Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Travels in the South: 3. Crossing the Georgia Border into Florida" is a poem of alienation, memory, and quiet resistance. Like the previous entries in Travels in the South, it maps the speaker’s movement through a region marked by historical and contemporary tensions, where Indigenous presence is simultaneously erased and embodied. The poem presents a journey that is as much internal as it is external, revealing the speaker’s anxieties, familial connections, and encounters with both human and non-human observers. The poem’s structure—shifting between recollection, reflection, and direct address—emphasizes its exploratory, searching quality.

The poem begins with unease: "I worried about my hair, kept my car locked. / They’d look at me, lean, white, nervous, their lips moving, making wordless gestures." The concern about hair immediately situates the speaker in a space where identity is scrutinized. Long hair, a traditional marker of Indigenous identity, has long been a source of tension in American society, frequently drawing racist assumptions or hostility. The phrase "kept my car locked" reinforces this tension—there is a perceived or real threat in this landscape, a feeling of being out of place. The "lean, white, nervous" figures the speaker observes reflect this atmosphere of unease. Their "wordless gestures" suggest silent judgment, an inability—or refusal—to acknowledge the speaker’s full humanity.

The poem then shifts into memory: "My hair is past my ears. / My Grandfather wore it like that. / He used to wear a hat, a gray one, with grease stains on it." Here, the speaker situates himself within familial lineage, recalling his grandfather as a point of grounding. The image of the hat—gray, stained with grease—evokes working-class endurance, a quiet strength. The mention that "the people called him Tall One because he was tall for an Acoma" emphasizes individuality within communal identity. This connection to ancestry counters the alienation the speaker feels in the present; despite external judgment, he carries with him the memory and presence of those who came before.

The speaker then recounts an uncomfortable experience in Atlanta: "I had a hard time in Atlanta; / I thought it was because I did not have a suit and tie." This line introduces another layer of exclusion—this time, class-based. The expectation of formal attire signals the rigidity of social expectations in the city. The speaker, attending an "Indian meeting", is placed in a situation where he does not fully belong, reinforcing the theme of displacement.

The interaction at the Dinkler Plaza, a luxury hotel, highlights this tension: "The desk clerk didn’t believe it when I walked up, requested a room, towel rolled up under my arm, / a couple books, and my black bag of poems." The specificity of "black bag of poems" contrasts with the impersonal bureaucracy of the hotel, symbolizing the speaker’s identity as a poet and an observer. The clerk’s disbelief underscores the racial and class prejudices at play—he does not expect an Indigenous man to belong in this space. The line "I had to tell him who I really wasn’t." is particularly powerful; it suggests that in order to navigate this environment, the speaker must deny or obscure parts of himself.

The following reflection—"He charged me twenty dollars for a room, and I figured I’m sure glad that I’m not a Black man, / and I was sure happy to leave Atlanta."—is a stark acknowledgment of racial hierarchy in the South. The awareness that his treatment, though unjust, could have been worse if he were Black speaks to the deeply ingrained racism of the region. The desire to "leave Atlanta" suggests relief, as if the city itself is suffocating or unwelcoming.

As the speaker nears Florida, the tone shifts: "A few miles from the Florida line, I picked some flowers beside the highway and put them with the sage I got in Arizona." This moment of gathering—of merging plants from different regions—suggests a quiet ritual, an act of continuity that contrasts with the earlier alienation. The sage, a plant often used in Indigenous spiritual practices, carries a sense of cleansing and grounding. By incorporating flowers from the roadside, the speaker enacts a small act of reclamation, asserting a connection to the land despite its history of dispossession.

Upon entering Florida, the speaker encounters another instance of Indigenous erasure: "After the Florida line, I went to a State Park, paid two-fifty, and the park ranger told me, / 'This place is noted for the Indians that don’t live here anymore.' The phrase "Indians that don’t live here anymore" encapsulates the way Indigenous history is often framed—as something past, something removed. The ranger’s ignorance is emphasized by his failure to even name the tribe that once inhabited the land. This moment echoes an earlier exchange in "Travels in the South: 1. East Texas", where the speaker asks about the Caddo and is met with vague, dismissive responses. The pattern of erasure is clear: Native people exist everywhere, yet are spoken of as if they are absent.

The poem then turns toward a more personal, symbolic encounter: "When I got to my campsite and lay on the ground, / a squirrel came by and looked at me. / I moved my eyes. He moved his head. / 'Brother,' I said." This interaction with the natural world stands in stark contrast to the interactions with white strangers. The squirrel’s simple gaze, free of judgment, prompts a recognition of kinship. The speaker’s address—"Brother"—suggests an alternative understanding of belonging, one rooted in shared existence rather than imposed divisions.

A red bird follows: "A red bird came, hopped. / 'Brother, how are you?' I asked." Again, the speaker engages with the natural world in a way that is absent from his human encounters. The choice to call the bird "Brother" rather than "Sister" avoids gendering the encounter, keeping it open and fluid, reinforcing the idea of interconnection beyond human-imposed categories.

The final lines—"I took some bread, / white, and kind of stale, / and scattered some crumbs before them. / They didn’t take the crumbs, and I didn’t blame them."—close the poem on a quiet, knowing note. The detail of the bread being "white, and kind of stale" carries metaphorical weight. It could represent something unpalatable—not just food, but the dominant culture, the institutions and systems that have shaped the speaker’s experiences in this journey. The animals’ refusal to take the crumbs suggests an instinctive rejection of what is not nourishing, not meant for them. The speaker’s reaction—"and I didn’t blame them."—suggests an understanding that goes beyond words, a recognition that some things, some offerings, are not meant to be taken.

Ortiz’s use of free verse and restrained, observational language allows the poem to unfold naturally, mirroring the movement of travel itself. The shifts between reflection, interaction, and memory create a layered effect, reinforcing the complexity of the speaker’s experience.

"Travels in the South: 3. Crossing the Georgia Border into Florida" is ultimately a poem about survival—not just in the physical sense, but in the cultural and spiritual sense as well. The speaker moves through a landscape that seeks to erase Indigenous presence, yet he carries with him the memory of his grandfather, the sage from Arizona, and the recognition of kinship with the land and its creatures. The final refusal of the bread serves as a quiet act of resistance, a reminder that survival is not just about taking what is offered, but about knowing what to reject. Through these moments of tension and connection, Ortiz affirms that despite the forces of erasure, Indigenous presence endures—not just in history, but in the living, moving, searching present.

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