Red Haircrow

An award-winning author, poet, photojournalist, chef and former law enforcement officer of mixed Native American descent (Chiricahua Apache/Cherokee) who lives in Berlin, Germany. Red Haircrow is also a psychotherapist, press agent, and owns and operates Flying With Red Haircrow, a multi-media entity. All comments, feedback and inquiries can be directed to theredhairedcrow at Unless noted, all photos were taken by and are the property of Red Haircrow ©2010-2014. All rights reserved.

“Dance above the surface of the world. Let your thoughts lift you into creativity that is not hampered by opinion.” —Red Haircrow


Filed under Native American, Writing and Writers

Poem: “Uncle” by Red Haircrow

Written for my youngest maternal uncle, who was about my age when he died from advanced Mesothelioma lung cancer fifteen years ago. For over a year he had complained to doctors, went to the emergency room with severe chest pain but it was always dismissed, with the cause usually being stated as pneumonia. Last visit, one doctor finally thinking “outside the box” decided to do other tests and shortly ordered a biopsy. Result? He told my uncle to go home, be with his loved ones, he only had days to live at most. Couple of days later, his prediction came true.

Never heard my mother make such a sound as at my uncle’s funeral. They were especially close, as their mother had died shortly after he was born of a brain anerysm, when my mother was fourteen. Their father absconded, leaving her with five younger brothers and sisters, the youngest, this uncle, a babe in arms. Life on the streets was hard, surviving by scavenging, church hand-outs and have to fight regularly to protect themselves. Despite it all, they were all still smilers. He was a smiler.



At his hospital bedside,
my hand on the stone cool
curve of his forehead,
his body down to bone.
“He’s not aware of you,”
said the nurse
who knew nothing.


Brushing my hair
back from my forehead
when I was a child,
I remembered
him calling my name
in that way of his,
with the signature eye roll
and infectious laughter,
a rich sound
full of joy.

We’d ride like the wind
in one of his old
beat-up cars
after he’d shared
its floorboard treasure
of coins.

The uncle who would help me
catch my fool dog
that loved escaping
the backyard
just to make us run,
all the neighborhood
children joining in the chase.

Staying up late to
watch old movies
while he told me
the stories told by elders
now passed,
especially the scary ones
then laughing and
dispelling fear.

A hard working man
who never complained,
and in my memories
left nothing dark:
only his humor and
gently mischievious
dark gaze,

And my hand on the stone cool
curve of his forehead,
as his lips slowly moved
in a suggestion of a smile.
He was already dancing away
and with each step rising.

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Filed under Memories, Native American, Personal Entries, Poetry, Uncategorized

Poem: “Siblings” & The Story Behind the Words


A wall-eyed young girl in a party dress
with carefully combed dark hair,
brushed tears away from a narrow pretty face
drawn with misery.

Maybe the cause was a word spoken,
or a series of them, a mentioned memory, person or place.
Maybe it was all of those things for

After giving a deliberate satisfied speech
from which she sat back with a faint smile,
her straight sighted twin regarded her dispassionately
on the warm, fine summer evening bus ride.

–Written 8 July 2014


When a few moments viewing of a young girl’s fight to hold back tears guts you, when you want to know what caused it: what words said, what fate contemplated and dreaded forthcoming. But those are things I thought afterwards as I forced my legs to move, to walk away from her, to not follow her and see how I might help, if I could help in some way.

After a long hot day at work, I was riding the same bus I usually do, standing at the back as I usually do, only occasionally watching other commuters as they intermittently moved or conversed, such things. I had vaguely noticed two young girls, probably 11 or 12 years old who sat facing each. I had noticed them mostly because of their wavy dark hair, which reminded me of my son, along with their light tan skin. “Must be twins” I said to myself, for their bearing and countenance was nearly identical.

My thoughts returned to other things. A few minutes passed, and the upcoming stop would be my own. When I glanced back at the scrolling “next stop” marquee at the front of the bus, I noticed the obvious siblings again, as one rose to get off. The “twin” who’d sat across from her didn’t move save to take off her glasses, hold her face in one hand a moment before looking back up towards the window. The dejection, the abject expression of misery on her face, in the lines of her shoulders and slope of her narrow flat chest.

The skin around her eyes were reddened, as obviously she’d been crying or about to. And her eyes, one looked down at her lap while the other wandered elsewhere, the wall-eyed condition so often mocked, which I know personally, for it runs in my family, and I’d had mine corrected as an infant. The dispassionate eyes of the standing sibling turned back to the seated twin with a trace of latent triumph. Something hurtful had been said without doubt.The wall-eyed young girl finally forced herself to move.

As we were all getting off on the same stop, I forced myself to also move also because my body felt leaden for her hurt was so strong, so poignant, I had helplessly absorbed it. I found that I could barely walk. My legs felt numb. I didn’t want to embarass her, to look at her as she still struggled with controlling her feelings, as she dropped back behind her mother and other siblings as we waited for the crossing light. When it turned, I made myself stride ahead away from them, but as soon as I crossed the street and they moved in another direction, I dropped in pace and had to stop. I literally had to gather my composure in order to continue.

I was an often solemn child, except with certain people, seldom smiling in any photo, always somewhat removed from any grouping. I thought of myself, of what I carried in my mind and heart back at the same age, and what it did to my spirit then and sometimes now. I thought of all the things that could make that child look so hurt and alone.

It could have been any city, any bus ride, any family, any child.

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Filed under Berlin, Essays, Germany, Memories, Personal Entries, Poetry

At Ex-Berliner Magazine: My Commentary on “Cowboys and Indianer”

Ride by Red Haircrow

Ride by Red Haircrow

I was interviewed by journalist Rachel Glassberg on the topic of native culture appropriation, the phenomenon of German hobbyists, and the perspectives of some Native Americans who live in Germany. At Ex-Berliner Magazine, online and in print, July/August 2014 issue.

Respect, admiration or cultural appropriation? A visit to Brandenburg’s Wild West theme park raises questions about Germany’s ‘special’ relationship with Native Americans.

The full article “Cowboys and Indianer.”

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Filed under Announcements, Berlin, Culture, Germany, Native American, Writing and Writers