HOW GERONIMO GOT HIS NAME

Written after reading Watch for Me on the Mountain, a novel of Geronimo and the Apache Nation, by Native American author and Storyteller in Council to the Cherokee Nations, Forrest Carter.

Una moneda, señor, una moneda, por favor,
'n I will tell you how that diablo Geronimo got his name!
He stole the name of a good Catholic saint - San Geronimo,
patron saint of Kaskiyeh,
the pueblito my father's folks come from!
He was one of them Apache War Shamans,
and he took feroz mad against us mejicanos
when the soldados killed his young squaw 'n their three niños.
The warriors was all out on a huntin' party,
'n militares from the guarnación in the pueblo,
they found the Apache camp, just wimmin 'n kids 'n old men -
them soldados, they killed a lot of indios that day!
My father's mother, la abuelita,
she was a skinny little girl, nine or ten,
'n she hid good when them Apaches come lookin' for venganza,
shootin' n' burning.
She stayed hid 'til next mornin',
when hunnerts of buzzards circlin' in the sky
'n black smoke risin' in big fat greasy clouds
sent word that somethin' bad, somethin' real bad,
had happened at Kaskiyeh.

Everyone was waitin' for San Geronimo to show up
for Kaskiyeh's feast day;
The saint was s'posed to appear out of the desert,
it was a holy play the priest had wrote -
when this short wide ugly indio
face painted across with yellow streaks
under eyes black and shiny as a rattlesnake's,
'n a mean turned-down mouth like a toad's,
wearin' boot moccasins and a breechclout,
hair all bushed out in a war cut,
a headband tied around it,
come walkin' through the cactus 'n rocks toward the village.

The church bells was ringin'
'n all the soldados, who was mostly drunk by then,
n' seein' this indio wa'nt armed,
don't have no gun or knife or nuthin',
they started hollerin' and shoutin' and laughin',
"Here comes San Geronimo!"
'n pretty soon the whole pueblo was laughin' and shoutin'
"Geronimo!" "Geronimo!"

That indio come right up to the open gates,
'n he stuck his hand inside his polka-dot red shirt
'n he took this little bow and arrow from under his blouse
'n he notched it and drew it and that arrow flew
like a yellow-jacket wasp straight into the heart of the priest
who was waitin' up on the podio for San Geronimo.
The indio made a little adios wave of his hand
'n then he turned around
'n all the soldados took out after him,
cussin' 'n yellin' 'n wavin' rifles 'n pistols 'n sabers,
horseback 'n on foot.

The dust was so thick,
the people in the pueblo couldn't see nuthin'
so they all crowded up to the walls -
nobody thought of closin' the gates, 'cause they knew
the soldados was goin' to cut that crazy indio's head off
and bring it back hangin' by its bushy black hair!
The población, they could hear yells and rifles firin'
'n pretty soon all they hear was thuds 'n groans
'n then they don't hear nuthin'. Nada.
The dust settles 'n here come a soldado's horse,
reins draggin', empty saddle slick with blood,
'n finally they seen them Apaches
just standin' there, real quiet,
dead men 'n dead horses all aroun' 'em.
Next thing them Apaches start screamin' an' runnin'
toward the pueblo.

Three hunnert Apaches
come down from Nuevo Mejico on foot,
no horses, 'cause an Apache warrior,
he could go a hunnert miles
on a handful of piñon nuts 'n a mouthful of water,
travelin' at night
so wouldn't nobody see a war party that big.
Geronimo, he led them soldados into an ambush,
lured 'em out into the desert 'n got 'em all killed,
leavin' the pueblo to be massacred.

That's how Geronimo got his name,
that's when he got to be War Leader
of them Chiricahua diablos,
'n that was the end of the pueblo of Kaskiyeh -
even the big iron bells cracked
when they burned the church!

¡Ah, señor, gracias! ¡Gracias por su gentileza!

LOVELY WEATHER FOR ARMADILLOS

The weather was whither with heat and humidity.
His eyes wild with anguish,
he pushed me aside and strode forcefully
into the living room.
"It’s war," he snarled. "They’re invading!"
I reeled backwards across the green easy chair,
stunned.
"They?" I asked timidly.
"THE ARMADILLOS!"
"Armadillos?" I asked dubiously. "Are you sure . . .
. . . they aren’t gophers?"
He skewered me with a glance.
"Carapaces! Ivory colored! Like enormous pill bugs!
Huge caves under the foundation of the house!
The lawn torn apart, tunnels . . ."
He sank sobbing onto the sofa.
"I thought they were good for the environment,"
he whispered, almost to himself.
"I thought I should leave them to it –"
His look was frantic. "I was wrong . . .
but that’s not all," he whimpered. "I called
the Removarator."
"The ww-WHAT?" I stuttered.
"This guy. He charges a fortune to catch armadillos
and raccoons (you remember the raccoons in the attic
last year? $400?) And possums and squirrels.
He catches them and cages them
and carries them out somewhere into the countryside.
The theory is to repopulate the landscape
with urban vermin.
In this case, armadillos."
He leaned forward, elbows on thighs,
hands between his knees. Tears fell softly.
I knelt by his side, taking his hands in mine.
"What happened?"
"He caught three," he sobbed. "They were in this big cage
last night. Huge round armor plated things with sharp noses
and pointy ears."
I waited.
"It’s war," he leaped to his feet. "I’ll kill the bastard!"
I drew back in terror. "Who? Who are you talking about?
The armadillos? The Removarator?"
He turned haunted eyes to me. Tears streaked
into his beard.
"No, nooooo!" he howled, pounding the back of the sofa.
"That damned bleeding heart who let them all out of the cage
at 6:00 o’clock this morning!"

Sue Littleton is a permanent resident of Argentina, and lives in Buenos Aires. She has published seven chapbooks, two of them bilingual. Her poems have been published in various anthologies, including all of Todd Swift's nthposition on-line and hardcover anthologies against the war in Iraq. She has edited three anthologies of poetry under the auspices of the Austin, Texas , Commission for the Arts. She has hosted bilingual poetry venues in Austin and is one of the four founders of the Austin International Poetry Festival. Many of her poems are related to her deep love of the semi-desert landscapes of West Texas. Her bilingual epic poem Corn Woman is available in its entirety at Corn Woman and is the history of corn in the Americas. She has participated in the Encounters of Narrators and Poets organized by the Cultural Association of the Two Shores in Uruguay, and is presenting two books, one an illustrated bilingual re-edition of Imágenes/Images and the other Papel de Barrilete/Kite Paper (Botella al Mar, Colección Poetas del Sur) at the 2007 Uruguayan Book Fair.

Email: Sue Littleton

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