>> Esther Belin: 
[Indigenous Language]
Hello, my name is 
Esther Belin
and I'm from the Navajo Nation.
And I am here
 in Washington, D.C.
as part of the inaugural
 In-Na-Po retreat,
which celebrates 
emerging indigenous writers.
And I'm honored to be part
 of the faculty here
that are gathered
 in this historic area
and historic location
 to celebrate
indigenous poetry
 and writing.
I'm going to be reading
 two poems today.
The first one is called,
"Kweʼé"
which is Navajo for 
"here"--"right here”.
One. It is here, 
right here.
It is not even 
trying to hide, no.
That is what humans do.
It is not even 
trying to hide, no.
It is here, right here.
That is what 
progress does.
Two. What are the 
cardinal points that strike
a match to how I am feeling,
 since no words come forth?
I search for the place
 on this planet
that manifests my struggle.
The scattering of 
cottonwood pollen in the wind.
The tattered edges of 
graveside, American flags,
the yearn and spring wind 
bouncing off canyon walls.
The slow swell of a viral
 invasion, mushrooming
into a uranium blast and
 the chest, latching
radioactive particles
 to soft tissue.
White dawn before me
 Comfort the earth.
Blue mid-morning beside 
me light the way.
Late yellow afternoon
 above me chase the fear.
Black evening behind me purge--
purge right here. [End poem]
This poem is 
called “Believe”.
Afterward, we will get
 up all together
with the sound of canyon 
wind howling, red clay masks,
preserving our faces. 
Our government clothes tattered,
no longer creased 
with false doctrine.
The pressurized,
steamed language
escapes from 
the pores in our skin.
The monogrammed label 
property of US government,
erased from our memory.
Our teeth, sweat, saliva, 
fingernails, strands of hair,
recomposed as the daughter 
of first man and first woman.
The four support 
pillars reconfigure
the directional mountains.
The zenith and Nader bolt
 lightning into our backbone.
The stone knife in our
 hand slays monsters.
The sunrays fastened 
us snugly to Nadesan.
The rainbow tethers a
 shield over us, altogether.
The intertwined winds
 breathe again. [End poem]
Being in this space,
the Library of Congress
 is a reconciliation.
For indigenous people
 in this country
that is called
 the United States,
has not been a 
unifying place for us.
And I think as tribal writers,
 being here has been
part of that healing, has
 been part of that reimagining
and grounding of 
our writing
and our ability to write 
and our ability to use
the English language, 
as a tribal language.
Our languages have
 been stulted
and the growth has
 been stunted within us.
But through poetry--
 through poetics--
through early boarding 
school writers who have left
their imprint and their mark 
in this country, have led us
to a legacy that we are 
able to reterritorialize.
We are able to reterritorialize 
our language, our voice,
and our presence here, as 
legitimate first nation peoples,
and we are in a revitalization. 
Not just in poetry,
but also in our language 
and in our presence.
And we are reclaiming our 
place of belonging
in this country that has not 
always been welcoming to us.
I have recently been honored 
to be the guest editor
of Poetry Magazine out of the
 Poetry Foundation in Chicago,
and it has been an amazing
 experience to be part of
that legacy that was started by
 a woman with a vision
of an open-door policy to really
 embrace good poetry.
And it is a thrill to be able 
to include within
that definition of good 
poetry indigenous voices
and voices that probably would
 not have been included
in journals or published 
elsewhere in the United States.
So it has been very humbling 
to be part of that process
and also to be part of the
 history of reorganizing
and rebuilding that
 foundation.
It started off on 
a fractured ground,
and it is really coming together
 to unify and to build--
to bulid an inclusive outlet for 
new writers and growing writers.