Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Histories, Places, Indians, Just Like Always" is a series of vignettes spanning multiple locations—Freiburg, New York City, Martinique, Frostburg, and Santa Fe—each offering a glimpse into the presence, erasure, and endurance of Indigenous identity across time and space. The poem is structured as a travelogue, but rather than centering on the speaker’s personal experiences, it focuses on the Indigenous people he encounters, the stories he hears, and the histories that persist despite colonial displacement and cultural marginalization. The refrain "just like always" reinforces the idea that these patterns—displacement, resistance, and survival—are not new, but rather part of a continuous history.

The first vignette takes place in Freiburg, Germany, June 1992, where the speaker comes across a Quechua Indian group playing Andean music. He immediately identifies them as "Incas," connecting them to their historical lineage. His internal monologue—"Peru, I say in a whisper."—suggests reverence, recognition, and perhaps a sense of kinship. When he approaches, he notices the "bit of change, some deutsche marks in a little box." The contrast between the grandeur of their cultural heritage and the reality of their economic precarity is striking. Ortiz presents them as "far from home," emphasizing the dispersal of Indigenous peoples across the world, often in search of survival. Yet, despite being so far from the Andes, their music persists, a testament to the endurance of Indigenous identity even in displacement.

The second vignette shifts to New York City, December 1992, where the speaker encounters a Navajo man with a sign reading "Need Money To Get Back Home to Window Rock, Navajo Nation." The speaker, recognizing him as a fellow Native, greets him in Navajo: "Yaahteh," holding out my hand, smiling." But the man’s reaction is striking: "The 42nd Street traffic up and down the street is ceaseless. The man looks at me, shakes his head and ignores my hand." This moment is heavy with unspoken meaning. The traffic, "ceaseless," mirrors the relentless pressures of urban life that have displaced Indigenous people from their homelands. The man’s refusal to acknowledge the speaker suggests alienation—not only from non-Natives but even from his own people. His presence in the city, his economic hardship, and his rejection of the speaker’s gesture all point to the fractures created by displacement and marginalization.

In Martinique, March 1993, the speaker is guided by Veronique, Yannick, and Lydie through the history of Saint-Pierre, a city that was wiped out by the 1902 eruption of Mount Pelée, killing "30,000 French colonialists, only one African survived." This moment underscores the catastrophic consequences of colonialism—both the destruction it brings and the resilience of the colonized. The significance deepens when Veronique tells the speaker about a "magic-mystic tree in Martinique that never dies. It’s called Acoma, spelled exactly like you spell Acoma." The tree’s ability to regenerate even when cut down parallels the endurance of Indigenous peoples—particularly the speaker’s own people, the Acoma Pueblo. "It never dies. It keeps living." This refrain becomes a metaphor for cultural survival, linking the speaker’s own heritage to a larger global pattern of resilience.

In Frostburg, Maryland, April 1993, the speaker visits a historic local museum, which presents a version of history centered on colonial achievements: "Historic railroad station, historic canal, historic town where George Washington slept one night, historic postcards." The repetition of "historic" exposes the narrowness of what is considered historically significant. The erasure of Indigenous presence is confirmed when the speaker asks a clerk, "Who are the Indians native to western Maryland?" The clerk, "looking puzzled," can only offer a book that mentions Indigenous people in passing—"on one or two pages." This brief reference to Indigenous history contrasts sharply with the extensive commemoration of colonial figures and infrastructure. The absence of Indigenous narratives in public history is not accidental; it is part of the ongoing process of historical erasure that reinforces colonial dominance.

The final vignette takes place in Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 1993, where a Pueblo Indian man speaks about "taxes, Indians, culture, and art." His grievances reflect a broader pattern of Indigenous struggle: "Until the portal was wrecked lately by a Santa Fe teenager, he sold shell jewelry daily under the Governor’s Palace portal." The use of "wrecked" suggests both literal destruction and the broader dismantling of Indigenous economic and cultural practices. He continues: "I don’t know when they’ll let us sell there again. Maybe when they tell us. If they let us. Just like always." The uncertainty of when or if Indigenous artisans will be allowed to resume their traditional economic practices highlights the systemic control imposed over Native livelihoods. The man expands his frustration: "Now there’s the tax threat again. Again, just like always. Going and coming, they threat us again, you know. The land and now our culture and art too, just like always." The repetition of "just like always" emphasizes the cyclical nature of oppression—land dispossession, economic restrictions, and cultural suppression are recurring battles.

Ortiz’s free verse structure, his minimal use of punctuation, and his reliance on direct encounters rather than explicit analysis allow the poem to speak for itself. The shifting locations reflect a global Indigenous experience, where displacement, marginalization, and resilience intersect. Each vignette builds upon the next, showing how Indigenous identity persists in music, memory, place, and economic struggle.

"Histories, Places, Indians, Just Like Always" is ultimately a meditation on the endurance of Indigenous peoples despite centuries of colonial disruption. The phrase "just like always" carries both weariness and resilience—it acknowledges the exhausting repetition of oppression but also affirms the ongoing survival of Indigenous culture and identity. Whether in Germany, New York, Martinique, Maryland, or New Mexico, the poem reveals how history is always present—both in the ways it is erased and in the ways it refuses to disappear. Through music, language, memory, and resistance, Indigenous peoples remain, just like always.

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