This is a Spoon River, Dramatic Monologue. I hope you will enjoy it.
RED FEATHER
What have they done!
Me, who loathed pretense,
lying here in pink lace.
A beaded-doeskin girl.
yet, here I lie
with satin ribbons
cascading across my breast.
I would rather be laid to rest
in my underwear.
Curls! Why did they
cut off my trademark
braids! My long black hair
was my pride – – braided
and fastened at the ends
with beaded twine.
Foolish little pearls replace
the twisted-leather thong
earrings, made by my friend
of the Cherokee nation.
They have even removed
the braided-hair bracelet
that I had sworn to wear
to my grave
“Doesn’t she look pretty?”
That’s what they said,
as they gazed at the paradox
carefully laid out
in the satin lined box.
I wanted to shout,
“My adopted name may be
etched in stone, but I am still
Red Feather.”
I lie here, six feet of earth
separating me from reality.
Dressed as a debutante, and
my treasured tokens discarded
as if of no importance.
Stripped forever
of my tribal identity.
I am Red Feather
9/6/95 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck
