You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

by Sherman Alexie

I don’t speak my tribal language, but I’m positive there are no Spokane Indian words for real estate appreciation.

I didn’t grow up in a dream house. I lived in a wooden improvisation.

“Listen. If it’s fiction, then it better be true.”

I hadn’t been able to finish the book because of the pathological fear that my sequel would be The Phantom Menace instead of The Empire Strikes Back. But, on the airplane, I thought, “Okay, okay, Phantom sucked, but it still made big cash. I’m gonna Yoda this book for my mother.”

“When Indians have curly hair, I call it the Geronifro.”

“Nothing makes me hungrier than sadness,” I said. “I could eat a TV dinner made out of apple strudel, Salisbury steak, carrots, and grief.”

SITTING IN THE funeral home, with my mother’s body lying in view in another room only twenty feet away, I paid for her coffin and burial and transportation with a credit card. I had enough cash to pay for all the expenses, but I wanted to collect the Alaska Airlines miles. The bureaucracy of death. The sacredness of death. The sacredness of bureaucracy. The beauty of frequent-flyer miles.

My mother was a lifeguard on the shores of Lake Fucked.

“Sherman, I don’t think of you as being Indian. I think of you as being a person.” “Sherman, you’re not just a Native writer. You’re a writer.” “Sherman, I don’t see color. I see the person inside.” All of these statements mean the same thing: “Sherman, in order to fit you and your indigenous identity into my worldview, I have to think of you as being like me—as being white like me.”

You know, something like 70 percent of the country is awake at 6 a.m. I get up at 6 a.m. and I’m ruined for the rest of the day. 6 a.m.! What is up with that?

And what do I make of the genocide museum in our own country? What do I make of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum? It is a vital place. It is a grievous reminder. A warning. It is as necessary as any museum ever built. But it also proves to me how the United States closes its eyes against the pain it has caused. The United States often looks away from the pain it has caused. The United States often sits on benches and stares at the blank floors.

I ask my older son to define “abundant,” And he shrugs and says, “That’s when You have too much stuff. Like us.” My younger son wants to maybe become a rapper, But he doesn’t want to exploit black culture. He wants to tell his urban Indian truth, But he doesn’t want to be a colonial asshole. He says, “Dad, I know I’ve got money and power, Even though I’m just a kid. But I want to talk About all the evil shit in the world.” I say, “Son, You just gotta be honest when you’re trying To be a socially conscious artist in your village.” And he says, “I’m gonna be honest from the start Because my rap name will be Lil’ Privilege.”

Like every other writer, I’d set aside my real-world

manners in order to rudely pursue an idea.