"Bad Indian" by Jessi Farfan

Bad Indian

sometimes i wonder if i am a bad indian

for not being raised with my own traditions

the ol' rez pony can't be driven drunk in white mans land — no tribal cops to bribe there

and that was the default state of my father, despite how un-tradish that is

it took me almost two decades to finally seek them out

from ancient tomes and facebook beadwork groups and my cousin who can say

chahta sia hoke 

and have people believe her


sometimes i wonder if i am a bad indian

for sending my prayers up in the smoke

of marijuana instead of tobacco

(i have my father's un-tradish-ness after all)

for bundling up the sage i got from fiestamart before the seeds in my garden sprout

for spending hours searching for a way to clean the inside of myself

not just my body, but my spirit too

sitting on a steamy shower floor until the water went cold and not knowing

i had reinvented the sweat


sometimes i wonder if i am a bad indian

for having lived my entire life next to the rez

and not having to suffer the same hardships as my cousins

because even though we went hungry together and had equally rotten teeth

i was seen as privileged


for that one time i made fun of my auntie's offer of a string of beadwork to hold up my glasses

yellow honey and oklahoma clay red and the same cerulean blue as our tribal seal

made during the 4 hour wait at indian health services for the appointment it took 8 months to get

only to be given a bottle of tylenol and told to lose weight, the very tradish IHS cure-all

(but i think that just makes me a bad person)

hell, sometimes i wonder if i am a bad indian


for calling myself an indian instead of indigenous or native or simply choctaw
but indian is good enough for me, because they put us in schools
they chopped off our hair
they took our languages
they banned our ceremonies
they walked us out of our own lands so they could claim it as theirs
they beat us and raped us and told us to assimilate
to worship their god, not our creator
because we weren’t people to them — we just used to be savages


but settle down.

because I heard that the only good indian

was a dead one


so i will proudly be a bad indian

who makes hockey pucks when she intends to make frybread with that recipe she found on tiktok, not from her grandma

who makes beadwork with loose threads and uneven edging and hobby store beads

who has always been mistaken for white because she has her mother's complexion, not her father's

who still smudges with grocery store sage because, fuck, it takes a long time to grow

who has a fake leather purse for a medicine bag, smoke shop tobacco alongside tylenol

who knows almost nothing but chi hullo li of her ancestor's language
who prays that same i love you and sends it up in her marijuana smoke
each day when she thanks every bad indian who came before her
that dared to stay alive

Jessi Farfan

Jessi Farfan (Choctaw) writes about identity and culture, creating the representation they wished for growing up. Passionate about diverse storytelling and moving performance pieces, they hope to share voices and experiences that often go unseen. When not writing, they enjoy exploring cultural stories, history, and visiting museums. They are currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley.

Headshot: Jessi Farfan

Photo Credit: Staff