Though I carry the blood of many races And feel in my veins the pain of my people I am white-faced, blue-eyed, and Normal? But when the waitress, my friend, my co-worker Cigarette in hand, sitting with us on the dock Speaks without reserve about "dirty injuns" It makes me want to cry, To yell To tell her? Or hit her? To do something Do anything... But I sit quietly Knowing that breaktime will be over soon Then I can go back And forget that by doing nothing I have only made it worse.
Obviously a racism thing... Yeah. The people involved remain anonymous, but basically... well, some of my ancestors, many generations back, are Native Canadians of the Huron persuasion... You wouldn't know it to look at me though, as the poem says. The theme is probably my own fear do do anything about it.