What is your process like for working on a poem?
It’s all about ceremony. As an Indian, you learn about these sacred spaces. Sometimes, when you’re lucky and prepared, you find yourself in a sacred space, and the poems come to you. Shoot, I’m putting ink to paper, you could say, but I don’t always feel like I’m the one writing the poem. Sometimes my whole tribe is writing the poem with me. And I feel best about the poems when I look out in the audience and see a bunch of Indian faces. I mean, the best thing to me is when Indians come up to me and say, “Hey, man, that poem was me, that was my life.” That’s when I feel like I’m doing the best work.
What writers have influenced your work, and whom do you admire now?
Well, I could name a dozen writers, a hundred poets, I love and respect. But I guess I am most influenced by the natural rhythms of the world, you know? Late at night, I go outside and listen to the wind. That’s all the wisdom I need. I mean, I love books, but shoot, most of the world’s wisdom is not contained in books.
There is a lot of humor in your poems, often in the face of tragedy. Where does your sense of humor come from?
My grandmother was the funniest person I’ve ever known and the most traditional. She was a sacred person in our tribe and told the dirtiest jokes, you know? So, obviously, I grew up with the idea the sacred and profane are linked, you know? I guess you’d say my sense of humor is genetic.
Do you consider yourself a radical?
I believe in the essential goodness of human beings, and if that’s being radical, then I guess I’m a radical. I believe human beings would rather hop in bed with each other and do tender things to each other than run through the jungle and shoot each other. If that’s a radical thought, then I’m a radical. I believe that poetry can save the world. And shoot, that one has always been a radical thought, I guess. So maybe I am a radical, you know?
What do you think will happen to American Indians in the future?
Well, shoot, my grandfather, he was a shaman, he used to tell me that tribal stories foretold the coming of the white man. “Grandson,” he’d say to me, “we always knew the white man was coming. We knew the exact date. We knew he’d eat all the food in the house and poop on the living room carpet.” My grandfather was so funny, you know? And he’d tell me that the tribal stories also foretold the white man’s leaving. “Grandson,” he’d say, “we always knew the white man was coming, and we’ve always known he was leaving.” So, what’s the future of Indians? Well, someday soon, I think we’re going to have a lot more breathing room.
Corliss was puzzled by the interview. Harlan Atwater seemed to be an immodest poet who claimed to be highly sacred and traditional and connected to his tribe, but his tribe had never heard of him. He seemed peacefully unaware of his arrogance and pretension. Most important, Corliss’s mother had never heard of him. No Spokane Indian had ever known him. Exactly who were this mythical grandmother and grandfather who’d lived on the reservation? Who was Harlan Atwater? And where was he? He must be a fraud, and yet he was funny and hopeful, so maybe he was a funny, hopeful, and self-absorbed fraud.
Corliss kept searching for more information about Atwater. She found him listed in the 1971 edition of Who’s Who Among American Writers. There was a Seattle address and phone number. Corliss picked up the phone and dialed the number. Naturally, it was pointless. That number was thirty-three years old. The phone rang a dozen times. What kind of American doesn’t have an answering machine or voice mail? But after ten more rings, as Corliss wondered why in the hell she let it ring so long, she was surprised to hear somebody answer.
“Hello,” a man said. He was tired or angry or both or didn’t have any phone manners. He sounded exactly like a man who wouldn’t have an answering machine or voice mail.
“Yes, hello, my name is Corliss Joseph, and I—”
“Is this a sales call?”
She knew he’d hang up if she didn’t say the exact right thing.
“Are you in the reservation of your mind?” she asked and heard silence from the other end. He didn’t hang up, so she knew she’d asked the right question. But maybe he was calling the police on another phone line: Hello, Officer, I’m calling to report a poetry stalker. Yes, I’m serious, Officer. I’m completely serious. I am a poet, and a lovely young woman is stalking me. Stop laughing at me, Officer.
“Hello?” she asked. “Are you there?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for, well, I found this book by a man named Harlan Atwater—”
“Where’d you find this book?”
“In the Washington State University library. I’m a student here.”
“What the hell do you want from me?”
Excited, she spoke quickly. “Well, this used to be Harlan Atwater’s phone number, so I called it.”
“It’s still Harlan Atwater’s phone number,” the man said.
“Wow, are you him?”
“I used that name when I wrote poems.”
Corliss couldn’t believe she was talking to the one and only Harlan Atwater. Once again, she felt she’d been chosen for a special mission. She had so many questions to ask, but she knew she needed to be careful. This mysterious man seemed to be fragile and suspicious of her, and she needed to earn his trust. She couldn’t interrogate him. She couldn’t shine a bright light in his face and ask him if he was a fraud.
“Your poems are very good,” she said, hoping flattery would work. It usually worked.
“Don’t try to flatter me,” he said. “Those poems are mostly crap. I was a young man with more scrotum than common sense.”
“Well, I think they’re good. Most of them, anyway.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a Spokane Indian. I’m an English literature major here.”
“Oh, God, you’re an Indian?”
“Well, mostly. Fifteen sixteenths, to be exact.”
“So, fifteen sixteenths of you is studying the literature of the other one sixteenth of you?”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
“Shoot, it’s been a long time since I talked to an Indian.”
“Really? Aren’t you Indian?”
“I’m of the urban variety, bottled in 1947.”
“You’re Spokane, enit?”
“That’s what I was born, but I haven’t been to the rez in thirty years, and you’re the first Spokane I’ve talked to in maybe twenty years. So if I’m still Spokane, I’m not a very good one.”
Self-deprecating and bitter, he certainly talked like an Indian. Corliss liked him.
“I’ve got so many things I want to ask you,” she said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“What, you think you’re going to interview me?”
“Well, no, I’m not a journalist or anything. This is just for me.”
“Listen, kid, I’m impressed you found my book of poems. Shoot, I only printed up about three hundred of them, and I lost most of them. Hell, I’m flattered you found me. But I didn’t want to be found. So, listen, I’m really impressed you’re in college. I’m proud of you. I know how tough that is. So, knock them dead, make lots of money, and never call me again, okay?”
He hung up before Corliss could respond. She sat quietly for a moment, wondering why it had ended so abruptly. She’d searched for the man, found him, and didn’t like what had happened. Corliss was confused, hurt, and angry. Long ago, as part of the passage into adulthood, young Indians used to wander into the wilderness in search of a vision, in search of meaning and definition. Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? Ancient questions answered by ancient ceremonies. Maybe Corliss couldn’t climb a mountain and starve herself into self-revealing hallucinations. Maybe she’d never find her spirit animal, her ethereal guide through the material world. Maybe she was only a confused indigenous woman negotiating her way through a colonial maze, but she was one Indian who had good credit and knew how to use her Visa card.