Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Travels in the South: 1. East Texas" is a meditation on movement, connection, and the fragmentation of Indigenous identity in contemporary America. The poem, structured as a series of encounters, presents a journey that is both physical and spiritual, traversing landscapes marked by history, displacement, and survival. Ortiz’s speaker moves through Texas, meeting people—Native, Black, incarcerated, relocated—each revealing a different facet of struggle, resilience, and community. At its core, the poem grapples with the tension between belonging and loss, between the rootedness of Indigenous history and the forced migrations of Native people.

The poem begins with an act of departure: "When I left the Alabama-Coushatta people, it was early morning." This opening immediately establishes a sense of transition, reinforcing the theme of movement that runs throughout the poem. The Alabama-Coushatta people, one of the few federally recognized tribes in Texas, are positioned as a place of warmth and hospitality. "They had treated me kindly, given me food, spoken me words of welcome, and thanked me." The simplicity of this sentence mirrors the generosity of the exchange, where kindness and gratitude are mutual, reinforcing a sense of Indigenous solidarity. The speaker reciprocates by touching their hands and making a promise—"I would be back."—suggesting an emotional connection that extends beyond a passing visit.

As the journey continues, the speaker encounters another group of Native people, but in a vastly different context: "When I passed by the Huntsville State Pen I told the Indian prisoners what the people said and thanked them and felt very humble." The contrast between the Alabama-Coushatta, who retain some degree of sovereignty, and the Indigenous prisoners in Huntsville State Penitentiary, highlights the stark realities of Indigenous life in America. The act of passing by, of carrying messages between communities, suggests a role of witness, someone moving between these fragmented spaces of Indigenous existence. The speaker's humility underscores an awareness of privilege—freedom of movement versus confinement—but also a recognition that all these experiences are interconnected.

The next section shifts to Dallas, where the speaker encounters the bureaucratic machinery of Native relocation programs: "When I got to Dallas I did not want to be there. / I went to see the BIA Relocation man." The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) Relocation program, implemented in the mid-20th century, aimed to assimilate Native people by moving them from reservations to urban centers, often leaving them isolated, jobless, and disconnected from their cultural roots. The BIA official’s statement—"'I don’t know how many Indians there are in Dallas; they come every week.'"—reduces Indigenous lives to numbers, a steady influx of displaced people with no individual recognition. This bureaucratic indifference reinforces the poem’s theme of Indigenous people being shuffled through systems that neither understand nor care about their well-being.

The speaker then meets Ray, a Navajo welder struggling to find work, and witnesses "an Apache woman crying for her lost life." These moments encapsulate the emotional and economic hardships faced by urban Native people. Ray’s story is common—skilled yet struggling—while the crying Apache woman represents a deeper spiritual loss, a grief that is beyond words. The juxtaposition of these encounters emphasizes that relocation has not brought stability or opportunity, only further displacement.

The poem shifts again with a moment of reflection at Caddo Lake: "When it was evening of the next day, I stopped at a lake called Caddo. / I asked a park ranger, 'Who was Caddo?' And he said it used to be some Indian tribe." This exchange is emblematic of Indigenous erasure. The ranger’s response—"it used to be some Indian tribe."—distances the Caddo people from the land that bears their name, reducing them to a vague historical footnote. The casual dismissal reflects how Indigenous presence is often acknowledged only in the past tense, as if Native people no longer exist in these landscapes.

At the lake, the speaker finds companionship in an unexpected place: "I met two Black women fishing at the lake. / I sat by them; they were good to be with." This moment of cross-cultural solidarity contrasts with the previous encounters. While the BIA official is indifferent and the park ranger is ignorant, the Black women offer warmth and shared humanity. Their laughter, their presence, provide a brief respite from the weight of displacement and historical grief.

The moment with the terrapin—"for the first and only time in my life I cut a terrapin’s head off because, / as the women said, 'They won’t let go until sundown.'"—carries symbolic weight. The action itself is mundane, part of fishing lore, yet within the context of the poem, it suggests something deeper: the necessity of survival, of letting go, of recognizing when something must be done. The terrapin’s tenacity—its refusal to release until sundown—parallels the endurance of Indigenous and Black communities, holding on through history’s darkest moments.

The poem closes with a prayer: "When it was after sundown in East Texas, I prayed for strength and the Caddo and the Black women and my young son at home and Dallas and when it would be the morning, the Sun." This final invocation ties together all the disparate threads of the poem. The speaker prays for strength—not just for himself, but for the Caddo, whose presence has been nearly erased; for the Black women, whose laughter provided comfort; for his son, representing the next generation; for Dallas, the site of urban displacement; and for the Sun, a symbol of renewal and continuity. The prayer is both personal and communal, acknowledging the burdens of history while affirming a hope for the future.

Ortiz’s free verse structure mirrors the fluidity of travel, moving from one moment to the next without rigid boundaries. The lack of punctuation in key places creates a conversational rhythm, as if the poem is being recounted in real time. The shifts between direct dialogue, observation, and reflection give the poem a layered texture, blending personal experience with broader historical consciousness.

"Travels in the South: 1. East Texas" is ultimately a poem of witness—witnessing kindness, displacement, survival, and loss. Ortiz presents a landscape marked by erasure and marginalization, yet also by connection and resilience. The speaker moves through these spaces not as a passive observer but as someone who carries stories between communities, linking past and present, Indigenous and Black experiences, survival and memory. In the end, the poem affirms that despite forced migrations and systemic neglect, Indigenous presence endures—not just in history, but in the land, in relationships, and in the prayers that continue at sundown, awaiting the next sunrise.

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