Simon Ortiz- "Busted Boy"

In class today we were talking about Civil Disobedience, discussing the importance of speaking out when you disagree with something. It is important not to sit idly by.  You have a voice and it is your moral imperative to use it. Indeed, poets are often "rabble rousers," dissidents who speak out against the ills they see in society. They use their voices, the power of their words, to expose wrong and to demand change.

I'm going to share with you another Native American poem by a writer named Simon Ortiz, from the Acomo Pueblo tribe in New Mexico. Like many modern Indian poets, he demands that we shine a light on the cycle of poverty, welfare, crime, alcoholism and drug addiction, and lack of education that are prevalent on most reservations. The poem below, "Busted Boy," relates to many young men of color (not just Indian) who are arrested, locked up and thrown away simply for the color of their skin. This poem is not Civil Disobedience- Ortiz is not breaking any laws. In fact, he's exercising his freedom of speech. However, he is urging us not to sweep these injustices under the rug or to think that these wrongs shouldn't matter to ALL people.

For Ortiz, this poem is a journalistic snapshot of a moment in time, a plaintive cry against our unfair social system, and a call to action for the boys who did nothing wrong but being black.

Busted Boy

By Simon J. Ortiz b. 1941 Simon J. Ortiz

He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old,

likely even fifteen. Skinny black teenager, loose sweater.

When I got on Bus #6 at Prince and 1st Avenue,

he got on too and took a seat across from me.

A kid I didn’t notice too much because two older guys,

street pros reeking with wine, started talking to me.

They were going to California, get their welfare checks,

then come back to Arizona in time for food stamps.

When the bus pulled into Ronstadt Transit Center,

the kid was the last to get off the bus right behind me.

I started to cross the street to wait for Bus #8

when two burly men, one in a neat leather jacket

and the other in a sweat shirt, both cool yet stern,

smoothly grabbed the kid and backed him against

a streetlight pole and quickly cuffed him to the pole.

Plastic handcuffs. Practiced manner. Efficiently done.

Along with another Indian, I watch what’s happening.

Nobody seems to notice or they don’t really want to see.

Everything is quiet and normal, nothing’s disturbed.

The other Indian and I exchange glances, nod, turn away.

Busted boy. Busted Indians. Busted lives. Busted again.

I look around for the street guys going to California.

But they’re already gone, headed for the railroad tracks.

I’m new in Tucson but I’m not a stranger to this scene.

Waiting for the bus, I don’t look around for plainclothes.

I know they’re there, in this America, waiting. There; here.

Waiting for busted boys, busted Indians, busted lives.

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Simon Ortiz, “Busted Boy” from Out There Somewhere. Copyright © 2002 by Simon Ortiz. Reprinted by permission of University of Arizona Press.