By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke
“A identify creates lifestyles patterns,” Allison Adelle Hedge Coke writes, “which shape and form a existence; my lifestyles, like my identify, should have been shaped repeatedly over then passed to me to realize.” Rock, Ghost, Willow, Deer is Hedge Coke’s narrative of that consciousness, the award-winning poet and writer’s looking out account of her existence as a mixed-blood lady coming of age off-reservation, but deeply immersed in her Cherokee and Huron background. In a method without delay elliptical and achingly transparent, Hedge Coke describes her schizophrenic mom and the abuse that frequently overshadowed her adolescence; the torments visited upon her, the rape and actual violence; and people she inflicted on herself, the alcohol and drug abuse. but she controlled to outlive together with her goals and her will, her experience of ask yourself and promise undiminished. The name Rock, Ghost, Willow, Deer refers back to the life-revelations that introduced Hedge Coke via her trials, the melding of language and event that has introduced order to her existence. during this publication, Hedge Coke stocks the insights she has amassed alongside the way in which, insights that contact on broader local concerns comparable to smooth existence within the diaspora; the specter of alcohol, drug abuse, and violence; and the continued onslaught on self amid a fancy, combined history.
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“A identify creates existence patterns,” Allison Adelle Hedge Coke writes, “which shape and form a lifestyles; my existence, like my identify, should have been shaped time and again over then passed to me to achieve. ” Rock, Ghost, Willow, Deer is Hedge Coke’s narrative of that attention, the award-winning poet and writer’s looking out account of her lifestyles as a mixed-blood girl coming of age off-reservation, but deeply immersed in her Cherokee and Huron historical past.
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Additional resources for Rock, Ghost, Willow, Deer: A Story of Survival (American Indian Lives)
She was also pretty dangerous as a driver. Hating to scrape ice from the windshield, my mother would drive our car (at the time a Studebaker Lark) blinded in heavy storms. And more than once she would tell me, Pumpkin, and our brother, “Put YOUR SEAT belts ON! ” Without giving us time to buckle up, however, she would accelerate suddenly and hit or sideswipe a nearby car. I remember after one such accident calling home for her on the police radio. Not wanting to tell my dad what she’d done, I pretended to be on a television show: “One Adam Twelve.
Every year he bought us a pair of new shoes and a new coat, the latter a coat off the spring clearance rack in a good store that was put on layaway for the next fall. Our father earned a decent federal salary, but with my mom’s illness, my parents’ never ending generosity to others, and their complete lack of budgeting ability, there was never enough. But we persevered during those times of peace and stability. My dad began to bring me blues harps, and I started writing songs during my preschool years, the ﬁrst with Pumpkin, named, “It’s a One-Way Street,” about going the wrong way.
My mother used to tell me she’d hated me since the day I was born. I am unsure why I was selected, maybe because I was the second girl or the lightest the “Indian blonde,” the “dirty blonde,” the only “blondie” hair labels I carried despite the fact that my hair was actually a light golden brown (hair labels my dad tried to alleviate by ﬁrst telling me all the dumb blondes in Hollywood were actually brunettes who bleached their hair with peroxide and then recalling many lighter-haired women who were known for bravery, courage, and great intelligence).