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      March 16, 2025Bad BackSherman Alexie

      Last night, in 7-11, the cashier reached
      across the counter to scan my purchases
      then grimaced and grabbed the small
       
      of his back. I know that pain well
      so I said, “I’ve got a bad back, too.”
      He sighed and said, “It is the lifting,”
       
      he said. “I lift too many bottles
      and cans in the cooler.” He owns
      the store, I think, because he seems
       
      to work every shift just like my boss
      who often worked the graveyard
      shift with me at the 24-hour deli
       
      in 1987. I was slender in those years
      and a good athlete but my back still
      ached. “It’s my long torso,” I said
       
      to the 7-11 owner. “And my legs
      are goofy short. I’m 6-2 standing up
      and 6-8 sitting down. I’m a bad
       
      lever.” Then I bent slightly
      at the waist to give him visual
      evidence and laughed when
       
      that move made my back spasm.
      “You are not old,” the 7-11 owner
      said. “And I am not old. But we
       
      are old.” I smiled at his poetic
      observation then carefully carried
      my purchases toward my car
       
      but stopped first to give Jason,
      the homeless man, all the stuff
      that I’d bought for him: the Italian
       
      sub sandwich, potato chips, Sprite,
      and beef jerky for his dog, Lady.
      I don’t know why Jason is homeless.
       
      He uses a wheelchair. I fist-bump him
      then I ease into my car and drive
      away. I like to help the men and women
       
      who sit outside convenience stores.
      I rarely have cash to give them. Who
      carries cash these days? Instead,
       
      I buy them mostly food and drinks.
      But I’ve also bought them medicine,
      toothpaste, deodorant, and various
       
      other toiletries, too. But I won’t buy
      them cigarettes or booze. I always feel
      hypocritical for making that tiny
       
      moral stand. Why do I make myself
      the judge? I haul around dozens
      of my own addictions. Maybe
       
      that’s why my back is bad. Onstage,
      I used to tell audiences that my spine
      was twisted from carrying the burden
       
      of my race. I used to say that every
      Indian struggles with a limp
      in the bones and soul. But, then
       
      again, I shouldn’t get too wrapped
      up in my Indian-ness. All around me,
      people of every kin and kind are
       
      limping. Ah, the eternal diversity
      of the limp! Ah, the endless variations
      of the bent and busted back!
       
      Last night, after I arrived home
      from the 7-11, I saw that my friends
      and family had sent me dozens
       
      of texts and emails about Trump.
      I read a few—all the rage, doubt,
      and fear are justified—but I felt
       
      my back spasm again. I didn’t want
      to feel that weight so I deleted all
      of the unread messages, links,
       
      and emails. Then I lay flat
      on the floor and talked aloud
      to everybody in my life. Listen,
       
      I said. You’re letting that man take
      hours, days, weeks, months,
      and years from your life. But more
       
      than that, you’re letting him turn
      you into the worst possible version
      of yourself. He’s a contagion
       
      and you’re coughing up blood.
      There’s pieces of you splattered
      across the screens of your phones,
       
      tablets, and laptops. Yeah, I know
      I was being a moralizing asshole
      but the daily news is stripping
       
      the flesh from my body and soul.
      Yeah, I know that many people
      are in danger but my solipsistic
       
      fury doesn’t protect anybody.
      I know, as a writer and an Indian
      and an Indian writer that I am
       
      expected to offer advice. But
      I have nothing but this consolation:
      Everything you’re feeling now
       
      is what I’ve always felt
      as a reservation-raised Indian.
      And, hey, I’m a survivor. I’m 51%
       
      intact. In this moment, as I write,
      I can hear the bathroom fan
      but I’m going to pretend
       
      it’s the roar of a mythical
      waterfall that the multitudes
      of wild salmon are still
       
      climbing. And, hey, I might
      as well be a brown bear
      fishing with my sharp claws.
       
      Look at me! I’m carrying
      a wild salmon in my teeth.
      I’m going to feast then fall
       
      and fall into a gorgeous
      hibernation for at least
      the next hour or three.
       
      I’m going to rub my sleepy
      eyes and pray that winter
      will quickly change
       
      into spring. I’m going to press
      my bad back against the earth
      and wait for everybody’s rebirth.
       

      from Poets Respond

      Sherman Alexie

      “I’m responding to the hourly deluge of journalism about President Trump’s authoritarian actions and ambitions. And I’m also responding to the constant deluge of texts and emails from my fearful and angry friends and family.”