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Featured Reading
“In [Alexie’s] warm, revealing, invitingly roundabout
stories, the central figures come in all shapes and sizes,
sharing only their wry perspective on Indian life off the
reservation. . . . They are affectionate tales of dealings
between men and women.” - Janet Maslin, The New York
Times
stories, the central figures come in all shapes and sizes,
sharing only their wry perspective on Indian life off the
reservation. . . . They are affectionate tales of dealings
between men and women.” - Janet Maslin, The New York
Times
Sherman Alexie - official web site
A good place to buy books: www.powells.com
Tawfik's pick: southendpress.org
Tawfik's pick: southendpress.org
Superman and Me
by Sherman Alexie
Los Angeles Times, April 19 1998
The following essay appeared as part of a series, "The Joy of Reading and Writing." This essay is also printed in The Most Wonderful
Books: Writers on Discovering the Pleasures of Reading.
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I
read, nor can I remember which villain he fought in that issue. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I obtained the
comic book. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian
Reservation in eastern Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually managed to find some
minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a
combination of irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers,
murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by the pound
at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets,
convenience stores and hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom,
bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled
them with a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and the entire 23-book
series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books
as well.
I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. The words themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember
the exact moment when I first understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have the vocabulary to say
"paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a
common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I began to think of
everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a
paragraph, distinct from the other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal School to the
west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link
us. Now, using this logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, the deceased
sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.
At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that Superman comic book. Each panel, complete with
picture, dialogue and narrative was a three-dimensional paragraph. In one panel, Superman breaks through a door. His suit is red,
blue and yellow. The brown door shatters into many pieces. I look at the narrative above the picture. I cannot read the words, but
I assume it tells me that "Superman is breaking down the door." Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman is breaking
down the door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Because he is breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am
breaking down the door." Once again, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am breaking down the door" In this way, I
learned to read.
This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at an early age and advances quickly. He
reads "Grapes of Wrath" in kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and Jane." If he'd been anything but an
Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is
simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it will somehow dull the pain and
make him sound more modest about his talents.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A smart Indian is a dangerous person, widely feared and ridiculed by Indians and non-Indians alike. I fought with my classmates on a
daily basis. They wanted me to stay quiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We were Indian
children who were expected to be stupid. Most lived up to those expectations inside the classroom but subverted them on the
outside. They struggled with basic reading in school but could remember how to sing a few dozen powwow songs. They were
monosyllabic in front of their non-Indian teachers but could tell complicated stories and jokes at the dinner table. They
submissively ducked their heads when confronted by a non-Indian adult but would slug it out with the Indian bully who was 10 years
older. As Indian children, we were expected to fail in the non-Indian world. Those who failed were ceremonially accepted by other
Indians and appropriately pitied by non-Indians.
I refused to fail. I was smart. I was arrogant. I was lucky. I read books late into the night, until I could barely keep my eyes open. I
read books at recess, then during lunch, and in the few minutes left after I had finished my classroom assignments. I read books in
the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and
pieces of as many books as I could. I read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the books
I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the
school, the clinic, the tribal offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I read anything
that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only
one purpose. I was trying to save my life.
Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short
stories, and poems. I visit schools and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school system, I was
never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and
novels. Writing was something beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation. There must
have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian
kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books. They have read
many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the
sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their
notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them.
"Books," I say. I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save
our lives.
by Sherman Alexie
Los Angeles Times, April 19 1998
The following essay appeared as part of a series, "The Joy of Reading and Writing." This essay is also printed in The Most Wonderful
Books: Writers on Discovering the Pleasures of Reading.
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I
read, nor can I remember which villain he fought in that issue. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I obtained the
comic book. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian
Reservation in eastern Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually managed to find some
minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a
combination of irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers,
murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by the pound
at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets,
convenience stores and hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom,
bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled
them with a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and the entire 23-book
series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books
as well.
I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. The words themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember
the exact moment when I first understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have the vocabulary to say
"paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a
common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I began to think of
everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a
paragraph, distinct from the other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal School to the
west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link
us. Now, using this logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, the deceased
sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.
At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that Superman comic book. Each panel, complete with
picture, dialogue and narrative was a three-dimensional paragraph. In one panel, Superman breaks through a door. His suit is red,
blue and yellow. The brown door shatters into many pieces. I look at the narrative above the picture. I cannot read the words, but
I assume it tells me that "Superman is breaking down the door." Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman is breaking
down the door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Because he is breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am
breaking down the door." Once again, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am breaking down the door" In this way, I
learned to read.
This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at an early age and advances quickly. He
reads "Grapes of Wrath" in kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and Jane." If he'd been anything but an
Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is
simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person, as if it will somehow dull the pain and
make him sound more modest about his talents.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A smart Indian is a dangerous person, widely feared and ridiculed by Indians and non-Indians alike. I fought with my classmates on a
daily basis. They wanted me to stay quiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We were Indian
children who were expected to be stupid. Most lived up to those expectations inside the classroom but subverted them on the
outside. They struggled with basic reading in school but could remember how to sing a few dozen powwow songs. They were
monosyllabic in front of their non-Indian teachers but could tell complicated stories and jokes at the dinner table. They
submissively ducked their heads when confronted by a non-Indian adult but would slug it out with the Indian bully who was 10 years
older. As Indian children, we were expected to fail in the non-Indian world. Those who failed were ceremonially accepted by other
Indians and appropriately pitied by non-Indians.
I refused to fail. I was smart. I was arrogant. I was lucky. I read books late into the night, until I could barely keep my eyes open. I
read books at recess, then during lunch, and in the few minutes left after I had finished my classroom assignments. I read books in
the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and
pieces of as many books as I could. I read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the books
I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the
school, the clinic, the tribal offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I read anything
that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only
one purpose. I was trying to save my life.
Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short
stories, and poems. I visit schools and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school system, I was
never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and
novels. Writing was something beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation. There must
have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian
kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books. They have read
many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the
sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their
notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them.
"Books," I say. I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save
our lives.