James Welch's "Harlem, Montana" An Accurate History Through Poetry

I appreciate the Oregon Literary Review for publishing talented writers of color!  It’s just something you don’t see too often.  And Native poets at that, like James Welch (Blackfeet) who I had just heard of for the first time a couple days ago from my fellow artist at the Montana Artist Refuge, Tommy Orange (Cheyenne) who is also from Oakland.  Another exciting link I discovered is that one of the featured poets in this issue is Native poet Jennifer Foerster, who I am proud to say (shameless plug!), is in the forthcoming anthology I am editing Turtle Island to Abya Yala: A Love Anthology of Art and Poetry by Native American and Latina Women.  

James Welch’s poem “Harlem, Montana.  Just Off the Reservation” sums up the racism, tension, and history here in Montana in a nutshell.  After fellow Native artist Brooke Swaney Pepion (Salish/Blackfeet) and I returned from Butte back to Basin I told her how I was surprised how racially segregated it is here.  Before coming to Montana I had thought it would be separate as far as the majority white and Indian population, but for some reason I had forgotten and was in disbelief.  She said,  

“No girl, yea back in the day if you were Blackfeet and you stepped off the Rez, you would be arrested and fined.”

Welch demonstrates the inequalities, alcoholism, and desperation many Native American face here when he writes, 

“The Constable, a local farmer, plants the jail with wild raven-haired stiffs who beg just one more drink.”

What I have observed in my short time here is there are a lot of working class whites also suffering from alcoholism.  Across from my “refuge” I walked passed a shed-like home at mid-day that had a sign on it saying “No public drunkenness alllowed.”   A couple minutes later I saw a man swaggering out of the local bar into this home.  Public drunkeness in this “white town” of Basin (population  approx. 250) is not uncommon.  Also in Butte, I saw many rough-looking white men drinking outside of the local bar, or saloon as many of them are still called.  This does not mean there are not oppressive conditions for Native Americans in the area.  There are and this is true, but there are layers here that speak to a hardworking life for many of the whites in the area not so far off from that of the livelihood of the Native Americans.  Maybe that is why the racial tension is still so strong, a “my people” versus “your people” mentality still exists for poor whites who want to try and “get ahead” of their Native American counterparts.   A sense of entitlement, yes and you see this in all of the preservation of colonial history around (steel mining landmarks, Irish and Finnish memorabilia, romanticization of Lewis and Clark, etc.) and a lack of celebrated history for Native Americans.

Welch masterfully weaves this complex depiction and even shows the economic tension and lack of tolerance for difference as exemplified by his mention of the Amish looking Hutterites,

“Now, Only the Hutterites are nice.  We hate them.  They are tough and their crops are always good.  We accuse them of idiocy and believe their belief all wrong.”

What I appreciate most about Welch’s prose is it’s gritty honesty, his ability to create realistic portraits that are often unflattering, unveiling the ugliness of bigotry and it’s effects on all the peoples in the town “just off the reservation.”  I also enjoy Welch’s poetry technique of consonance.  For example the paring of words “Disgusted, busted...”  Another technique he uses frequently is repetition and there is a preaching gospel  to it in his words “goodbye, goodbye,”  “when you die, if you die” and “...we’re rich, help us, oh God, we’re rich.”

This is a very specific story, not part of the current poetry cannon but I am sure Ishmael Reed (From Totems to Hip-Hop) would agree that although not a contributor to his antholgy, Welch delivers a very important contribution to U.S. literature and history.