by Celeste DeSario
Chief Wallace, from the Unkechaug Indian Nation,
We came to your talk, enthusiastic,
Ready to roll up sleeves,
leave our cashmere sweaters home,
Ready to hike through the brambles
To learn about the Sacred Stones.
We arrived early to grab front- row seats,
Sipping coffee and sampling cookies,
Ready to learn
About a history we are finally ready to hear.
We hope you notice we are here,
Ready to help you.
Sorry for the past, we whisper,
But it was not our fault.
We pull out our notecards heavy with questions,
Pens ready to jot down names and places—
Where we can send our checks.
The Chief appears in front of us,
No magic there.
His voice soft.
People stand and demand he use the mic;
He pauses.
Looks over the crowd and begins.
“Your homes are built over my grandmother’s bones.
We shift in our seats, uncomfortable.
He says the stones are not relics.
Not artifacts, waiting to be harvested
Or displayed in a museum.
They are a bloodline.
A heritage.
They are his grandfathers, his grandmothers—
They are living, breathing entities,
Alive, present, watching, waiting.
Braiding our pasts and present.
The rocks have memories,
They know.
They have absorbed all the prayers,
Accepted a single stone added to the mound—
An acknowledgement of all those who walked this path before.
This is more like it.
This is why we are here.
Pens fly jotting down details.
People smile, showing Chief Wallace
We are happy to be here.
We are not our pasts.
He tells us the stones’ portals, align perfectly with the rising sun
Of the spring and autumn equinox,
On those two days— only those days—
The stones ask ancestral visitors for reflection:
The ones who whisper names to the morning wind,
The ones who pause for a moment of thanks,
Palms turned to catch the emerging warmth.
The recognition of a new season unfolding.
His people use the stones as calendars—
Telling them when to plant the corn,
When the Bluefish are running,
When the summer Fluke and Winter Flounder
Can be found in the muddy bottoms of bays,
When the Porgy will flood the shallow estuaries every spring.
We smile, encouraging him.
See? We are listening.
We are ready to help.
Can you see us sitting here?
He looks over his audience, then he looks right at us
“But I am not going to tell you where to find them.”
We are outsiders.
Undeserving.
“You bulldoze our prayer sites,
building six bedrooms houses with three car garages.
The kids from those six-bedroom homes
tag the stones with offensive slurs, vulgarities
use Sharpie markers to scrawl “T + M” ‘26”,
Spray paint neon- green skulls and crossbones,
“My grandfather’s bones
Are embedded in these rocks—
His spirit
Still alive, still breathing, still present for me.”
Boys bent on destruction.
Sacred spaces made unholy by ignorant hands.
Boys who would become the men
who control the land that was not theirs—
the waters, the air.
“These stone structures are our churches.
Imagine— just imagine—if we pulled down your altars.
Ripped the cross from the ceiling.”
He has lost the thread.
He is losing his audience.
He has lost so much.
Now we are the ones who are angry.
Uncomfortable.
Put down that mirror.
That is not my face reflecting back to me.
The stones are not meant for those who carry hammers,
The stones are not meant for those who carry hatred,
The stones.
His stones.
Are sacred.
His heritage.
His.
It’s not the talk we anticipated.
It’s not the talk we wanted.
We sit stunned into silence.
What now?
How do we move forward?
Are we too late?
Chief Wallace stands alone
the audience puts checkbooks back into pockets,
shuffling back to their pools, tennis courts, mahjong tables,
whispering that he has closed the door—
refusing to play by our rules.
Again.
Because, we cannot change.
And they cannot trust.
And neither can pretend
The past never happened.
Celeste DeSario writes poetry to process life’s events, and to try to make sense of them. Sometimes that actually happens. Celeste’s poetry appears in The New Verse News, The SportsScribe Literary Magazine, The Changing Times, The Ekphrastic Review and The Dissident Voice. Celeste does not own any cashmere sweaters.
We came to your talk, enthusiastic,
Ready to roll up sleeves,
leave our cashmere sweaters home,
Ready to hike through the brambles
To learn about the Sacred Stones.
We arrived early to grab front- row seats,
Sipping coffee and sampling cookies,
Ready to learn
About a history we are finally ready to hear.
We hope you notice we are here,
Ready to help you.
Sorry for the past, we whisper,
But it was not our fault.
We pull out our notecards heavy with questions,
Pens ready to jot down names and places—
Where we can send our checks.
The Chief appears in front of us,
No magic there.
His voice soft.
People stand and demand he use the mic;
He pauses.
Looks over the crowd and begins.
“Your homes are built over my grandmother’s bones.
We shift in our seats, uncomfortable.
He says the stones are not relics.
Not artifacts, waiting to be harvested
Or displayed in a museum.
They are a bloodline.
A heritage.
They are his grandfathers, his grandmothers—
They are living, breathing entities,
Alive, present, watching, waiting.
Braiding our pasts and present.
The rocks have memories,
They know.
They have absorbed all the prayers,
Accepted a single stone added to the mound—
An acknowledgement of all those who walked this path before.
This is more like it.
This is why we are here.
Pens fly jotting down details.
People smile, showing Chief Wallace
We are happy to be here.
We are not our pasts.
He tells us the stones’ portals, align perfectly with the rising sun
Of the spring and autumn equinox,
On those two days— only those days—
The stones ask ancestral visitors for reflection:
The ones who whisper names to the morning wind,
The ones who pause for a moment of thanks,
Palms turned to catch the emerging warmth.
The recognition of a new season unfolding.
His people use the stones as calendars—
Telling them when to plant the corn,
When the Bluefish are running,
When the summer Fluke and Winter Flounder
Can be found in the muddy bottoms of bays,
When the Porgy will flood the shallow estuaries every spring.
We smile, encouraging him.
See? We are listening.
We are ready to help.
Can you see us sitting here?
He looks over his audience, then he looks right at us
“But I am not going to tell you where to find them.”
We are outsiders.
Undeserving.
“You bulldoze our prayer sites,
building six bedrooms houses with three car garages.
The kids from those six-bedroom homes
tag the stones with offensive slurs, vulgarities
use Sharpie markers to scrawl “T + M” ‘26”,
Spray paint neon- green skulls and crossbones,
“My grandfather’s bones
Are embedded in these rocks—
His spirit
Still alive, still breathing, still present for me.”
Boys bent on destruction.
Sacred spaces made unholy by ignorant hands.
Boys who would become the men
who control the land that was not theirs—
the waters, the air.
“These stone structures are our churches.
Imagine— just imagine—if we pulled down your altars.
Ripped the cross from the ceiling.”
He has lost the thread.
He is losing his audience.
He has lost so much.
Now we are the ones who are angry.
Uncomfortable.
Put down that mirror.
That is not my face reflecting back to me.
The stones are not meant for those who carry hammers,
The stones are not meant for those who carry hatred,
The stones.
His stones.
Are sacred.
His heritage.
His.
It’s not the talk we anticipated.
It’s not the talk we wanted.
We sit stunned into silence.
What now?
How do we move forward?
Are we too late?
Chief Wallace stands alone
the audience puts checkbooks back into pockets,
shuffling back to their pools, tennis courts, mahjong tables,
whispering that he has closed the door—
refusing to play by our rules.
Again.
Because, we cannot change.
And they cannot trust.
And neither can pretend
The past never happened.
Celeste DeSario writes poetry to process life’s events, and to try to make sense of them. Sometimes that actually happens. Celeste’s poetry appears in The New Verse News, The SportsScribe Literary Magazine, The Changing Times, The Ekphrastic Review and The Dissident Voice. Celeste does not own any cashmere sweaters.
