Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Anthropology of American Scholars: Notes, That Is" is a sharp, layered critique of academic discourse on land, ownership, and civilization. Written in a fragmented, note-taking style, the poem captures the alienation of an Indigenous perspective within a scholarly setting that dissects land and identity in theoretical, detached terms. Ortiz highlights the absurdity of academic language when it attempts to explain, justify, or categorize Indigenous relationships to land—relationships that are deeply lived rather than intellectually debated. The poem weaves together irony, exasperation, and reflection, ultimately leading to a moment of quiet frustration as the speaker finds himself trapped in observation rather than action.

The poem begins with an immediate questioning of the scholarly setting: "What? Two women stand to ‘give their papers’ and one man sits to read his. Why?" This opening disrupts the typical reverence given to academic presentations, reducing them to a curious spectacle rather than an authoritative exchange of knowledge. The contrast between the women standing and the man sitting subtly points to power dynamics and expectations—why do some perform while others simply speak? The framing of "give their papers" in quotation marks further distances the speaker from the formality of academia, suggesting a skepticism toward its rituals and methods.

The poem then presents an academic question that exposes the gap between theoretical inquiry and lived experience: "The man asks, ‘Why do people say they have a special bond to land?’" The phrasing of the question itself signals a fundamental disconnect—why people claim a bond to land, rather than how that bond manifests, suggests that the scholar treats the idea as something to be examined rather than understood. This intellectualization of land attachment reflects a colonial mindset, one that reduces Indigenous connection to place into an abstract debate rather than an undeniable reality.

Ortiz continues this critique through fragments of academic jargon and historical justifications for land ownership: "Ethnicity and territory coincide perfectly." This phrase reads like a thesis statement, yet it erases the complexities of forced displacement, genocide, and cultural loss. The phrase "They carved farms out of wilderness." invokes the familiar colonial narrative of taming an empty, hostile land—ignoring the fact that Indigenous peoples had cultivated and lived on these lands for millennia. Ortiz’s response to such statements is interwoven with sarcastic disbelief: "What? Why? What in the world does that mean?" The break in form here signals a personal reaction within the otherwise clinical notes, emphasizing the absurdity of such statements when viewed from an Indigenous perspective.

The poem then shifts into a broader meditation on displacement: "Without a doubt there is a homeland somewhere." This phrase is repeated, echoing both the colonial and Indigenous perspectives. For Europeans, "homeland somewhere" refers to their origins—Africa, Europe, places they left behind. For Indigenous people, it refers to lands they were violently removed from, their homelands stolen and redefined by outsiders. The repetition of "After the war, did they go home? If they did, where was home?" further complicates this idea. War and colonization sever the connection between people and place, making home a fluid, sometimes inaccessible concept.

Ortiz then critiques the rhetoric of land ownership directly: "‘Transcendental justification for land ownership.’ What? Why? They didn’t need any. They just took the land and became owners!" The reference to "transcendental justification" mocks the ways colonial settlers framed their occupation of land—whether through religious claims, legal constructs, or philosophical arguments. Ortiz cuts through these justifications with brutal simplicity: the land was taken, and ownership was imposed.

The next lines expose the contradictions within colonial ideology: "Rights of cultivators take precedence over nomads!" This statement, long used to justify displacement of Indigenous peoples, is presented alongside: "Read: Whites’ contribution to civilizing of South Africa. / Read: Whites’ contribution to civilizing of the Americas. / Read: Natives’ contribution to civilizing of Whites." The repetition of "Read:" mimics the authoritative tone of academic texts, yet Ortiz turns the last line into an inversion. If Whites claim to have civilized Indigenous lands, then Indigenous peoples, by their endurance and resistance, have also shaped and influenced White settlers—perhaps more profoundly than they acknowledge.

The final section moves from intellectual frustration to personal reflection: "After the session, I have to take a break from listening and taking notes and wondering." The need to "take a break" suggests exhaustion—not just from the discussion itself, but from the act of constantly having to listen to theories that detach land from lived experience. The speaker walks to a natural space: "a grassy hill sloping down to a murky river." Here, the river serves as a metaphor for what remains inaccessible—connection, movement, escape.

The final lines capture a deep sense of entrapment: "I want to cross the river and walk along the path into the trees. But there is no way to cross the river, and so I’m stuck with more listening and taking notes and wondering." The desire to move toward the trees symbolizes a longing for direct experience, for a connection to land that is being discussed in such abstract, distant terms. But the river—a barrier—prevents this. The speaker is "stuck," both physically and intellectually, forced to return to the conference and endure more discussions that fail to grasp the realities of Indigenous identity and land.

Ortiz’s use of free verse, fragmented thoughts, and interruptions of academic language creates a rhythm that mimics both note-taking and internal dialogue. The shifts between detached observation, incredulity, and longing emphasize the dissonance between Indigenous ways of knowing and the academic frameworks that seek to categorize them.

"Anthropology of American Scholars: Notes, That Is" is ultimately a critique of how Western scholarship distorts, simplifies, and justifies colonial history. Ortiz highlights the absurdity of discussing land ownership, displacement, and civilization in detached academic terms when these are lived experiences of loss, survival, and resistance. The poem ends with a powerful image of entrapment—wanting to cross into something real, something meaningful, but being forced to remain in a space of endless, fruitless discussion. Through this, Ortiz asserts that land is not just a topic of study; it is something felt, known, and belonged to—something that no academic framework can ever fully comprehend.

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