Indigenous Disposition

Abstract

Indigenous Disposition Randy William Santiago (bio) For Anthony—my day one homie (my brother) "Seems like I point the finger just to make a point nowadaysSmiles and cold stares, the temperature goes thereIndigenous disposition, feel like we belong hereI know the walls, they can listen, I wish they could talk backThe hurt becomes repetition, the love almost lost thatSick venom in men and women overcome with prideA perfect world is never perfect, only filled with liesPromises are broken and more resentment come aliveRace barriers make inferior of you and I" —Kendrick Lamar 1 Talking to you is like trying to solve a puzzle, Ms. Ramos says. She's staring dead at me, bifocals magnifying her bug eyes, brimming with frustration. Makes me wonder just how much she can see. I've avoided eye contact so far, to limit her ability. Still, her eyes—the way they pinch when I dodge a question, an explanation—weigh on me, they make me sore. I hate locking eyes with people—makes me feel trapped, like I gotta to claw my way out; makes me wanna slap 'em; makes my head rattle; makes me wanna cry—don't ask why, cause I don't know myself, but I wish I could control it better, wish I could control myself (wouldn't that be nice). I was brought to Ms. Ramos's office after falling asleep during class (for the third time this week). Today, I fell asleep in World Literature. Officer Gutierrez (my fucking archnemesis) escorted me here. How come I'm always called to pick you up for sleepin'? he asked as we walked down the empty hallway, the high ceilings and large panel windows allowing his voice to take up too much space, allowing it too much mobility (I could almost see it—his voice—stretching in the sunlight). Officer Gutierrez shook his head the entire time we walked, like he was truly disappointed in me or something. Sleepin' in geometry, physics, gym, he continued. Gym? he said, his voice straining. The one class you're supposed to be up and movin' in? Actin' like you don't got a bed to sleep in. Like you wasn't raised right. God, I wanted to slap him. I imagine slapping him as Ms. Ramos speaks to me. Why are you so angry? she asks, like she can see the assault unfolding in my mind. I tell her she doesn't know me. You don't know what I'm feeling, I say and she responds: Well, how 'bout you tell me then? [End Page 298] I hate how people act all entitled to my emotions and shit—tell her—like, mafuckas need to deal with their own shit before they come at me (you feel me?). I ain't the one. Ms. Ramos needs to worry about Ms. Ramos, cause Alex ain't telling her shit (he sho ain't). 2 Despite what you might think, I actually get enough sleep at home. Shiiiiit, I get more than enough. Problem is I can't wake up. Like today: my alarm clock screeched and screeched but I ain't move. I literally could not lift my body, like I was paralyzed or some shit, like rigor mortis colonized my joints and there was nothing I could do to evict it (I basically had to stage a revolution to get outta bed). It isn't until Ma stomps my way in the morning—the weight of her frustration growing with each step—and swings her body into my bedroom and says through stern, tired eyes, Get your ass up, that I crush the voice of the alarm clock with my palm, beating it into silence. It never makes another sound but, still, the red numbers across the screen ring loudly in my mind. Everything rings loudly in my mind. (Is it too late to request a new one? To reset this one, at the very least? That'd be nice—a dream.) Ma came to my room four times this morning. She knocked on my door frame, since I don't have a door, and said: Get...