I would steal idols
by Melissa Pumayugra
Photo by Daniel Escobedo for Pexels
TW: Discussion of sexual assault
He was my idol from the start. I picked up the magazine in a second-hand store and grew captivated with it as we traveled south for days, crisscrossing states on a train, hitchhiking through San Antonio, then sleeping exhausted in a stranger’s extra room. We were heading to Mexico and Sherman Alexie’s words were coming with me, whether he liked it or not.
The poet’s glistening teeth and gorgeous refrains hooked me. It was the perfect segue to the unknown we would soon face as we entered Monterrey and met up with friends-turned-lovers. The parties we encountered south of the border were the perfect accompaniment to the joy and curiosity Alexie’s words had awoken in me. I was different; deeply affected by the beauty of the possibility of my life as a poet, writer, and observer of the world.
After we arrived at our final, dusty destination in Mexico, I dog-eared the pages in the literary magazine. “Sherman Alexie,” I told my companion, “is the absolute best poet alive.” I meant it. And honestly, in so many ways, I still do believe he is among the most talented writers of our modern times. But sometimes, our idols turn out to be mere mortals, falling from grace into public contempt. It happens with movie stars all the time, so why wouldn’t it happen to our literary gods, too?
I read the poetry over and over, committing each line to memory. The pages grew dirty as I shared the magazine with my friends. They were poets too. Of course we were drinking and I was learning an entirely new language and having the time of my life–but somehow, my naïve heart knew that Sherman Alexie had stolen it.
For years afterwards, I read his books, subscribed to his website and kept my eyes peeled for speaking engagements in which I could potentially meet him in person. After several years and a rare open evening during graduate school, I finally had the opportunity.
The 92nd Street Y event was lovely. He read from the critically-acclaimed young adult book The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and accepted a number of open questions from the audience. I was too shy to pipe up and talk, but in the line to get our books signed, I mentioned I was a teacher. I mentioned how much I loved his book and that I wrote a teaching unit to accompany the novel in my Special Education class. He said he applauded me, and wanted us to keep in touch, and could I perhaps submit the unit or share some components for him to include with his YA novel? I readily agreed. He handed me a stack of books to share with my students. I was in shock, and so grateful for his words and his generosity.
I was floating as I left the building. I was honored to be included in any kind of collaboration with such an esteemed author. He was gentlemanly, kind, and more than anything else—gracious. I spoke highly of the visit for years afterwards, and covered the novels with plastic protectors. When one, then two, then three novels went missing from our classroom lockers some time later, I cried.
While I wish I could include in this story that Alexie and I had some kind of an ongoing, salacious relationship, we didn't. What I had was simple— a fan reaction to meeting a beloved author. As he continued to publish book after book, poem after poem, I continued to do what I still do—cut out the poem or copy it and save it in my ‘favorites’ file. When I feel sad, incapable or otherwise, need a pick-me-up, I open the files, read the poems and assorted stories and ponder them.
Alexie’s poems have helped me through some pretty terrible situations in my life. My absolute favorite, I Would Steal Horses, in large part, shaped the way I view my adult relationships. Not content to just live with a lazy partner, I vowed to someday find a person who would literally wrap himself in disease to save our life, our love. Although this sentiment is extreme, I found the message profoundly important—be with someone willing to take risks with you.
Unfortunately, Alexie took a lot of risks. Bad risks. Career-ending risks.
As the #MeToo movement picked up speed, an ex-boyfriend emailed me out of the blue an article about Sherman Alexie. In the subject line, my ex-boyfriend wrote, ‘Guess we all F*** Up’. As I read the story, I felt sick. Angry that Alexie had betrayed this woman’s trust, but furious that my ex had chosen to not only try to renew contact with me out of the blue, but used my literal, favorite poet to do so. I deleted the email, then later restored the message back to my inbox. I couldn't help myself. I didn’t write back to my ex.
I couldn't believe what I read about Sherman Alexie. But I had to. While I had to believe the accusations of him plying women to kiss and engage in sexual relationships, I found the worst part of the entire situation to be the messages he sent to these numerous women. It wasn’t only a physical relationship. It was about coercing young women, potentially like myself, into believing that their words mattered to him–and that he was going to help them to achieve stardom at a level he had. Just like so many other male authors, supervisors, and older men do on a regular basis. I was crestfallen.
The pedestal I imagined Sherman Alexie to stand on imploded, and for a moment, I felt just as naïve as I had some years back when I stepped foot into Mexico. I was unable to comprehend what life would be like without the introduction to Latin America, nor Alexie’s poetry.
Though it took me some time to process it all, I concluded that yes, people can appreciate art without approving of an artist or creator. Woody Allen, for example, somehow still creates films. I ultimately decided that I wouldn’t watch Allen’s films, nor would I read any more of Alexie’s poems. To support the work of Alexie, in some way, feels like a betrayal to those he hurt and lied to, particularly his wife and literary associates.
Idols, even those invented in our hearts and minds, are false gods who can lose their luster or reverence. Although he may have affected me in so many ways in my younger life, I decided that Sherman Alexie no longer had to be a part of it. Removing him from the list of ‘favorites’ was difficult, but it gave space for me to realize there is room for growth in all of my realms, especially in my heart and consciousness.
While he has publicly apologized for his misdeeds, sometimes I sit back and wonder–what does his wife think of all of this? Would she steal horses for him, or just sit by the side-lines, waiting for him to return after a night of theft? I recognize that eschewing an entire cannon of literature or poetry may sound absurd, and I firmly believe it should be a case-by-case basis on how to handle the misdeeds of others. I won’t fault those who continue to laud Alexie. His talent is epic, clearly, but to engage in further celebration isn’t in my future.
Melissa Pumayugra
Melissa Wabnitz Pumayugra (she/her) is a Texas writer who enjoys a tall tale and a medium iced coffee. Her work centers around identity and cultural phenomena. Her photography and writing can be found on Twitter (@mel_the_puma) and in many other publications scattered throughout the globe.