Pocahontas Quotes

You think the only people who are people, are the people who look and think like you. But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you'll learn things you never knew you never knew." - Pocahontas

Al fin y al cabo, no sería la primera que moría de amor; en ese sentido estaba en buena compañía: la Sirenita, Julieta, Pocahontas, la Dama de las Camelias, Madame Butterfly, y ahora también yo, Gwendolyn Shepard.

This woman is Pocahontas. She is Athena and Hera. Lying in this messy, unmade bed, eyes closed, this is Juliet Capulet. Blanche DuBois. Scarlett O'Hara. With ministrations of lipstick and eyeliner I give birth to Ophelia. To Marie Antoinette. Over the next trip of the larger hand around the face of the bedside clock, I give form to Lucrezia Borgia. Taking shape at my fingertips, my touches of foundation and blush, here is Jocasta. Lying here, Lady Windermere. Opening her eyes, Cleopatra. Given flesh, a smile, swinging her sculpted legs off one side of the bed, this is Helen of Troy. Yawning and stretching, here is every beautiful woman across history.

I'd rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you.

My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt. Oh, how I loved that shirt

Ah, Jenks? It’s not a lake, it’s a friggin’ freshwater ocean. Did you see the size of the tanker going under the bridge when we came into town? The wake from it could tip us. I’m not canoeing it unless your name is Pocahontas.

Cinderella walked on broken glass Anurora let a whole lifetime pass Belle fell in love with a hideous beast Jasmine married a common thief Ariel walked on land for love Snow White barely escaped a knife because Rapunzel has to find a new dream Tiana kissed her prince and turned green Mulan left to be a man Pocahontas stayed to save her land It's all about the smiles and tears; because love means facing your biggest fears

You think the only people who are people are the people who look and think like you, but if you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you'll learn things you never knew you never knew.

[Cult] members learn a new vocabulary that is designed to constrict their thinking into absolute, black-and-white, thought-stopping clichés that conform to group ideology. (“Lock her up” and “Build the Wall” are Trumpian examples. Even his put-downs and nicknames—Crooked Hillary, Pocahontas for Elizabeth Warren—function to block other thoughts. Terms like “deep state” and “globalist” also act as triggers. They rouse emotion and direct attention.)

On the mainland of America, the Wampanoags of Massasoit and King Philip had vanished, along with the Chesapeakes, the Chickahominys, and the Potomacs of the great Powhatan confederacy. (Only Pocahontas was remembered.) Scattered or reduced to remnants were the Pequots, Montauks, Nanticokes. Machapungas, Catawbas, Cheraws, Miamis, Hurons, Eries, Mohawks, Senecas, and Mohegans. (Only Uncas was remembered.) Their musical names remained forever fixed on the American land, but their bones were forgotten in a thousand burned villages or lost in forests fast disappearing before the axes of twenty million invaders. Already the once sweet-watered streams, most of which bore Indian names, were clouded with silt and the wastes of man; the very earth was being ravaged and squandered. To the Indians it seemed that these Europeans hated everything in nature—the living forests and their birds and beasts, the grassy glades, the water, the soil, and the air itself.

Why, I've seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadn't written a novel, Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow- minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label of any section.

this ain't the 4-H rodeo at the Pocahontas County Fair.... this is horse racing

For centuries, the West has regurgitated representations of colonized women that came to be accepted as more real than the real. Jezebels. Black velvet. Harem girls. China Dolls. Princess Pocahontas. All of these reduced complex human beings to cardboard cutout sexual objects without agency and whose surrendered sexuality was de facto justification for white supremacy.

to do it until I’m at least ten because she doesn’t want skid marks on my Pocahontas underwear. I know if I did it there wouldn’t be skid marks, but it’s Mom’s tears I’m more worried about.

She was a wonder junkie. In her mind, she was a hill tribesman standing slack-jawed before the real Ishtar Gate of ancient Babylon; Dorothy catching her first glimpse of the vaulted spires of the Emerald City of Oz; a small boy from darkest Brooklyn plunked down in the Corridor of Nations of the 1939 World’s Fair, the Trylon and Perisphere beckoning in the distance; she was Pocahontas sailing up the Thames estuary with London spread out before her from horizon to horizon. been voyaging between the stars when the ancestors of humans were still brachiating from branch to branch in the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy. Drumlin, like many others she had known over the years, had called her an incurable romantic; and she found herself wondering again why so many people thought it some embarrassing disability. Her romanticism had been a driving force in her life and a fount of delights. Advocate and practitioner of romance, she was off to see the Wizard.

We've been targets since the chimook arrived here. First war. Then boarding schools. Then foster homes. And Indian women have been targets all the way back since Pocahontas and Sacajawea. Teenage girls taken and used. Women taken and used.

It is not hard work, because all work together... what one hand finds hard to lift is lighter than a feather when many lift together.

Like the meaning of my name, questions follow me wherever I go.

No. You see, the night works differently here than in the human realm,’ he continues. ‘Duwyn is a world of balance. Good and bad, light and dark – both must exist to keep the world in harmony.’ Oh God, he’s going to give me a Pocahontas speech.

Thus the protagonist of this Dream of mine is ooze, here and forever call'd Oozymandias the King.

And we are all connected to each other, in a circle, in a hoop that never ends

May the Music of the Earth Guide Us." Adaptation from Quote in Disney's Pocahontas

It's easy to blame the patriarchy, to rightfully point at the men who rape and hold them accountable. What's harder is to notice the women who sometimes passively direct rapists toward their victims by contributing to the hypersexualization of women of color under the guise of empowerment... Feminist white women who think "sexy Pocahontas" is an empowering look instead of lingering fetishization of the rape of a child. The same imagery they claim to find sexually empowering is rooted in the myth of white women's purity and every other woman's sexual availability.

mainland of America, the Wampanoags of Massasoit and King Philip had vanished, along with the Chesapeakes, the Chickahominys, and the Potomacs of the great Powhatan confederacy. (Only Pocahontas was remembered.) Scattered or reduced to remnants were the Pequots, Montauks, Nanticokes. Machapungas, Catawbas, Cheraws, Miamis, Hurons, Eries, Mohawks, Senecas, and Mohegans. (Only Uncas was remembered.) Their musical names remained forever fixed on the American land, but their bones were forgotten in a thousand burned villages or lost in forests fast disappearing before the axes of twenty million invaders. Already the once sweet-watered streams, most of which bore Indian names, were clouded with silt and the wastes of man; the very earth was being ravaged and squandered. To the Indians it seemed that these Europeans hated everything in nature—the living forests and their birds and beasts, the grassy glades, the water, the soil, and the air itself.

A landscape glittered behind her voice. There were icicles in it and savage fields of ice, great storms boiling over a flat countryside striped with white rails - a chessboard beneath a storm. Horses were stretched forever at the gallop. Tiny men in silk were brave beyond bearing and sat on the horses like embryos with their knees in their mouths. The gorgeous names of horses were cried from mouth to mouth and circulated in a steam of fame. Lottery, The Hermit, the great mare Sceptre; the glorious ancestress Pocahontas, whose blood ran down like time into her flying children; Easter Hero, the Lamb, that pony stallion.

-¿Qué te parecería alquilar una lancha? -No esaría mal, pero tenemos el problema del ruido. [...] -Podríamos acercarnos a remo-sugirió, yo le respondí con una mirada. -Hmmm... Jenks, no es un lago, es el puto océano. ¿Has visto el tamaño del buque cisterna que pasaba por debajo del puente cuando hemos llegado a la ciudad? Su estela podría volcarnos. No pienso ir al estilo canoa a menos que me digas que te llamas Pocahontas.

Peace and beauty? You think Indians are so worried about peace and beauty? ... If Wovoka came back to life, he'd be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she'd be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they'd see what you white people have done to Indians, and they'd start a war. They'd see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They'd see fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They'd see the sorry-ass reservations. They'd learn about Indian suicides and infant mortality rates. They'd listen to some dumb-ass Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They'd read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians too. Dr. Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life ,they wouldn't crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn't smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn't go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They'd kill you. They'd gut you and eat your heart.

As the young, sexy, virginal, and animal-like mediator, Pocahontas represents the feminized and inferior Native’s willingness to be dominated, penetrated (quite literally), and civilized by the superior masculine white society, as though agreeing to her own erasure and demise.

I don't want them to think that we dress like savages,' she replied, with a scorn that Pocahontas might have resented; and he was struck again by the religious reverence of even the most unworldly American women for the social advantages of dress. 'It's their armour,' he thought, 'their defence against the unknown, and their defiance of it.' And he understood for the first time the earnestness with which May, who was incapable of tying a ribbon in her hair to charm him, had gone through the solemn rite of selecting and ordering her extensive wardrobe.

Just as this female krewe had turned the table on men, now they turned the table on convention. Not one queen, they agreed. No. Why should there be only one? “Let us have four, one for each point of the compass, to include the whole of womanhood. One each of the various symbols of female identity—-Semiramis, Pocahontas, Juliet, and Brunhilde. All womanhood included in royalty!” they declared.

Big Cyndi is six-six and on the planetoid side of three hundred pounds, the former intercontinental tag-team wrestling champion with Esperanza, aka Big Chief Mama to Esperanza's Little Pocahontas. Her head was cube shaped and topped with hair spiked to look like the Statue of Liberty on a bad acid trip. She wore more makeup than the cast of Cats, her clothing form-fitted like sausage casing, her scowl the stuff of sumos.

My daughter speaks with a wisdom beyond her years. We have all come here with anger in our hearts but she comes with courage and understanding. From this day forward if there is to be more killing it will not start with me.

The Princess Pocahontas myth represents a passive sex symbol, the “Good Indian” who unites the white man and the Native, the civilized and the savage, the past and the future. But—and this is a big but—through her attraction to white men she also affirms the superiority of white society over her own, and so functions as tacit permission for whites to conquer, assimilate, and destroy Native culture. Even her “princess” status was a fabrication

Nay, so great was our famine that a Salvage we slew and buried, the poorer sort took him up again and eat him; and so did divers one another, boyled and stewed with roots and herbs. And one amongst the rest did kill his wife, powdered her, and had eaten part of her, before it was knowne, for which hee was executed, as hee well deserved. Now whether shee was better roasted, boyled, or carbonado'd I know not, but of such a dish as powdered wife I never heard of.

We don’t yet know the state of the naturals. Are they friends or foes? None of us can say. We ought to anchor in the bay, as near as we might come to the shore, and bide our time. The naturals will show themselves, soon or late. They know we are here already, or else I’m a virgin girl.

In a more perfect world, that would’ve also been the moment when she’d say, “Look, honey, I know you resonate with the character of Pocahontas, but we already live on stolen land and you are not an indigenous person, so it would be very insensitive for you to wear someone else’s culture as a costume.” “Certainly, Mother,” I’d respond. “You’re absolutely correct. My teacher taught us about the land theft and subsequent genocide of Native American nations in kindergarten last week as part of our People’s Herstory class, so I shouldn’t go as Pocahontas. But could I go as another Disney princess instead?

An eternity politician defines foes rather than formulating policies. Trump did so by denying that the Holocaust concerned Jews, by using the expression “son of a bitch” in reference to black athletes, by calling a political opponent “Pocahontas,” by overseeing a denunciation program that targeted Mexicans, by publishing a list of crimes committed by immigrants, by transforming an office on terrorism into an office on Islamic terrorism, by helping hurricane victims in Texas and Florida but not in Puerto Rico, by speaking of “shithole countries,” by referring to reporters as enemies of the American people, by claiming that protestors were paid, and so on.

Anastasia Rossi, born Edith Simmons, sat upright, her bulk filling the chair to its arms. She was dressed in her typical costume for a séance: silk kimono trimmed with cambric, loops of jet beads cascading down her bosom, “Pocahontas” headband with its diadem and ostrich plume. To her right sat Mr. Farnsworth, a tall, bearded man with russet eyebrows, to whom she had made love that morning beneath a rearing stuffed panther, lips (the panther’s) pinned back to show her fearsome teeth. To her left, her thin fingers trembling in Anastasia’s ample palm, was Mrs. Farnsworth, a slight, hysterical woman in a neck-high blouse with bishop sleeves. It was she who had first heard the ghosts that August, and for whose relief the séance was being conducted

This is weird for me, too, you know. It’s like, ever since I got that letter…” He hesitates. “Forget it.” “Just say it,” I say. “Ever since I got that letter, things have been messed up between us. It’s not fair. You got to say everything you wanted to say, and I’m the one who has to rearrange the way I think about you; I have to make sense of it in my head. You totally blindsided me, and then you just shut me out. You start dating Kavinsky, you stop being my friend.” He exhales. “Ever since I got your letter…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. It definitely wasn’t that. “Josh…” “I know you don’t want to hear it, but just let me say what I need to say, okay?” I nod. “I hate that you’re with Kavinsky. I hate it. He’s not good enough for you. I’m sorry to say it, but he’s just not. In my opinion, no guy will ever be good enough for you. Least of all me.” Josh ducks his head, and then suddenly he looks up at me and says, “There was this one time, I guess it was a couple of summers ago. We were walking home from somebody’s house--I think it was Mike’s.” It was hot, around dusk. I was mad because Mike’s older brother Jimmy had said he’d give us a ride home, and then he went somewhere and didn’t come back, so we had to walk. I was wearing espadrilles and my feet were hurting something terrible. Josh kept telling me to keep up with him. Quietly he says, “It was just me and you. You had on that tan suede shirt you used to wear, with the straps, and it showed your belly button.” “My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt.” Oh, how I loved that shirt. “I almost kissed you that day. I thought about it. It was this weird impulse I had. I just wanted to see what it would be like.” My heart stops. “And then?” “And then I don’t know. I guess I forgot about it.” I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry you got that letter. You were never supposed to see that. It wasn’t meant for you to ever read. It was just for me.” “Maybe it was fate. Maybe this was all supposed to happen just like this, because…because it was always gonna be you and me.” I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No, it wasn’t.” And I realize it’s true. This is the moment I realize I don’t love him, that I haven’t for a while. That maybe I never did. Because he’s right there for the taking: I could kiss him again; I could make him mine. But I don’t want him. I want someone else. It feels strange to have spent so much time wishing for something, for someone, and then one day, suddenly, to just stop.

Now, let me preface this story with the following: If you think that I am in any way endorsing cultural appropriation by writing this, you should just stop reading. I swear to Goddess,* if I hear about any one of you reading this passage and deciding, “Okay, yeah, great, the moral of this story is that Jacob thinks it’s awesome for white people to dress up as Native Americans for Halloween, so I’m gonna go do that,” I will use the power of the internet to find out where you live and throw so many eggs at your house that it becomes a giant omelet. Or if you’re vegan, I will throw so much tofu at your house that it becomes a giant tofu scramble. The point of this passage is not that white people should dress their children as Native Americans for Halloween. That’s basically the opposite of the point here. Capisce? All that being said, it was 1997. I was six years old and hadn’t quite developed my political consciousness about cultural appropriation or the colonization of the Americas and subsequent genocide of Native American people at the hands of white settlers yet. I also didn’t know multiplication, so I had some stuff to work on. What I did know was that Pocahontas was, by far, the most badass Disney princess. Keep in mind that Disney’s transgender-butch-lesbian masterpiece Mulan wasn’t released until a year later, or else I would’ve obviously gone with that (equally problematic) costume.

There was Brunhilde, a star shining high above the hillside behind her, dark, rippling hair hanging below her waist, standing in full command, spear in hand. Constance could not help thinking the star so large and bright might have shone over Bethlehem. She was momentarily grateful for her veil, not only for the concealment of her identity but also of her amused response to the scene before her. She struggled to contain herself as her eyes moved to the second vignette: here was fair Juliet, standing beneath rather than on her balcony, garbed in simple lines, her head wreathed in flowers, a cross of stars high above her. Ah, those star-crossed lovers, thought Constance. Again, she was glad that she could hide her amusement. How clever these women, she thought. The third was Semiramis, a quarter moon low above the exotic turrets behind her crowned head, a long-handled fan in her hand, like the fan of a servant. How should Constance interpret this? At once she noticed the replication of the shape of Brunhilde’s spear, but it was enlarged. Semiramis, the queen who had served for her son yet had conquered her foes and enlarged her kingdom. And was this moon waxing or waning? Rising or setting? Or perhaps the enigma of a waxing moon rising. Ah, somehow that was comfort. Last, before a rising sun, framed by trees that reached out to touch one another, stood Pocahontas, her costume appearing authentic, a feather in her headdress, the emblematizing dawn of a new age, a new woman in a new world. May it be so, thought Constance.

according to some accounts Smith’s life was saved only at the intervention of Wahunsunacock’s young daughter Pocahontas.

She has also spoken about her love of other Disney classics, The Little Mermaid and Pocahontas.

...whenever I need a pick-me-up, I just watch Pocahontas.

El precio de una camiseta con la imagen de la princesa Pocahontas, vendida por la casa Disney, equivale al salario de toda una semana del obrero que ha cosido esa camiseta en Haití, a un ritmo de 375 camisetas por hora. Haití fue el primer país en el mundo que abolió la esclavitud; y dos siglos después de aquella hazaña, que muchos muertos costó, el país padece la esclavitud asalariada. La cadena McDonald's regala juguetes a sus clientes infantiles. Esos juguetes se fabrican en Vietnam, donde las obreras trabajan diez horas seguidas, en galpones cerrados a cal y canto, a cambio de ochenta centavos. Vietnam había derrotado la invasión militar de los Estados Unidos; y un cuarto de siglo después de aquella hazaña, que muchos muertos costó, el país padece la humillación globalizada.

Her own grandfather had been a Virginian, a descendant of Pocahontas, of course, Pocahontas having been created by Divine Providence for the specific purpose of ancestoring Virginians.

A bubble is a fragile thing, and often in the evening the professors talked worriedly about its bursting. They worried about political correctness, about their colleague on TV with a twenty-year-old female student screaming abuse into her face from a distance of three inches because of a disagreement over campus journalism, their colleague in another TV news story abused for not wanting to ban Pocahontas costumes on Halloween, their colleague forced to take at least one seminar’s sabbatical because he had not sufficiently defended a student’s “safe space” from the intrusion of ideas that student deemed too “unsafe” for her young mind to encounter, their colleague defying a student petition to remove a statue of President Jefferson from his college campus in spite of the repressible fact that Jefferson had owned slaves, their colleague excoriated by students with evangelical Christian family histories for asking them to read a graphic novel by a lesbian cartoonist, their colleague forced to cancel a production of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues because by defining women as persons with vaginas it discriminated against persons identifying as female who did not possess vaginas, their colleagues resisting student efforts to “de-platform” apostate Muslims because their views were offensive to non-apostate Muslims. They worried that young people were becoming pro-censorship, pro-banning-things, pro-restrictions, how did that happen, they asked me, the narrowing of the youthful American mind, we’re beginning to fear the young. “Not you, of course, darling, who could be scared of you,” my mother reassured me, to which my father countered, “Scared for you, yes. Vith this Trotskyist beard you insist on wearing you look like an ice-pick target to me. Avoid Mexico City, especially de Coyoacán neighborhood. This iss my advice.” In the evenings they sat in pools of yellow light, books on their laps, lost in words. They looked like figures in a Rembrandt painting, Two Philosophers Deep in Meditation, and they were more valuable than any canvas; maybe members of the last generation of their kind, and we, we who are post-, who come after, will regret we did not learn more at their feet.

That’s Esperanza Diaz. A professional wrestler falsely accused of murder.” Grace turned. “Little Pocahontas,” she said. “Excuse me?” Grace pointed at the photograph. “Her wrestling name. It was Little Pocahontas.

She had learned that somewhere and stockpiled it in the back brain closet, the same closet where she stored information about Daryl Hannah being in Splash and Esperanza Diaz being the wrestler dubbed Little Pocahontas, the same closet that helped make Grace, in Jack’s words, “Mistress of the Useless Factoid.

I once got a chin-length bob because the broadcast coach ABN kept on retainer said long hair made me look like Pocahontas.

Mom says as we both enter the background-designated trailer bathroom. I’d been holding my poop for an hour and couldn’t hold it anymore, so I finally asked a person with a walkie-talkie if I could please go, even though Mom tells me I might be labeled difficult for doing so. “Sorry,” I say while I poop and Mom wets a paper towel with water. I’m embarrassed she still insists on wiping my butt. I tried to tell her recently that now that I’m eight, I think I can handle it, but she looked like she was gonna cry and said she needs to do it until I’m at least ten because she doesn’t want skid marks on my Pocahontas underwear. I know if I did it there wouldn’t be skid marks, but it’s Mom’s tears I’m more worried about.

How is it I have never dated / someone who is also Coast Salish / or at least Indigenous / instead it's Disney's Pocahontas / her animated dad with his hands up / these white men are dangerous / and I come running

The bad blood that pitted Archer and Ratcliffe against Smith had its beginnings in 1607, in Jamestown’s earliest days, when the three men served together on the colony’s ruling council. In the months when colonists were dying of hunger and illness, Smith discovered that the duo, along with a few others, were planning to steal supplies and a small boat they could use to flee Virginia for the safety of England. While Smith would almost certainly have been happy to see the last of the two men he thought of as cowards and traitors, he knew the colony could not survive without the boat and that the supplies the men were about to steal were sorely needed by the hungry colonists. Smith, in typical John Smith fashion, soon spiked those plans when he ordered several of the settlement’s cannon turned on the boat and ordered those on board to come ashore or be shot out of the water. Neither Archer nor Ratcliffe was the type of man to take such effrontery lying down, especially from a man they would have considered their social inferior. A few weeks later, the two saw an opportunity to even the score. At that time (it was after Smith’s rescue by Pocahontas, when he returned to Jamestown), Archer and Ratcliffe used the Bible as a legal text and charged Smith with murder under Levitical law. Ludicrous as it seems, the two argued that the “eye for an eye” verse made Smith responsible for the deaths of two of his men who had been killed when Smith was captured by the Powhatan people. It is a measure of Smith’s unpopularity with the “better sort” of colonists (not only Ratcliffe and Archer) that he was—within hours of his return to Jamestown—charged, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to die, with the execution scheduled for the next morning. That night (it was in early 1608), Smith was saved from death when Captain Christopher Newport, the man who later served as the Sea Venture’s captain, unexpectedly sailed up to Jamestown with a handful of new colonists and a shipload of food and other supplies. Newport, who recognized Smith’s value to the colony even if some of the other leaders did not and who, no doubt, saw the idiocy of making Smith responsible for the death of the men who had been killed by the Indians, immediately ordered him freed and all charges against him dropped.

There is so much myth surrounding Pocahontas, starting with her name, which was actually Amonute. She also had a more private name, Matoaka. “Pocahontas” was a nickname that referenced her being a disobedient child. As the Pulitzer Prize–winning American history professor Laurel Ulrich said, “Well-behaved women seldom make history.

and

Ich lebe, um zu leben. Und neben diesem Leben, das zu leben ist, ist das Werk ein Nichts. Schwerer, als ein gutes Buch zu schreiben, ist es, nicht verbittert zu werden. Ich habe mich ungesehen. In Seelandschaft mit Pocahontas schreibt mein Namens Heiliger Arno Schmidt: "Der Künstler hat nur die Wahl, ob er als Mensch existieren will oder als Werk; im zweiten Fall besieht man sich den defekten Rest besser nicht.

Unlike enslaved black women, Native women were not represented as lewd wantons, but they were nonetheless sexualized and stereotyped through the Princess Pocahontas myth. More than just a Disney princess, Pocahontas was a real woman in history whose story has been appropriated almost beyond all recognition.

I mean, she is a cartoon, we are real people, we don’t fucking talk to raccoons and trees!” Angel joked, exasperated. What’s no joke, however, are the real consequences this archetype has had. The sexualizing and animalizing of Native women through the perpetuation of the Princess Pocahontas myth is occurring in a context where violence against Native women is increasing.

The lingering legacy of Princess Pocahontas—the willing exotic princess who chooses intrepid and strapping white suitors and white society over her static, dying culture and community with its unattractive, war-minded men—is a false construction that conveniently gives consent for the eradication of her people.

The Pocahontas story requires the princess to reject her own people and culture. This powerful theme has persisted, as the historian Nancy Shoemaker observes, because it contributes to the larger national rationale of the Indians’ willing participation in their own demise.

She raised up and looked at me, both her brows arched in their sharpest points as she said, “If you keep botherin’ me, I’m gonna hang ya in a tree by that long Indian hair of yours and call for the crows to come peck your eyes out. You want that to happen, Pocahontas?

Caitlin, I proposed to you at Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth, because I knew that marrying you would make me the Happiest Man on Earth. “You are every Disney princess wrapped up into one woman: “You have Snow White’s gentle compassion for others; “Cinderella’s strength to overcome hard times and emerge as the belle of the ball; “Ariel’s wit and feistiness; “Princess Jasmine’s flashing dark eyes; “The gorgeous tumbling hair of Rapunzel; “The adventurous spirit of Pocahontas; “And Belle’s ability to see the beauty in this Beast.

I thought about how my idols growing up were not real Native women but instead cartoon caricatures that Disney made in the form of Tiger Lily and Pocahontas.

Our anger is not about bitterness or hatred. It is about the desire for equality and justice. It’s about wanting racism to end. We’re tired of suffering and want to know what equality, dignity and respect feel like before we die. We’re angry because we have played by the rules, done more than what was asked of us, but have still been dehumanized and denied our place in time. Our anger is justified and whites should be as angry about these injustices as we are. We’re frustrated that they are not. If they were, things would change.

I am an old woman now and it pains me to know that I shall die never having known what it feels like to have my full humanity recognized by my country.

It is said that for every “Aha moment” that a white person experiences in regard to racism, a person of color has paid a tremendous emotional price. Yes, the lessons that we teach come at an extraordinarily high cost to us.

VERS DORÉS Eh quoi ! tout est sensible ! Pythagore Homme, libre penseur ! te crois-tu seul pensant Dans ce monde où la vie éclate en toute chose ? Des forces que tu tiens ta liberté dispose, Mais de tous tes conseils l'univers est absent. Respecte dans la bête un esprit agissant : Chaque fleur est une âme à la Nature éclose ; Un mystère d'amour dans le métal repose ; « Tout est sensible ! » Et tout sur ton être est puissant. Crains, dans le mur aveugle, un regard qui t'épie : À la matière même un verbe est attaché... Ne la fais pas servir à quelque usage impie ! Souvent dans l'être obscur habite un Dieu caché ; Et comme un œil naissant couvert par ses paupières, Un pur esprit s'accroît sous l'écorce des pierres !

It made her feel restored, like a bud reaching the earth's surface

by refusing to repeat it, much to the despair of their record companies. Both wrote gorgeous sci-fi ballads blatantly inspired by 2001—“Space Oddity” and “After the Gold Rush.” Both did classic songs about imperialism that name-checked Marlon Brando—“China Girl” and “Pocahontas.” Both were prodigiously prolific even when they were trying to eat Peru through their nostrils. They were mutual fans, though they floundered when they tried to copy each other (Trans and Tin Machine). Both sang their fears of losing their youth when they were still basically kids; both aged mysteriously well. Neither ever did anything remotely sane. But there’s a key difference: Bowie liked working with smart people, whereas Young always liked working with . . . well, let’s go ahead and call them “not quite as smart as Neil Young” people. Young made his most famous music with two backing groups—the awesomely inept Crazy Horse and the expensively addled CSN—whose collective IQ barely leaves room temperature. He knows they’re not going to challenge him with ideas of their own, so he knows how to use them—brilliantly in the first case, lucratively in the second. But Bowie never made any of his memorable music that way—he always preferred collaborating with (and stealing from) artists who knew tricks he didn’t know, well educated in musical worlds where he was just a visitor. Just look at the guitarists he worked with: Carlos Alomar from James Brown’s band vs. Robert Fripp from King Crimson. Stevie Ray Vaughan from Texas vs. Mick Ronson from Hull. Adrian Belew from Kentucky vs. Earl Slick from Brooklyn. Nile Rodgers. Peter Frampton. Ricky Gardiner, who played all that fantastic fuzz guitar on Low (and who made the mistake of demanding a raise, which is why he dropped out of the story so fast). Together, Young and Bowie laid claim to a jilted generation left high and dry by the dashed hippie dreams. “The

A Vadkürti nem mosott hajat, mióta Szűrös Mátyás kikiáltotta a köztársaságot, olyan ázott tacskószaga van, az orra bauxitvörös, a szakálla tavalyi széna, az arca meg használt csiszolópapír. Úgy néz ki, mint Keresztelő Szent János hatnapos vízihullája bizánci stílusban. A Petronella meg mint Pocahontas, aki épp túlzásba viszi a léböjtkúrát egy Frida Kahlo-képen.

The similarities between who Pocahontas was and who I saw myself as were uncanny. She wore dresses. I wanted to wear dresses. She loved running around in the woods and singing. I loved running around in the woods and singing. She talked to trees. I also talked to trees.

Our white brothers and sisters generally have a hard time understanding or dealing with black anger. It scares the hell out of them. They find it hard to understand that anger at the system is not the same as anger at individual white people. They find it difficult to comprehend that because we are frustrated and angered by a centuries old system of racial inequities, that does not mean that we are angry with every white person as an individual or that we dislike white people.

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain? Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

It was the worst crime against Native Americans since Sen. Elizabeth “Pocahontas” Warren’s appropriation scam. Now just because I call my Jeep “Elizabeth Warren” because it is pale white and identifies as a Cherokee does not mean it gets into Harvard with a 1200 SAT. A mosquito could bite Elizabeth Warren and take all her Native American blood.

Pocahontas.