Red Skinned

I never understood why they called us that

It couldn’t be the Budweiser bursting the capillaries underneath my Uncle Curtis’s skin

Or how my dad calls my Mom ‘Spotted Blood’ as he puts his hand round her waist just after they’ve fought

And it couldn’t have been from the football team

Though Dad says he’s not mad about the name cuz back in the day Joe Theismann had a hell of an arm

More likely it’s how the Beothuck used ochre to paint their bodies - some sort of right of passage

But I don’t know much about that

.

“It’s a term of endearment,” says my auntie, as she helps me push the station wagon

Caught in the red reservation mud for the third time this week

“We reclaim our power. Our traditions. Like your cousin Wayne.”

Who we watched, on and off for four days, as he danced the sun dance

In some sort of a fugue state

A small hole in his chest, connecting himself to the tree, the giver of life

You’re meant to ask for something meaningful - better hunting skills or healing powers, stuff like that

But when I asked him, he just winked and said “Better luck with the ladies.”

.

After seeing him dance, I could only see it as a compliment

To be red skinned implied the blood beating through our veins

Like a drum circle or

The bass of Wayne’s new subwoofers

He installed in this banged up station wagon

Which he proudly turned on full blast

On a sunset drive to the Badlands

Where we watched the cherry red sun dip behind the striated rocks

And I could feel my skin glitter like gold