Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Travels in the South: 2. The Creek Nation East of the Mississippi" is a poem of search, encounter, and the inescapable weight of history. Like much of Ortiz’s work, it explores the movement of Indigenous people—not just physically but through historical memory, survival, and political struggle. The poem is framed as a journey to find Native presence in the South, leading the speaker to Chief Alvin McGee, a Creek leader whose home becomes a temporary site of cultural continuity and political reckoning. Yet, the journey is punctuated by larger national events—the 1970 election in Alabama and the Kent State massacre—linking Indigenous experience to the broader landscape of American violence and power.

The poem begins with a declaration: "Once, in a story, I wrote that Indians are everywhere. / Goddamn right." This opening is direct and defiant, asserting that despite histories of removal and erasure, Native people persist in every corner of the country. The phrase "Goddamn right" pushes back against the misconception that Indigenous presence is confined to reservations or the Western frontier. This statement sets the stage for the speaker’s journey—one that is not just about movement, but about proving a point, affirming that Native existence is ongoing, even in places where history might suggest otherwise.

In Pensacola, Florida, the search begins in an unlikely setting: "Some hotdog stand operator told me about Chief McGee." The juxtaposition of the fast-food setting with the search for a tribal leader highlights the casual, unexpected ways in which Indigenous presence surfaces in contemporary America. The speaker’s inquiry—"I'm looking for Indians,"—is met with a specific response: "I know Chief Alvin McGee." This moment captures both the persistence of Native identity and the difficulty of finding it, as if one must ask the right people, follow the right paths, to uncover a history that is not immediately visible.

The directions to McGee’s house—"cross the tracks, drive by the school, over the freeway to Atlanta, about a mile. / He lives at the second house on the right."—place him within a landscape marked by infrastructure and divisions. The mention of crossing the tracks carries historical weight, recalling racial and economic segregation in the South. The school, a symbol of both education and colonial assimilation, stands as a reminder of what has been taken. The freeway, often a force of displacement in Indigenous and Black communities, looms over the journey. These details subtly reinforce the poem’s underlying tension: Native presence remains, but it is embedded within structures that have often sought to erase it.

Upon arriving in Atmore, Alabama, the speaker makes contact: "I called from a payphone in Atmore. / Mr. McGee told me to come on over. / I found his home right away, / and he came out when I stopped in his yard. / He had a big smile on his face." The warmth of this welcome contrasts with the bureaucratic and impersonal encounters in "Travels in the South: 1. East Texas." Here, there is immediate recognition, an openness that bridges time and space. The moment carries a sense of relief—Indigenous people are not just everywhere but are also willing to receive and affirm one another.

The poem then connects McGee to history: "I'd seen his face before in the history books when they bothered to put Creeks in them." This line critiques the selective representation of Native people in American history, acknowledging that Creek figures, like many Indigenous nations east of the Mississippi, are often marginalized or erased in mainstream narratives. Yet McGee himself embodies a living history, bridging past and present.

McGee’s words reinforce this connection: "He told me about Osceola. / 'He was born in this county,' Chief McGee said." Osceola, a famous Creek and Seminole leader, resisted U.S. removal policies in the early 19th century, becoming a symbol of Native resistance. The fact that he was born in this county underscores the enduring ties between the Creek people and their ancestral lands—despite centuries of removal and dispossession, their history remains rooted here.

The conversation shifts from history to the present struggles: "He showed me his garden and fields. / 'I have seventy acres,' he said. / 'We used to have our own school, but they took that away from us. / There ain’t much they don’t try to take.'" This statement links past injustices to ongoing realities. The land, though retained, is a fraction of what was once Creek territory. The school, once a space of self-determination, has been taken—likely due to government policies that sought to dissolve tribal institutions. McGee’s words—"There ain’t much they don’t try to take."—encapsulate the poem’s underlying theme: the relentless forces of removal and erasure, and the resilience required to resist them.

The political tension builds as the speaker and McGee watch television: "We watched the news on TV. / It was election time in Alabama, George Wallace against something." Wallace, infamous for his segregationist policies, represents the enduring structures of white supremacy in the South. The uncertainty of his opponent—"against something"—suggests the speaker’s detachment from mainstream political battles, as if Wallace’s dominance is so overwhelming that opposition is an afterthought. The visitors at McGee’s house reveal the political divide: "'Wallace is the one.' / 'Brewer is our man.' They kept that up all night."* The reference to "Brewer" likely alludes to Albert Brewer, a more moderate candidate who opposed Wallace. Yet, for McGee and his visitors, these political debates—while important—exist within a larger, older struggle.

The following morning, the speaker departs: "The next morning the election was on, but I left right after breakfast. / Chief Alvin McGee put his arms around me and blessed me." This farewell carries spiritual weight, reminiscent of familial or ancestral blessings. The embrace ties the speaker to his own past: "I remembered my grandfather, the mountains, the land from where I came, and I thanked him for his home." McGee’s presence reaffirms the speaker’s own connections to land, history, and lineage, bridging Acoma and Creek experiences.

As the speaker leaves, history intrudes in another form: "I was on that freeway to Atlanta / when I heard about the killings at Kent State." The sudden mention of the 1970 Kent State massacre—where National Guardsmen shot and killed antiwar student protesters—expands the poem’s scope, linking Indigenous struggles to national unrest. The freeway, earlier a symbol of movement and separation, now becomes a site of collision between past and present, Indigenous and American histories.

The poem’s closing lines are raw and intimate: "I pulled off the road just past a sign which read / NO STOPPING EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY and hugged a tree." The irony of stopping beneath this sign reinforces the gravity of the moment—this is an emergency, though not the kind the sign was meant to regulate. The act of hugging a tree is deeply symbolic. It suggests grounding, a need for connection with something stable and natural in the face of overwhelming violence. The tree, rooted in the land, contrasts with the freeway’s artificiality. This final image transforms the journey from a search for Native presence into a moment of profound communion with the land itself.

Ortiz’s use of free verse and restrained, direct language allows the poem to unfold naturally, mirroring the rhythm of travel and conversation. The movement between personal encounter, historical reflection, and national events creates a layered narrative, where each moment carries weight beyond itself.

"Travels in the South: 2. The Creek Nation East of the Mississippi" is ultimately a poem about presence—of Native people, of history, of struggle, and of connection. Through McGee, the speaker finds a living link to the past, a reminder that Indigenous nations persist despite centuries of erasure. Yet the poem also acknowledges the broader currents of American history—racism, political battles, state violence—all of which continue to shape the present. The final embrace of the tree is an act of resistance, a refusal to be untethered, a reaffirmation that, despite displacement and violence, Indigenous people remain, rooted in land, memory, and one another.

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