12/17 responses, reviews, interview
Sara Arnell
“I’m traveling
heavy with illusions.”
Not only is Victor
referring to his fantasizing of the ordinary to make his life better, or more
exciting, but it really foreshadows the ultimate outcome that I took away from
this book: the Indians in this novel, on this reservation, play a great role in
holding themselves back. These illusions, to me, meant the tricks of the mind,
knowing too much and thinking too much. As James says, reality is a matter of
perception.
“Some nights I
would fall asleep to the sounds of my parents’ lovemaking.”
Most kids would be
repelled by that noise, but because it’s one of the only times both his parents
are happy and peaceful Victor appreciates those nights.
“I ain’t interested
in what’s real. I’m interested in how things should be.”
There is a way
human beings live, and are conditioned to live, that may not be the way we are supposed
to live by nature. Reality may be the way things are at this moment, but
it certainly does not mean it’s uninfluenced.
“They fought each
other with the kind of graceful anger that only love can create”
Reflecting on my
own relationships, there is a specific anger that only love can create. People
seem to get the angriest at those they love, but when love is absent, why put
in the time and energy after a certain point?
Sheila Traub
Quotes for Tao Lin,
from The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist Fight in Heaven, Sherman Alexie, The
Atlantic Monthly Press, New York, 1993.
"The
Fun House": ,
the story of his aunt and how her tubes were tied without her comprehension or
informed consent:
1.". . .once
she made a full-length beaded dress that was too heavy for anyone to wear.
"'It's just
like the sword in the stone,' she said. 'When a woman comes along who can
carry the weight of this dress on her back, then we'll have found the one who
will save us all.'" (page 76)
2. "My aunt
smiled and laughed. She was a beautiful dancer, had given lessons at the
Arthur Murray Dance Studio to pay her way through community college. She
had also danced topless in a Seattle bar to put food in her child's stomach.
There are all kinds
of dancing." (page 78)
"Indian
Education":
1. "". .
. But it felt good, that ball in my hands, all those possibilities and angles.
It was mathematics, geometry. It was beautiful." (page
175)
2.
"Throw the first punch,' Stevie said again.
'No,' Randy said
again.
'Throw the first
punch!' Stevie said for the third time, and Randy reared back and pitched a
knuckle fastball that broke Stevie's nose.
We all stood there
in silence, in awe.
That was Randy, my
soon-to-be first and best friend, who taught me the most valuable lesson about
living in the white world: Always throw the first punch." (page
176)
3"I could hear
the hear the white girls' forced vomiting, a sound so familiar and natural to
me after years of listening to my father's hangovers.
'GIve me your lunch
if you're just going to throw it up,' I said to one of those girls once.
I sat back and
watched them grow skinny from self-pity.
Back on the
reservation, my mother stood in line to get us commodities. We carried them
home, happy to have food, and opened the canned beef that even the gods
wouldn't eat.
But we ate it day
after day and grew skinny from self-pity. (page 177)
"The
Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven":
". . . but
those arguments were just as damaging as a fist. Words can be like that,
you know? Whenever I get into arguments, I remember her and I also
remember Muhammad Ali. He knew the power of his fists but, more
importantly, he knew the power of his words, too. Even though he only had
an IQ of 80 or so, ALi was a genius. And she was a genius, too. She
knew exactly what to say to cause me the most pain." (page 185)
Ryan Strong
Notes On The Lone Ranger and
Tonto Fist Fight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie
1. Everybody in
this book is drunk or in love with a drunk. And in writing about drunk Indians,
I am dealing with stereotypical material. But I can only respond with the
truth. In my family, counting parents, siblings, and dozens of aunts, uncles,
and cousins, there are less than a dozen who are currently sober, and only a
few who have never drank. When I write about the destructive effects of alcohol
on Indians, I am not writing out of a literary stance or a colonized mind's
need to reinforce stereotypes. I am writing autobiography. - Introduction xix
I selected this
passage from the introduction because I wanted to hear (or read) Sherman's
response to the criticisms of his work. There are numerous essays and
articles which chastise the novelist for reinforcing racial stereotypes in his
work. Those arguments typically critical around Alexie's choice to use
alcoholism as a major plot theme in most, arguably all, of his fiction. Alexie
has also been accused of recycling the same themes in his work to no avail.
(See: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/25/books/review/blasphemy-by-sherman-alexie.html?pagewanted=2&_r=0). I
was curious to know what Alexie had to say about these comments. The
introduction in my paperback addition of this book is new. The author simply
says he writes what he knows. Which, I believe, he has every right to do.
2. "My
mother didn't say anything. She just wrapped me in her favorite quilt and went
back to sleep. I stood on the porch all night long and imagined I heard
motorcycles and guitars, until the sun rose so bright that I knew it was to go
back inside to my mother. She made breakfast for both of us and we ate until we
were full." -Page 36
This story was my
favorite in the collection. Depressing and moving, I thought Sherman Alexie did
a superb job at capturing single motherhood and a child's naive thoughts
on the matter. Some of Alexie's fiction is filled with inside jokes or nods
meant for people within the Native American community. I do not have a problem
with this, but I thought this story could be enjoyed about anyone. That said,
it worked very well in capturing a newly minted single mother's experience. The
structure included lists as well as traditional prose. Sometimes this
can create a jarring reading experience, but in this instance, this aspect
enhanced the story.
3. "Adolph
and Arnold reminded each other of their childhood, how they hid crackers in
their shared bedroom so they would have something to eat"- Page 8
Poverty, after
alcoholism, is another major theme in Sherman Alexie's fiction. The author
captures the despair of hunger and dreams deferred with so much
truth and strength. I believe this is, sadly, another example of Alexie writing
what he knows. It is the small details that give the reader a true depiction of
the realities facing poor children
from underrepresented socioeconomic backgrounds . This
aspect of the story stood with me.
Joanna Benjamin
Passages from
Sherman Alexie The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven
1. "In other
nightmares, in his everyday reality, Victor watched his father take a drink of
vodka on a completely empty stomach. Victor could hear that near-poison fall,
then hit, flesh and blood, nerve and vein. Maybe it was like lightning tearing
an old tree into halves. Maybe it was like a wall of water, a reservation
tsunami, crashing onto a small beach. Maybe it was like Hiroshima or Nagasaki.
Maybe it was like all that. Maybe. But after he drank, Victor's father would
breathe in deep and close his eyes, stretch, and straighten his neck and back.
During those long drinks, Victor's father wasn't shaped like a question mark.
He looked more like an exclamation point." - "Every Little
Hurricane" p. 6
2. "When
Indians make lots of money from corporations that way, we can all hear our
ancestors laughing in the trees. But we never can tell whether they're laughing
at the Indians or the whites. I think they're laughing at pretty much
everybody." - "A Drug Called Tradition" p. 13
3. "There
are things you should learn. Your past is a skeleton walking one step
behind you, and your future is a skeleton walking one step in front of you.
Maybe you don't wear a watch, but your skeletons do, and they always know what
time it is. Now, these skeletons are made of memories, dreams, and voices. And
they can trap you in the in-between, between touching and becoming. But they're
not necessarily evil, unless you let them be.
What you have to do
is keep moving, keep walking, in step with your skeletons. They ain't ever
going to leave you, so you don't have to worry about that. Your past ain't
going to fall behind, and you're future won't get too far ahead. Sometimes,
though, your skeletons will talk to you, tell you to sit down and take a rest,
breathe a little. Maybe they'll make you promises, tell you all the things you
want to hear.
Sometimes your
skeletons will dress up as beautiful Indian women and ask you to slow dance. Sometimes
your skeletons will dress up as your best friend and offer you a drink, one
more for the road. Sometimes your skeletons will look exactly like your parents
and offer you gifts.
But, no matter what
they do, keep walking, keep moving. And don't wear a watch. Hell, Indians never
need to wear a watch because your skeletons will always remind you about the
time. See, it is always now. That's what Indian time is. The past, the future,
all of it is wrapped up in the now. That's how it is. We are trapped in the
now." - "A Drug Called Tradition" p. 21-22
Brittney Decker
Page 32
Jimi was twenty-eight when he died. That’s younger than Jesus Christ when he
died. Younger than my father as we stood over the grave.
Pages 40-41
Victor was surprised. She had grown. She was the most enormous woman he had
ever seen. Her hair fell down over her body, an explosion of horses. She was
more beautiful than he wanted, more of a child of freeway exits and cable
television, a mother to the children who waited outside 7-11 asking him to buy
them a case of Coors Light. She sat on the bus travelling toward cities that
grew, doubled. There was nothing he could give her father to earn her hand,
nothing she would understand, remember.
Pages 136-137
Sometimes an Indian
woman would work out of the motel and that always hurt Samuel more than
anything he could ever imagine. In his dreams, he would see his own daughter’s
face in the faces of the prostitutes.
On paydays, Samuel
would give the Indian prostitutes a little money.
“Don’t work today,”
he would say. “Just for today.”
Sometimes the
Indian women would take his money and work anyway. But, once in a while, one of
those Indian prostitutes would take the money and go drink coffee in Denny’s
all day instead of working. Those were good days for Samuel.
Page 176
I leaned through the basement window of the HUD house and kissed the white girl
who would later be raped by her foster-parent father, who was also white. They
both lived on the reservation, though, and when the headlines and stories
filled the papers later, not one word was made of their color.
Just Indians being Indians, someone must have said somewhere and they
were wrong.
An Indian Without Reservations
By Timothy Egan NYTimes
Published: January 18, 1998
The crowd at the old theater
in Seattle is waiting for an American Indian, and they get one when 6-foot-2
Sherman Alexie strolls onstage, playing one of his fictional characters, Lester
Falls Apart. Lester is stumblebum drunk, eyelids at half-mast, looking for some
railroad tracks to lie down on. A vodka-guzzling native with a self-esteem
problem, now there's a role model.
''What did you expect -- a
warrior?'' says Alexie, slipping out of character. ''o.k., all right. Here's my
warrior look. ...'' His face turns into a taut profile, one hand shading the
eyes. ''You're supposed to stare at the sky, like you're looking for an eagle.
Warrior. Pretty scary, huh?'' Long pause. Nervous laughter in the audience --
they thought they'd come for a literary reading, not a stand-up act. ''White
people only like Indians if we're warriors or guardians of the earth. Guardians
of the earth! Have any of you ever been to a reservation? A guest house is a
rusted car up on blocks out behind a h.u.d. trailer.''
Alexie's act has them
laughing at a full boil now, a sea of the ponytailed and turquoise-bedecked at
a benefit for prison literacy. But their laughter is still edged with unease.
Alexie is making fun of them, of what they expect from him. ''And what's with
all these sensitive New Age guys beating drums in the woods, trying to be
Indians? Hey, Indians gave that up a hundred years ago. Now we're sitting on
the couch with the remote.''
Sherman Alexie is what Robin
Williams might be like if he'd been raised on an Indian reservation and had a
20-foot jump shot. Basketball was going to be Alexie's salvation. In high
school, he starred for the Reardan Indians, at the all-white school he attended
in eastern Washington, just outside the Spokane tribal reservation where he was
raised. But Alexie's hoop career bottomed out at the foul line in a deciding
game. The headline in the local paper: ''Alexie Misses Free Throw, Indians Lose
Again.'' Story of his life? Not quite.
For an athlete without
literary dreams, a missed shot is just a callus to pick in middle age. For
Alexie, it became part of his repertoire. A few years ago, Alexie joked that he
was little more than ''the Indian du jour.'' If so, it has been a long day. At
31, he has published 10 books and has started any number of literary feuds,
attacking non-Indian writers who borrow Indian themes. He has produced poetry,
novels, screenplays, short stories and essays in a fast-break sprint. ''I know
this, I know this,'' he wrote in ''One Little Indian Boy,'' a self-telling
essay. ''I have so much left to say and I don't know how much time I have to
say it all.''
And now comes the biggest
leap yet, from print to the big screen. The movie ''Smoke Signals,'' which just
had its premiere at the Sundance Film Festival (it will eventually be
distributed by Miramax), is billed as the first Indian-produced,
Indian-directed, Indian-written feature film. (Alexie wrote the screenplay and
served as a producer.) It is a sweet, funny, sharply written tale that sprang from
a short story in Alexie's 1993 collection, ''The Lone Ranger and Tonto
Fistfight in Heaven.'' Alexie will also write and direct a much bigger film,
''Indian Killer,'' based on his 1996 novel of the same name, ''a feel-good
thriller about interracial murder,'' as he calls it, only half in jest. Above
all, he and his wife, Diane, an Indian of Hidatsa, Ho-Chunk and Potawatomie
lineage, have just had their first child, a boy.
Alexie would like to shake
the label that readers and critics constantly attach to his name, but believes
it will always be there. ''I don't know how many panels I've been on where Dr.
So-and-So is introduced as the expert on this, and then here's Sherman Alexie,
the Indian,'' he says. He does not mind the word that Columbus gave to the North
American natives; it is what most Indians call themselves, he says. And better
him, he adds, than somebody who has no claim to it. One of Alexie's ongoing
complaints is with people who try to benefit from all things Indian without
experiencing any of the pain.
He has been particularly
vocal in his attacks on Barbara Kingsolver, the best-selling author whose books
include ''Pigs in Heaven,'' a novel about a single white mother and her adopted
Cherokee daughter. Kingsolver once called Alexie, trying to smooth things over.
He said to her what he has said repeatedly: ''When you finish writing about
Indians, you get up from your typewriter and you're still white. When I finish,
I have to go out and buy groceries, as an Indian.''
What Alexie is saying, essentially,
is that only Indians can write about Indians, a point that riles many writers.
Taken to its logical extreme, Alexie's complaint would severely limit the range
of most authors, including Alexie himself, who has occasionally inhabited the
fictional mind of whites. And even on his own reservation, some Spokane tribal
members say Alexie misrepresents daily life. As for Kingsolver, she says she is
bewildered by Alexie's potshots.
''I live in the Southwest,
where many cultures come together,'' she says. ''It's my neighborhood. If
anyone has ever picked up one of my books because they thought I was an Indian,
I regret that. The big problem is he hasn't read my books.''
Alexie says he has read her
work, likes much of it, but finds its depiction of Indians simplistic. His
wrath for ''Indian poseurs,'' as he calls them, goes beyond writers. A few
years ago, when drumming in the woods was all the rage, Alexie was often
invited to speak to men's groups. He declined. He scorns ''this earth mother
and shaman thing,'' as he calls it, ''because we don't live this way anymore.''
Whites, he says, should find their own creation myths and cultural ties from
Europe. In the meantime, there are a few contemporary Indian stories to tell.
''Smoke Signals,'' directed
by Chris Eyre, a Cheyenne-Arapaho film maker who lives in New York, calls to
mind Spike Lee's breakthrough hit, ''She's Gotta Have It,'' or a Bernard
Malamud short story. It presents a niche of American life never seen on film.
Alexie's characters are not John Ford's Monument Valley warriors or Ted
Turner's doomed, eco-perfect natives. They don't talk about politics or land
disputes. In general, they are not victims. They tell jokes, fight, do stupid
things and loving things, eat bad food. What's more, the cast is Indian. ''No
Italians with long hair,'' Alexie says.
The two lead male characters,
an odd couple in their early 20's, travel by bus from Idaho to Arizona in order
to retrieve the ashes of one man's father. In one scene, a Western is playing
on TV inside a trailer. ''The only thing more pathetic than an Indian on TV,''
says Thomas Builds-the-Fire, ''is an Indian watching an Indian on TV.''
The scenes of reservation
life are without the usual brooding skies, stoic visages and poverty-beaten
Indians. Thomas, much like Alexie himself when he grew up on the Spokane
reservation, is a storyteller ignored by the rest of the tribe. He wears
Government-issue glasses, eats commodity cheese and prattles on interminably
about such things as his grandmother's frybread. ''It's a good day to be
indigenous,'' says a deejay on the reservation's radio station. Cars drive
backward, or don't start. Alcoholism, a scourge in almost all of Alexie's
stories, proves fatal, and sobriety brings nobility. Basketball helps. So do
books. People try to rescue themselves with narratives to live by. ''More than
anything, he wanted a story to heal the wounds,'' Alexie wrote of Thomas. ''But
he knew that his stories never healed anything.''
The town that produced
Sherman Alexie is not on most maps. Wellpinit, Wash., is about 45 miles west of
Spokane, and it seems hidden from the world, tucked into folds of basalt and
pine forests. The Spokanes are one of the Salish-speaking tribes that lived on
the Columbia Plateau, fishing for salmon, hunting elk and digging camas bulbs
for sustenance. They dried fish and traded around the magnificent falls that
tumbles through rock in what is now downtown Spokane.
Now the great fish are gone,
and the Spokanes were long ago removed from the city that bears their name. In
rounding up the Spokanes during a punitive mission to crush all the interior
Northwest tribes in 1858, Col. George Wright was unusually cruel. When two
Indian leaders came forth to discuss terms of surrender, Wright had them
summarily hanged. Then he gathered up 800 of the Indian horses and had them
shot. ''The horses screamed'' is a refrain heard throughout Alexie's first
novel, ''Reservation Blues,'' which is about a tribal rock band that is trying
to make music in the world beyond Indian Country. One of the characters in the
book, a duplicitous New York record producer, is named George Wright.
I grew up in Spokane, in the
north end of town on Indian Trail Road. We knew nothing of the people who had
preceded us in roaming the pleasant site. Indians? Sure: the Spokane Indians
were a pretty good Pacific Coast League baseball team. The reservation was not
even a rumor. As Alexie wrote at the start of ''Reservation Blues,'' ''In the
one hundred and eleven years since the creation of the Spokane Indian Reservation
in 1881, not one person, Indian or otherwise, had ever arrived there by
accident.''
The reservation today, which
comprises 155,997 acres, is home to about half of the 2,200 members of the
Spokane tribe. There are no traffic lights, no grand entrance signs. You could
very likely nap in the middle of the main road for an hour before being
awakened by a car. The only store to speak of, the Trading Post, is as Alexie
has described it in his writing, the shelves half-bare, stocked with commodity
cheese and pastries past their pull date.
The human attachments to the
land are spare -- churches, a cemetery, a softball field, H.U.D. homes and
older cabins. But from these bare bones Alexie has created his fictional world.
In one story, a young Indian challenges a member of the tribal police to a
basketball game. But there is snow on the ground. No problem. They get a jug of
kerosene, burn the snow off the court. ''Yeah, we did that once,'' says Alexie.
''Most of that stuff I write about happened to me or somebody I knew.'' Lives
are hurt by jealousy or alcohol, and restored by love or spirituality. More
than Jesus, Humor Saves. But it has a bite. In ''Reservation Blues,'' two white
groupies arrive from Seattle, ready to go native for the weekend. ''You have all
the things we don't have,'' says one of the women. ''You live at peace with the
earth. You are so wise.'' An Indian member of the band responds: ''You've never
spent a few hours in the Powwow Tavern. I'll show you wise and peaceful.''
Such lines have not exactly
endeared Alexie to many members of his tribe. A woman who runs a program at the
reservation cultural center is dismissive. ''I don't have anything good to say
about him, so I better not say anything,'' she says. ''It's like he has used
the reservation for personal therapy, and in so doing, he's hurt a lot of
people.''
Down the road, in the
building that is home to the Spokane tribal campus of Salish-Kootenai College,
the response is similar. Asked her thoughts about the most famous member of the
tribe, Mikki Samuels, a college librarian, laughs in response. ''He's very
controversial here,'' she says. ''What people on the reservation feel is that
he's making fun of them. It's supposed to be fiction, but we all know who he's
writing about. He has wounded a lot of people. And a lot of people feel he
should try to write something positive.''
Alexie blames some of the
animosity on the politics of Indian reservations, which are typically
aggravated by family feuds and the kind of hothouse disputes that plague most
small towns. Part of it, he admits, is his own fault. ''I was as mouthy and
opinionated as a kid as I am now,'' he says.
When Alexie returns home, the
reaction is mixed. Both his parents are alcoholics, one recovering, one not.
His mother, Lillian, is a substance abuse counselor, drawing on her own
struggles to help her neighbors. Sherman is the first member of his family to
move away from the rez, as tribal members call it. For that act alone, he is
sometimes snubbed as the big-shot city writer.
''My friends are happy to see
me,'' he says. ''My enemies are not.'' As for role models, he says that Lester
the drunk ''has a strange sort of wisdom'' and that his sober characters are
his best ones.
In Seattle, where writers are
well tended, he is a celebrity. At breakfast one morning in a hilltop cafe in
Alexie's neighborhood, he gets both whispered recognition and face-to-face
compliments. In ''Indian Killer,'' he makes fun of the city and its pretensions
of tolerance, but he is embraced nonetheless. ''Liberals,'' he says. ''They
love punishment.'' Alexie's ancestry is Spokane and Coeur d'Alene. He sometimes
jokes that he has one-sixteenth British blood in him, which causes him to turn
his pinky at a particular angle while he sips tea.
Born hydrocephalic, he was
given last rites by a Catholic priest after his parents were told he would
probably not survive brain surgery in his infancy. ''I had epileptic seizures
until I was 7 years old,'' he wrote in ''One Little Indian Boy.'' ''I wet my
bed until I was 17. I was a reservation television movie of the week.'' He says
he started reading Superman comic books before he was out of diapers and then
read all of the Wellpinit School Library by the time he was 12. The early part
of college was spent in an alcoholic haze, a time when he was ''one of those
Indians upholding our stereotype.''
He gave up liquor at 23 and
has not had a drink since. While attending Washington State University, he met
his mentor, a poet and English professor named Alex Kuo. Encouraged by Kuo,
Alexie found a publisher, Hanging Loose Press in New York, which in 1992
brought out a collection of his poems, ''The Business of Fancydancing.'' When
Alexie began to give readings, it was clear that he was born to the stage. He
gets a half-dozen laughs just describing what commodity powered milk does once
it gets into your system. Several years ago, he hooked up with a Colville
Indian singer, Jim Boyd, and they put out a ''soundtrack'' to accompany the
book ''Reservation Blues.'' (Boyd sings and plays guitar; Alexie sticks with
words, doing a sort of voice-over.) Three more books of poetry followed and
then ''The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,'' the stories that
introduced many of his characters from the Spokane reservation.
''I had just come back from
the West Coast, where Sherman's poetry was everywhere, when his agent submitted
the short story book,'' says Morgan Entrekin, the publisher of Atlantic Monthly
Press, which has brought out Alexie's last three books of fiction. ''He was
such a fresh and unusual voice. Very different from other Indian writers. He
was a new generation. As he said to me, 'I'm not from the eagle-feather and
corn-pollen school.'''
Though Alexie is extremely
well read, the cultural influences he claims include ''The Brady Bunch,'' the
country bluesman Hank Williams and the Blackfeet-Gros Ventre Indian writer
James Welch. ''What floors me about Sherman is how he forces people to change
the way they view Indians,'' says Scott Rosenfelt, a founder of the Seattle
film company Shadow Catcher, producer of ''Smoke Signals'' and ''Indian
Killer.'' ''They are not loincloth Indians and they are not political. They are
Indians unlike anything we are used to seeing or reading about.''
Reviews of the first novel
were uniformly positive, glowing in some cases. The book had more grit than his
earlier stories. And then, in ''Indian Killer,'' the story of a serial killer
in modern Seattle, he challenged his readers even more, angering some of them,
particularly in the West. The Seattle Times called the novel ''a dark, yet
simplistic rendering of some of the most profoundly disturbing aspects of
American society.'' The Rocky Mountain News liked some of ''Indian Killer,''
but said that Alexie's ''general depiction of most whites in this book is
revolting -- crude, bigoted, pompous, cowardly caricatures.''
Still, just as ''Indian
Killer'' was published, Granta magazine named Alexie one of the 20 best
American novelists under 40. Not unlike Richard Wright's ''Native Son,'' the
book is about people lost in their own land -- in this case, confused urban
Indians and whites who expropriate native culture. At one point, a literary
agent says to a white writer, who has just a smidgen of Indian blood: ''Indians
are big right now. Publishers are looking for that Shaman thing, you know. The
New Age stuff, after-death experiences, the healing arts, talking animals,
sacred vortexes, that kind of thing.''
Alexie says he wanted people
to be angry after reading ''Indian Killer,'' and he was surprised that even more
reviewers were not upset. ''I'm ready for a good fight,'' he says. ''I'm not in
this to make people feel comfortable.''
Alexie promises that the
movie version of ''Indian Killer'' will push plenty of buttons. But as he
speaks, he slips in jokes so often, and comes across as so likable, that it's
hard to take him seriously when he says he is ''one ticked-off Indian.'' Much
as he tires of people viewing him as a spokesman for Indians, he has settled
into the role. ''I'm sober. I'm married to an Indian woman. I have a stable
family life. I'm polite. I've become a good role model.''
He says all this with a
twinge of regret, as if he misses the days when he used to torch a basketball
court to melt off the snow. A poet who happens to be Indian, a novelist, a film
maker, a stand-up comedian and a father can only do so much. ''You look at life
expectancy for Indians,'' he says. ''We don't live very long.''
Timothy Egan is the Seattle
bureau chief of The New York Times.
New York Times Book Review
"The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in
Heaven"
by Sherman Alexie
From The New
York Times, 17-Oct-1993;
reviewed by Reynolds Price
SHERMAN ALEXIE was born in
1966. Victor, the central character and sometime narrator of at least half of
these 22 short stories, is the same age. Like Mr. Alexie, Victor is a member of
the Spokane Indian tribe and continues to live in the state of Washington. But
where Victor has no diversions more effective than alcohol from the bleakness
of his reservation life, Sherman Alexie has a striking lyric power to lament
and praise that same crucial strain of modern American life -- the oldest and
most unendingly punished strain, the Native American, as it's been transformed
for many Indians through a long five centuries of brutal reduction to powerlessness
and its lethal companions: alcoholism, malnutrition and suicidal self-loathing.
There are three stories here that could stand in any collection of excellence
-- "The Trial of Thomas Builds-the-Fire," "Jesus Christ's
Half-Brother Is Alive and Well on the Spokane Indian Reservation" and
"Witnesses, Secret and Not."
Young as he is, though,
Mr. Alexie has employed his gift briskly. The present volume is his first
full-length work of fiction, but last year he published "The Business of
Fancydancing," a widely praised collection of poems and sketches, and
there are earlier collections of poetry, "Old Shirts & New
Skins," "I Would Steal Horses" and "First Indian on the
Moon." Though the themes, the tones of voice and the names of characters
are often identical in the two most recent volumes, "The Business of
Fancydancing" consists mostly of verse -- laconic and grim but often
humorous free-verse responses to the same world that underlies all Mr. Alexie's
work.
"The Lone Ranger and
Tonto Fistfight in Heaven" is entirely in prose, its tales ranging in
length from fewer than five pages to more than 10. Each part is named
promisingly -- the title piece is a good example -- yet a majority of the
pieces quickly dispense with the common reader's expectations of short
narrative. There is very little plot in any of them -- plot in the sense of
consecutive action with emotional outcome. Little human conflict is witnessed
in present time; almost no attention is paid to whatever visible world
surrounds the vocal line of narration, though there are frequent generic
references to HUD housing, crowded saloons and powwows enriched by the
omnipresent Indian fry bread. With those sparse hints, the reader is expected
to perform a number of jobs that are generally assumed by the writer. Anyone
impelled to enter Mr. Alexie's world must conspire with the sound of his
fictional voices to create a new world, to people it and then to feel along
with a set of characters about whom we're told little more than their names and
a few slender facts about their age and health.
Knowledge of the immensely
imposing and varied body of recent fiction by American Indians -- from N. Scott
Momaday and James Welch to Leslie Marmon Silko -- will suggest that there's
nothing especially typical of Native Americans in Mr. Alexie's limited angle of
vision and in the kinds of dense filters he interposes between the reader and
the world implied. In a terse three sentences in his beautiful closing story,
however, the narrator seems to claim otherwise. He says: "One Indian
doesn't tell another what to do. We just watch things happen and then make
comments. It's all about reaction as opposed to action."
However unpromising a
creed that would seem to be for a fiction writer who hopes to be read by a
culturally assorted audience, its offhand claim defines the motive force of
these pieces. The great surprise is that given such narrow bounds, Mr. Alexie's
strength proves sufficient to compel clear attention through sizable lengths of
first-person voice (the hardest voice to make compelling, given all our dread
of the first-person bore; and most of Mr. Alexie's voices resemble one another
closely). The skills by which he lures us on through the quickly familiar
atmosphere are a stark lucidity of purpose and an extreme simplicity of cast
and action (there are seldom more than two characters present in any scene).
Above all, he lures us with a live and unremitting lyric energy in the
fast-moving, occasionally surreal and surprisingly comic language of his
progress.
PASSAGES as lively as the
following are not infrequent, and go a good way toward lifting the stingy
minimalist gloom that might otherwise sink more of these sketches than the two
or three that actually founder: "In the outside world, a person can be a
hero one second and a nobody the next. Think about it. Do white people remember
the names of those guys who dove into that icy river to rescue passengers from
that plane wreck a few years back? Hell, white people don't even remember the
names of dogs who save entire families from burning up in house fires by
barking."
However exhilarating such
vitality proves to be throughout the volume, a sympathetic reader may finally
dwell on a serious question -- and it's a question that arises in the presence
of any writer who not only is very young but who is also publishing rapidly.
Has Sherman Alexie moved too fast for his present strength? A youthful prodigy
is far scarcer in narrative writing than in any other art. There have been
great poems from teen-agers, great pieces of music and admirable paintings; but
there's no sizable body of impressive fiction by any writer much under 30. The
power to dredge up useful narrative lumber from the packed unconscious mostly
requires long years of mute waiting while the mind flows over and reshapes its
memories into public objects of arresting interest and wide utility.
Despite his extraordinary powers,
in the quick succession of two books in two years Sherman Alexie has plumbed a
number of obsessive themes and relationships as deeply as they permit; and
moments of gray, unrevealing monotony are too common. Though no one can tell a
writer -- least of all a young one -- where to look and how to see, the reader
who admires Mr. Alexie's plentiful moments of startling freshness and his risky
dives into unmapped waters can wish for him now that he discovers a new and
merciful rhythm that will let him find new eyes, new sights and patterns in a
wider world, and a battery of keener voices for launching his urgent knowledge
toward us.
2009, http://bigthink.com/ideas/17132
Sherman Alexie: My name is
Sherman Alexie and I’m the bantamweight champion of the world. No, I’m a
writer, poet, short story writer, novelist, screenwriter.
Question: How has it felt
becoming a literary community “insider”?
Sherman Alexie: You young
bastard, I’m doing okay. It is a strange dilemma because in some sense, you
know, I was very native, very native identified, and I still am, but that’s
almost become secondary. I’ve sort of joined the tribe of highly established literary
writers. So, you know, I’m with the Jonathan Franzens of the world. You know, I
know him a little bit, but that’s sort of my peer group now, rather than just
sort of, you know, Indian world, literary world, I’m now in, you know, this
sort of make-believe world of writers who supposedly hang out a lot, although
none of us ever do. So I’m in a faux community of writers, highly successful,
literary writers now.
Question: Has success changed
your work?
Sherman Alexie: Oh, it’s all, I
mean, I haven’t changed anything I’ve written based on all that stuff. So the
perceptions of me may have changed, or my career, but I’m still writing the
same stuff, it’s still pretty much about Spokane Indian males, you know,
stumbling through life. So I think it’s because of the combination of skills I
have, you know, I work in multi-genres, you know, I do stand-up comedy, I help
make movies, I think all of that has contributed to it. I’m not just a novelist
or not just a short story writer. So I think in this highly technological world
with many diverse and diffuse influences, I think I’m able to hit a lot of
aces.
Question: When you’re a writer,
is doing anything besides writing selling out?
Sherman Alexie: Nobody who’s ever
been poor would ever use the phrase “selling out.” You know, my influences in
the multi-genre artists come from my Indian writing ancestors, the previous
generation. When you’re talking James Welch, Simon Ortiz, Scott Momaday, Joy
Harjo, Leslie Silko, Linda Hogan, Adrian C. Louis, all of these writers were
multi-genre. They all wrote poetry and novels and short stories and non-fiction
and dabbled in songwriting and filmmaking and documentary making. So my
original influences were Native American, multi-genre artists.
Now, these days, the younger
Native writers are not multi-genre, so it’s very interesting. I’m not sure
what’s happening, why that has changed, but I grew up as a kid writer. Nobody
ever told me I was supposed to be one thing, so just because I happened to
become successful in a number of those genres, it wasn’t because I was pursuing
them economically, it was because I saw the artistic possibilities in all of
it. And I was taught those when I was a, you know, 19-year-old undergraduate.
Question: Why haven’t you joined
academia?
Sherman Alexie: Yeah, I think I’m
the least educated Indian writer out there. I’ve taught at the University of
Washington, so, but I’m not a good teacher, so I think that probably
disqualifies me. Yeah, I’m not in academia at all, in terms of a full-time
career. I think it’s interesting, because I think, when you look at Native
American literature, you’re going to find that it doesn’t really reflect the
diversity of the ways in which the writers actually lived their lives. Nobody’s
ever written, for instance, an academic farce, a Native American teacher at
college farce, which is a time-honored and wonderful genre. You know, David
Lodge made a whole career out of it, writing academic farces and, you know,
every writer you can name has written it, but we haven’t done it. You know,
where’s that novel about that Indian architect or that Indian lawyer. There’s a
distinct lack of white-collar Native American literature, despite the fact that
most of its most visible practitioners are white-collar themselves. So I think
there’s an effort, somewhat of an insecurity to prove your Indian-ness by
focusing almost entirely on a reservation-based identity.
Question: What’s the connection
between your writing and your stand-up comedy?
Sherman Alexie: Well, I think
it’s old-fashioned actually. You know, I think people think it’s something new,
but the idea of being a storyteller, you know, for most of our existence was
not related to books, it was about the ability to stand up in front of the fire
and, you know, earn your supper. So I think it’s just something old and
inspired in me, but I never really was the funny guy growing up. If you’d ask
my siblings, they’d tell you I was the depressed guy in the basement, but
they’re the funny ones. But it just, I got on stage and started talking and people
laughed. At the beginning, I didn’t even necessarily know what was happening,
but as the years have gone on, I realized that humor is pretty amazing in its
ability to transcend differences, politically, ethnically, racially,
geographically, economically. There’s something about it that really opens
people up spiritually, I think, and they listen. They pay attention. And it’s
also a great way to offend people.
I don’t know, we’ve all been to
literary readings, you know, where we got theater, but so bored by the person
up in front of us reading their work so dispassionately that it nearly turns us
off their books. You know, there are writers who I’ve heard do their work that
I can only hear their voice when I’m reading their books and it’s so disinterested
in their own stuff and I just never wanted to do that. I wanted to make the
mistake the other way, you know, I’m pleased when somebody’s offended, you
know, by my large stage presence, because there’s still people who show up who
get offended. I get up there and give a show and I’m improvising and, you know,
talking about current events and what happened yesterday or what happened an
hour ago, what happened five minutes before I walked into the place, you know,
and giving people a glimpse of how my, you know, crazy mind works. And then
they’ll come up after me and say, “Well, I’m really disappointed you didn’t
read the story,” and you look at them and think, “Well, you can read the story,
you know, what happened tonight will only happen once! You know, you were here
for a one-time thing!” So I guess people are trapped in their perception of
what a literary artist is supposed to be.
Question: Do you find narrative
or poetry harder?
Sherman Alexie: You know, I write
poems naturally. I’m writing them all the time. I think it’s more of a reflex
talent than fiction is for me. Seems like I have to work harder to write
fiction. That said, poems are much more demanding, you have fewer words, you
can make fewer mistakes. You know, if you write a ten-line poem, you really
can’t make any mistakes. If you do, the poem is terrible. But when you write a
novel, you have all that space to mess up in and people are more forgiving. So
I think poetry audiences are far more demanding than fiction audiences are.
Question: What do you consider
your best work?
Sherman Alexie: Well, you know,
writers generally come in two groups, those who love what they do and those who
can’t stand what they do. I’m in the second group. I have a really difficult
time looking back. Yeah, so I figure out of the thousands of pages I’ve
published, there’s probably about 100 great pages. I think I worked on probably
about a 2 percent greatness rate. So there’s probably 10 poems, 2 stories that
are great and the rest of it is from anywhere from pretty good to, you know,
total crap.
Question: Does the print book
have a future?
Sherman Alexie: You know, the
book is not played out. The idea of what a book can be is not played out in its
form as it is, with paper and covers. And there are things that can be that
digital will never touch, and that’s one of the things I wanted to do with
this, and comparing it to a cassette tape, the old-fashioned way of making a
mix tape, which, you know, I love burning CD’s, too, but there is something far
more passionate and hands-on and hard work about making a mix tape on a
cassette. It’s too easy to revise with a CD. And today’s technology makes it
too easy to change immediately. You can cover your mistakes quicker. I think it
allows you to have the sheen of perfection around yourself and with an
old-fashioned book or an old-fashioned cassette tape, you can actually see all
the flaws and imperfections and the bad choices. And I think there’s something
we lose with technology when you talk about bad choices.
Question: Why do you consider
e-books elitist?
Sherman Alexie: Well, they cost
$300, number one. I don’t think anything that costs $300 can be called
egalitarian. You know, how much of the world can afford a $300 reading device?
1 percent of 1 percent of 1 percent, it automatically qualifies for, you know,
economically elite status.
But what’s really going on here,
the reading public doesn’t really know about, and all they’re concerned about
and all they’re defending is their reading convenience, which I completely
understand. Whether it’s because of physical disabilities or because of
personal preference, or just the newness of it, why they love a digital book.
But they don’t understand the economic, corporate pressures going on in the
publishing world. And what’s going to happen, and this is going to happen on
the Internet, too. We like to pretend that the Internet is free, you know, we
like to pretend it’s an open source culture, but as culture changes, as old
corporate models of distributing information are changing, you know, I don’t
know why people assume that corporations aren’t going to take over this medium
as well, because they can.
And so what’s happening in the
book world, the digital books, is that these e-book companies, you know,
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, others that are rising, they just don’t seek to
publish books, they’re going to end up seeking the books to be chosen to be
published. So this economic model, the way it’s set up now, is going to favor a
certain kind of book and publishers and being economically motivated companies
are only going to be publishing those kinds of books. And the divide between
pop culture, pop writing, and literary writing is just going to increase and
increase and increase and it’s going to make it harder and harder and harder
for first-time writers to get published in any form whatsoever where they’ll
get attention.
Question: Does the Web help or
hurt the connection between artist and audience?
Sherman Alexie: Who can find you?
Who’s going to find anybody? Nobody’s really risen out of the Internet to
become a major voice. They always end up getting a book published and then the
book makes them a major voice, but nobody has. I mean, I’m trying to think, you
know, I’m not Internet averse at all, I’m doing this. I mean, I love the Internet.
But the fact is, is that it’s a giant, giant, unfiltered library which has its
strengths and beauty, but it’s impossible to find people.
And, you know, what we end up
doing anyway is I go to about five sites. You know, and I think most people
probably do the same thing, you create this little small town inside the
Internet and we end up in all these little, tiny separate communities. Joan
Jett, an interview with Joan Jett, she said about the music industry, she said
the thing that’s missing now is anticipation. She said that nobody gets in a
big line outside of Tower Records any more waiting for that new Stones album to
drop. And nobody stands in line outside a record store waiting to buy the
tickets for The Who concert. There’s a real lack of community, you know, in the
Internet experience when it comes to art. And you can’t tell me and it’s not
true, that communicating strictly through the Internet forms community in the
way that being together does. You’re missing all but one sense. You don’t smell
people, you don’t really hear them, you don’t see them, and we’re animals,
we’re creatures of senses, and the Internet deprives you of many of those.
And so I know there’s new art
coming based on this technology and some if it’s happening and it’s exciting
and interesting, but there’s nothing wrong with the old art. And I always worry
and you see it with certain Internet folks, the way in which they’re completely
willing to jettison their past in the pursuit of something new, and that’s what
I’m worried about.
Question: What does it mean to be
a “method author”?
Sherman Alexie: Well, in order to
write about the emotional state of a character, I have to get as close as
possible to being in that emotional state. So I have to get that sad, I have to
get that happy, that crazed, that bizarre, that obsessed. You know, whatever
one of my characters are going through, I have to find my way into it. You
know, it’s just the way I do it.
Question: Can you give an example
from your latest book?
Sherman Alexie: Well, there’s a
story in this book [“War Dances”] called the “Ballad of Paul Nonetheless,”
where he becomes so obsessed with pop music and so obsessed with his iPod, that
he, you know, every thought he has becomes directly related to a song. So I
went that far into it. I tried to talk only in song lyrics. You know, whenever
anybody was talking to me, I drove my friends and family mad, because whenever
they would talk to me, you know, I would say, “Well, that reminds me of this,
you know, Rolling Stones song,” or whenever anybody said something accidentally
that was a lyric or a title of a song, I would then sing the song. So it was
crazy. But it got me seeing the way it was completely alienating my friends and
family, really got me to a place where I could write that story about this
really genial guy who’s actually very much an anti-hero.
Question: How did you know you
had a drinking problem?
Sherman Alexie: Oh, a case of
beer a day. You know, I could drink a fifth of tequila a day. You know, it
becomes a drinking problem when it affects your relationships with people, when
it affects your job or your school, your grade point average. You know, affects
your, it’s a drinking problem when you’re sitting on your couch at home
drinking the case of beer all by yourself, and then you pass out and grab the
fifth of tequila when you wake up. So pretty obvious what my problem was.
Question: Does alcohol primarily
help or hurt writers?
Sherman Alexie: Well, I wrote
“The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven” and “The Business of Fancy
Dancing” while drunk and drinking. So there’s certainly a lot to be said for my
desperate years, my alcoholic years, my active alcoholic years is being the
source of some pretty good work, for being the source of the two books that
established and made my career. But the thing is, it’s unsustainable. You know,
if you are using substances to fuel your creativity, you’re going to have a
very, very short artistic life. You’re going to be a sprinter and by and large,
I wanted to become a marathon runner. And I can only run the marathon if I’m
sober.
You kill your brain. You kill
your brain. You know, please try to find me, the successful drug user. You
know, try to find me, the high-functioning alcoholic, you know, career person,
and you could probably find in their work when they were drinking, when they
weren’t. I bet you could look at the downfall of some amazing writers who wrote
one or two great books and then just fell apart, I’m pretty sure that’s related
to alcohol consumption. So, it’s unsustainable, you know, it’s sort of like the
environment, you can only pour so much pollutants into it before the
temperature changes dramatically. So I think drug and alcohol abuse is like the
greenhouse affect for writers.
Question: As a Native American
writer, do you feel special pressure to address alcoholism?
Sherman Alexie: Well, I mean, I’m
an alcoholic, that’s what, you know, my family is filled with alcoholics. My
tribe is filled with alcoholics. The whole race is filled with alcoholics. For
those Indians who try to pretend it’s a stereotype, they’re in deep, deep
denial. It’s an every day part of my life and as a writer, I use that to write
about it. You know, partly for fictional purposes, and narrative purposes, but
partly with the social hope that by writing about it, maybe it’ll help people
get sober, and it has. I’ve heard from them. You know, the social function of
art is very important to me. It’s not just for art’s sake. I have very specific
ideas in mind about what it can do. I’ve seen it happen. So it is writing about
alcohol that helps me stay sober. And I think reading about alcoholism helps
other people stay sober.
Question: Have your kids affected
your writing?
Sherman Alexie: I try to meet
deadlines. I have, you know, more dependents, so it’s a very, very basic
triangle needs. That bottom, you know, part of the triangle. But, well, they’re
always surprising me. The kids are always surprising me with their insights
into the world and of course because they’re my children, I pay more attention
to what they’re saying than pretty much everybody else on the planet. I care
more what my kids say on a daily basis than, you know, the smartest people on
the planet. You know? And so I listen and their insights are really surprising
and the way in which how unfiltered they are and their obsessions and passions,
they don’t apologize for any of that. So I learn a lot from them, you know,
it’s also aggravating and irritating and exhausting, the sacrifices you make
and, you know, sometimes it feels like my whole life is a to-do list. But, you
know, I think their passion for life really has re-inspired me.
Question: Do you want your
children to read your work?
Sherman Alexie: No. I don’t, I
mean, they’re autonomous. I certainly, if they want to read my stuff and talk
about it later, that’ll be great. But until then, it was so funny though, I was
profiled on the Lehrer News Hour recently and I was watching the rough cut of
it and my son came down, my eight year old, and he was watching it on the TV
with me and it was a five-minute piece about poetry and I read a couple poems
and I read one very emotional one about my father’s death. And it was over and
my son looked at me, he’s eight years old, he looked at me and he goes, “Dad,
you’re pretty good!” So that was a great moment.
Question: Whom would you most
like to meet?
Sherman Alexie: It’s funny, this
popped into my head, so I’ll go with it, Shoeless Joe Jackson, who was banned
from baseball in 1919 for allegedly fixing the World Series. Country boy, ended
up being a great baseball player, one of the greatest of all time, I’d like to
talk to him about that World Series, about the mysteries of human nature.
Because, you know, you’re looking at the stats, I’m pretty sure he didn’t
participate in the fix, but he knew about it, so I’d like to have a discussion
of morality with Shoeless Joe Jackson.
Question: Who are your literary
heroes?
Sherman Alexie: Well, there are
just certain poems and novels and stories that resonate forever and ever. You
know, poems I always return to, Emily Dickinson: “Because I could not stop for
Death, that kindly stopped for me.” You know, Theodore Roethke: “I know a
woman,” you know, “I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, when small birds
sighed, she would sigh back at them.” James Wright: “Suddenly I realized that
if I stepped outside my body, I would break into blossom.” And then, you know,
the end of “Grapes of Wrath,” when Rose of Sharon breastfeeds, you know, her
child has died, but she breastfeeds the starving man, that moment? So it’s always
individual works. Even in life, I don’t have heroes. I believe in heroic ideas,
because the creators of all those ideas are very human. And if you make heroes
out of people, you will invariably be disappointed.
Question: Was there a particular
work that moved you as a child?
Sherman Alexie: Oh, Ezra Jack
Keats, “A Snowy Day,” the book. You know, the idea of multicultural literature
is very new and so as a little Indian boy growing up on the reservation, there
was nobody like me in the books, so you always had to extrapolate. But when I
picked up A Snowy Day with that inner-city black kid, that child, walking
through the, you know, snow covered, pretty quiet and lonely city, oh, I mean,
when he was making snow angels and, you know, when he was getting in snowball
fights and when he got home to his mother and it was cold and she put him in a
hot bathtub and put him to sleep, the loneliness and the love in that book, oh,
just gorgeous. So that picture resonates with me still.
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