the Indian man's face are set tensely for a moment, and then he smiles. And I know that the words mean something, that the meaning of the stories, the songs, the words continue. They continue. They continue. (139)