Fall 2007 TCJ STUDENT EDITION
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STUDENT EDITION
Introduction by Joy Harjo
Gifts By Alina Phillips
A Place of Serenity By Rachel Hanson
The Wildman By Jesse A. Short Bull
Ghosts of a Crystal Page By Gerri L. Williams
Deadly Alaska By Rebecca Dakai
My Cousin Coyote, As Told By Dog By Marianne Addison
Shimá Sani’ By Laura Lee Yazzie
Page 2
Nice Guys Finish Last By Jerry Manheimer
Being Indian In White Country By Michael Bonga
Broken Promises By Sharon Redhorn-Chamberlain
Eulogy for a Warrior By Micki Lindeman
Lichtenstein’s Girl By Jaquetta Shade
Ursuline Inheritance By Amanda Irvine-Louie
Henry’s Last Will and Testament By Mandi Henderson
Objects in the Mirror By Kristiaan A. Rawlings
Page 3
I Know This Man By Lumhe Micco Sampson
Rabbit’s Tale of River By Angel Brady
The Best Stickgame Tournament of My Life By James Edmond Jackson, Sr.
Rain Song By Daniel Remmenga
The Mirror of Cultural Identity By Shana Trottier
I Will Go to Tsoodzi lBy Kyerin Bennett
Knowledge and Wisdom By Miranda Manheimer
A Person I Really Know By Corrine Tsoodle
Page 4
Walking Among Wisdom By Kyle Tsosie
Boys Will Be Boys By Dan Hawk
In Their Shoes By Samantha Falcon
Tribal Seduction By Jimmy Beason
Life and Times of Indian Jim By James Edmond Jackson, Sr.
The Execution By Willard Freemont, Jr.
What I Call A Nightmare By Samantha Longie
An annual publication of Tribal College Journal. Both the journal and this student issue are published by the American Indian Higher Education Consortium, an organization of the 35 tribally controlled colleges and universities in the United States and Canada.
Student Edition editor: Esther Belin (Diné) is a poet, a multi-media artist, and an educator. She is a graduate of the University of California-Berkeley and the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM. She received the 2000 American Book Award for her first volume of poetry From the Belly of My Beauty. She lives in Durango, CO, with her husband and four daughters.
On The Cover: On The Cover: “Reliquary” is a metal sculpture by Taketo Yamashita. A reliquary is a container for religious relics. Yamashita is a junior majoring in Studio Arts at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA, Santa Fe, NM). He came to IAIA from Japan in 2005 following his interest in Native American culture and art. “My major in Japan was computer science which has great influence on my work. My goal is to establish my own art style.” Yamashita is focusing on metal sculpture and jewelry making which he enjoys the most. He says he hopes to influence just as he is influenced by others.
Editor’s note: We were pleased to receive Yamashita’s reliquary which holds a tape recorder. We felt the piece captures the idea of recording stories similar to how the tribal college students have recorded their heartfelt stories in this issue.
Gifts
 Alina Phillips |
By Alina Phillips
At some point my father stopped buying me
birthday gifts.
Instead he’d put a dirty 50 dollar bill
inside an old Mission Valley Power envelope,
cross out the logo and write
To Scrub, love Dad.
One year for Christmas my mother and step-father
bought me a pink sleeping bag.
I had it until the summer I turned 16,
lost it hitchhiking back from Winnipeg
with my son’s father
before we had a son.
My son made me a necklace
when he was in kindergarten
for Mother’s Day.
Yellow yarn, wooden beads painted red, orange,
blue and green.
I wore it to work the next day and
he was so proud.
I always said I didn’t want a diamond.
But the one you put on my finger
last Thanksgiving
makes my hand foreign and beautiful,
and now I can’t stop smiling.
Tomorrow is my daughter’s birthday
and she’s helping me make the cake.
It’s hard to believe
she will be three.
I bought her too many gifts
she probably won’t remember,
but maybe.
The last gift my father bought me was
a pocket knife
with a fake antler handle
that said “Uncle Henry.”
I lost it in the city park and cried
and cried.
My birthday is in May.
I haven’t spoken to my father in a year.
We live in the same town.
I don’t know what I would say if he sent me
a card
that said
I love you,
happy birthday,
I’m proud of you.
Alina Phillips, 22, is working on her bachelor’s degree in elementary education at Salish Kootenai College in Pablo, MT, on the Flathead Reservation. The mother of two is a descendant of the Pend d’Oreille Tribe and has lived on the reservation her entire life where she also hopes to teach one day.
Phillips says, “I have been writing since I was 6 years old, and it fulfills me. Someday I would love to publish a book of poems or short stories. If I reached even one person, it would be enough.”
A Place of Serenity
 Rachel Hanson |
By Rachel Hanson
Walking up the snow-blanketed steps, I see a white sign to my left in black print: “ St. John’s Episcopal.” It has a red Celtic cross on it, along with the dates and times of church services. I am not here for a service but to be alone from the rush of life for a while. The entryway’s red double doors are weathered with paint chipped off in some places, exposing wood underneath. I grasp one of the tarnished brass handles and the door opens with a whoosh. As I step inside onto the plush burgundy carpet, the door shuts behind me with a little click, shutting out the bustling, hurried world as well.
It is almost as cold in here as it is outside. The heat is kept on the lowest setting all week and turned up right before church on Sunday. The temperature doesn’t bother me, and I continue my walk toward the front. As I walk, I hear the muffled thumps from my boots accompanied by an occasional creak that betrays a wood floor beneath the carpet. A scuffling noise, coming from the ceiling, startles me until I realize that it’s only some bats. I suppose they don’t enjoy being disturbed from their afternoon naps in the attic.
I slide into a pew, and the old stiff wood groans a little as I sit down. The varnish feels old and worn from use by hundreds of people over the years. Dark wood paneling covers all the walls except for a cream-colored one at the front that makes the small room look even smaller and darker than it really is. A faint glow comes in from the six stained glass windows with their diamond pattern of white and green, and the only other light source is a solitary candle burning at the altar.
Every time I come here a candle is burning, and now its steadfastness is comforting. The pale flickering light given off doesn’t reach to all the corners of the sanctuary, but I can picture every detail in my mind. I remember the immense rough stone table on the altar, with a white tablecloth over it, and the large wooden crucifix hanging on the cream-colored wall.
There are faint gray smoke stains on the ceiling from hundreds of candles burned over the years, and the little cluster of dented and scratched black music stands toward one side, where the worship team sings on Sundays.
I close my eyes and breathe in the comforting scent of beeswax and incense, old wood and dust – the smells of a church. The bats cease their scuffling, and a peaceful, sleepy silence settles over everything like a blanket. It is a quiet that seems to whisper, “Be still, and know that I am God.” It is amazing to imagine all the people who have praised, thanked, questioned, and petitioned God from this little church for so many years. I feel afraid to move and shatter this tranquility.
Time floats by; minutes and hours all blend together before I realize there is no more daylight visible through the windows. I shake myself from my reverie and walk slowly to the door. I want to linger here instead of returning to reality, but my watch reprimands me and says it is time to go home. The red door whooshes open again, and I step out into the cold, starry evening. More snow has fallen, filling up my previous footprints with its pure whiteness. With one last glance at the red doors shutting behind me, I walk down the steps to my car, feeling refreshed from my afternoon of solace at St. John’s.
Rachel Hanson, 17, attended the College of Menominee Nation in Keshena, WI, as a Learn and Earn student. She graduated from high school in May 2007 and plans on majoring in early elementary education at Northwestern College in Minnesota. Hanson, who lives in Bonduel, WI, enjoys writing about her faith and family, playing piano, singing, bicycling, and traveling.
The Wildman
By Jesse A. Short Bull
 Jesse Antoine Short Bull |
There she was – in his mind – just a glimmer of light amidst all the darkness. Sixteen years old, beautiful, and full of life – the way Cory eternally remembered his sister, Hope. She still lingered in Cory’s subconscious as he saw himself reaching toward her.
He was never able to grab her as she vanished into the dark, and then Cory would stumble upon an overturned car deep inside a ravine, her birthday Buick, mangled and twisted. As he slowly approached the wreckage, the smell of boiling radiator fluid and burnt oil filled his nostrils. He looked inside, but she wasn’t there. With trembling lips and a wrenching knot in his stomach, Cory followed the mist of beer shooting from cans.
Cory’s dream had a terrible grasp on him; this heart-breaking vision of his sister’s death frequented his slumber. In his dream there was an object hanging from the barbed-wire fence several yards from the wreckage.
He reached out and muttered his sister’s name. “Hope?” What a tragic sight. His sister lay motionless and alone. Cory freed her from the wire, never forgetting the icy chill of her body. Beside her was a little pink matchbook. “Thanks from the Buffalo Bone Saloon, Deer Creek, South Dakota.”
Cory clenched his fists and let out a heinous bellow, waking himself from his dream.
It had been about 15 months since the incident, and most of the community had forgotten his little sister. Cory vowed revenge but didn’t know how.
Standing in the line at the grocery store, his emotionless face scanned over the tabloid headlines until one piqued his interest: “Bigfoot Foils Mafioso Plot to Kill Town Mayor.” No matter how silly it seemed to Cory, he paid for the paper.
Running across the reservation dirt roads and past his favorite tree to the housing division where he and his grandma lived, he sat down and read the article with his dog King. The picture of a cheesy looking ape-man shaking the hand of a police officer drew him to read the story, remembering his grandma’s “wanagi” stories of Bigfoot. Her stories were meant to scare him and his sister from going too far from home.
A fire in his heart had been stoked, and he started to craft an uncanny idea. Looking toward the yard where he and Hope had played, he barely noticed his grandmother calling for supper.
He poured ketchup on the fried potatoes, ham, and scrambled eggs, remembering having the same dish the night Hope had died. Cory remembered her timidly asking him to buy her and her friends some beer, but he had refused. So she went into town to the Buffalo Bone Saloon, never to return. As he left the table, he had his design in place.
He was going to put an end to the injustice that resulted from drinking -- for all those dead by murder, rape, and horrible accidents. To seek revenge upon the ruthless bartender who cashed in on their misery, and most importantly, to avenge the untimely death of his sister.
The young man was going to attack the source – to destroy the beer, whiskey, and wine in the Buffalo Bone Saloon. He contrived a cloak-and-dagger scheme to bring thunder upon the land. He would arise as Bigfoot, the perfect channel for his tortured soul.
Cory spent months constructing his outfit. He had to appear big and menacing, draped in fur with an ogre’s stance. He ground the soles of some large work boots and modified them to fit over his sneakers; he clad a pair of heavy-duty work gloves with horse hair and badger claws, lining the tops with a nickel plate. The chest was puffed out; and the arms appeared muscular and massive. The face was crudely molded to a gorilla’s, draped in black cloth and black nappy hair. The Bigfoot suit was tall, tight, and easily mobile. All he had to do was wait.
The day came one hot June afternoon. The forecast called for severe storms in the evening. He told his grandma he was going to his uncle’s place. He took one last look at his sister’s picture and then walked out the door. A wicked storm was brewing in the west over the Black Hills, and as it drifted towards town, Cory changed into his outfit.
A cool breeze and the smell of rain signaled Cory. It was time to move. Nightfall was here, and the massive storm walled off the western sky. Cory felt his adrenaline pumping as he ran into the little border town. Praying for a fox-like stealth, he stood before the Buffalo Bone Saloon. Lightning bolts pierced the town, and thunder shook the ground.
Inside was an unsuspecting barkeep, a lazy pitbull, and thousands of dollars worth of booze. He stood upright, tall, and fearless. Just as hailstones bounced off the street, the power went dead. As a candle was being lit, he leaped up to the window, ramming his fist into the glass with a horrendous shriek. Two patrons fell out of their stools in horror; the dog cowered in fear behind the barkeep, who was choking in disbelief.
Bigfoot belted another deafening growl as everyone froze. Then he started smashing bottles and throwing cases of beer. The men ran to the fire exit, stumbling, falling, and even crying.
Cory was left alone feeling a brief sense of satisfaction. Not a single ounce of alcohol was left unscathed; it all was destroyed. Cory leapt into the street and disappeared into the darkness.
Within days a media frenzy was sparked; the whole town was in the spotlight. It was one of the most bizarre cases known to the state of South Dakota. A massive investigation took place, and the evils of the Buffalo Bone were closely examined and exposed. Bigfoot became a living legend despite the sketchy evidence left behind. The sheriff’s conclusion was unclear; it was either the work of an unknown species or the work of a very wild man.
Jesse Antoine Short Bull (Oglala Sioux), 24, is a student at Oglala Lakota College (OLC, Kyle, SD). He was born to Leslie and Sandy Short Bull in Pine Ridge, SD, and currently resides near his favorite place, the Badlands National Park, where he likes searching for Fairburn agates. He also enjoys working on his 1955 Chevy and is always willing to lend a helping hand to anyone in need.
Short Bull’s favorite OLC teachers are Kathy Aplan and the late John Around Him Sr.; “The Wildman” is dedicated to the latter who taught Short Bull the importance of storytelling. “Dot Com Indian,” another Short Bull story, was published in the Tribal College Journal, Vol. 18, N. 1.
Deadly Alaska
 Rebecca Dakai |
By Rebecca Dakai
On my second day in Alaska, I got a new dog from an Iditarod racer. He was the runt of the litter, and I named him Niqipaq, which means “Native food” in Inuit because of his black body. He was so black, he almost looked purple, the same color as the berries that grew on the tundra.
My mom’s friend called one day to tell us about a beached whale that hunters were cutting up. If we hurried, we could get some of the meat and muktuk, the fat of the whale considered a delicacy. I was pretty excited. I’d never seen a real whale, dead or alive.
Mom, my sister Julia, Niq, and I went. I climbed into the back of our red Ford pickup truck and left the door open for Niqipaq to jump in beside me. He was my absolute best friend. I hadn’t started school yet, so I hadn’t had much interaction with other kids.
To get to the beach, we had to cross the airport runway. The truck stopped as mom looked for any planes that might be coming in. Mom drove across the runway and back onto a dirt road, which took us to the beach. Then the truck wheels sank into the sand.
I wasn’t scared, even if we were stuck in the cold rain; it was an adventure, a real live Alaskan adventure. Even before my mom turned off the truck, my sister, Niq, and I had gotten out. She started playing with Niq while I wandered around on the beach. The clouds were deep gray with hints of purple, spitting out a refreshing rain. The Bering Sea lapped roughly at the shore, its waves white capped with froth.
The beach had a gentle curve to it, and I was slowly walking out of sight. I was too preoccupied with picking up oyster shells and neat-looking rocks. I must have walked for about 10 minutes when I heard some weird noises – a deep grunting sound, accompanied with a sound like that of denim ripping and slurping. When I looked up, I was horrified at what I saw.
The huge backside of a grizzly bear was facing me. The bear was at least eight feet tall on his hind legs. His fur was light brown, and his long claws were blood stained from the dead walrus he was eating.
I dropped all my shells and stones and quietly crept back around the bend. I dared not to turn my back to him. When I could no longer see him, I ran. I didn’t scream, but every brain cell was telling me to warn everyone. I knew that screaming would only aggravate the bear. When we lived in Arizona, my dad had worked at the Game and Fish Department. He taught my sister and me all about animals. I was so glad that he did.
I ran back to the truck. Everything seemed normal, too calm to have a bear lurking around the bend. My mom was sitting on the bed of the truck, watching Julia and Niqipaq play in the surf. By the time I got to the truck, I was dizzy and lightheaded. I whispered to my mom about the bear and she asked if I was sure.
Mom told Julia to get in the truck and to bring Niqipaq with her. My puppy ran around as we tried to grab him, yipping and barking like we were playing a game. My mom nearly caught him, but he wriggled out of her grasp. I ran after him, but that just caused him to run faster down the beach and around the bend.
My mom told me to get in the truck, so I did. I was scared beyond belief. My fears were confirmed as a colossal roar echoed from down the beach. My eyes widened, and my heart beat faster. Niqipaq came running around the bend, his tongue rolling out of his mouth. A second later the grizzly came charging after my dog, and the bear would have attacked the car if we had let Niq in.
I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to pretend like nothing washappening and we were back in our warm apartment, throwing chew toys across the floor for Niq. I wanted to pretend that my dog wasn’t going to die.
Niq was running too fast. He wasn’t built for speed like that, especially being the runt, and he was fading fast. I knew that if he kept running so fast his heart would burst.
He slipped and fell. The bear came to a sudden halt, let out a roar, and swiped a huge paw at my puppy. Niqipaq went tumbling over the rocks. My mom was restraining me; I wanted to do anything to get the bear’s attention away from my dog. But it was too late. He stood up and roared again, then landed his two front paws on top of my dog.
I watched my best friend die that day.
I’d like to think Niq saved us from something, but I can’t. He wasn’t heroic; he wasn’t saving anyone from anything. That bear would have been content just eating the walrus, but my silly dog annoyed him too much... and it was deadly.
During the past academic year, Rebecca Dakai was both a junior at Shawano Community High School and also a Learn and Earn student at the College of Menominee Nation in Keshena, WI. She lived for 8-year stretches in both Phoenix, AZ, where she was born, and in Kotzebue, AK, before moving to her current hometown of Shawano, WI.
After high school, Rebecca hopes to pursue a degree in law. She enjoys writing in general but favors short stories and free verse poems.
Ghosts of a Crystal Page
By Gerri L. Williams
Although sound is hushed by strawberry lips
stitched through the hands of a crystal mime,
A shattered porcelain clown nose,
When three crowns framed on espresso walls drip
When holiday love songs
When a crisp bottle reveals
They trickle between sugared lips,
A naked Indian girl bathes in lyrics of Bob Marley,
Old letters become whispers of ash between her fingers,
Lavender moon brings a peppermint wand
Leave it for your brother with tattoo ink glistening
Leave it for the wind
Leave it for the porcelain clown sleeping
Let Love Spell lather her voice into your body,
violet bubbles tracing summer night blues.
Let the Puyallup boy sprinkle sand into the crease of winter pages
Let me sprinkle a new snow over the Muckleshoot earth.
 Gerri L. Williams |
Gerri L. Williams (Muckleshoot, Yakama, Umatilla, and Puyallup) says writing is her first love and passion in life. She is pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM.
She highly respects the instructors who have helped her find her voice as a writer: Arthur Sze, Jon Davis, Evelina Lucero, and Terry Gomez, as well as the students who have offered criticism in workshops.
Williams says, “I raise my hands up to you, which is a sign of love and respect among my people. When we raise our hands up to you, it is also to say thank you.”
My Cousin Coyote, As Told By Dog
 Marianne Addison |
By Marianne Addison
I have this cousin who is always up to no good. Nobody really likes his stink ass, but most tolerate him. Every Native on the rez knows him and runs into him at places they’d rather not be, like at a party just before the drama goes down.
Coyote is usually hitchhiking, his fur all greasy and nasty, as though he hasn’t showered in days. He is usually stumbling on his four legs and smells horrid.
Most people driving Highway 93 on the Flathead Indian Reservation are blind to Coyote’s staggering figure. Some hate Coyote and would rather run him over because of that time he messed with their wife or girl and got caught. Some dislike Coyote because he cheated or scammed money out of them.
The rest are people like me, his family, who will pick up Coyote no matter what he may have done or will do. Call it stupidity or family duty, I picked up my cousin Coyote south of Pablo on Highway 93.
“Hey cousin! Boy, am I glad to see you!” Coyote said.
I grimaced slightly at the smell of his breath. Being a dog has its ups and downs. Right now, having a keen nose was definitely a downer.
“Hey,” I said casually, “where are you coming from?”
“Well, I got run over last night trying to walk home from Pablo Bar. Musta stumbled right onto the damn highway. Last thing I remember was flying through the air and wondering what the heck am I flying for? I ain’t no dang bird! This morning, Fox came across my sorry excuse for road kill and jumped over me.”
“Why didn’t Fox give you a ride home to Ronan?”
“Oh. I don’t know. He’s all butt hurt and bored at me. Muttering stuff like bringing me back to life wasn’t worth it anymore. Then he just went off.”
“Hmmm.”
Fox was right. The people have more or less forgotten Coyote. His and Fox’s purpose in the world, to teach, has been lost in a world of microwaves, high-speed Internet, television, and processed food. Who needs a crusty Coyote with a battered liver to learn from when one can turn on the TV or access the Internet and be told pretty much everything there is to know about the world?
“I know what you’re thinking, Dog,” Coyote told me, raising one eyebrow. “But I’m going to tell you this. Not everyone is blind to my teachings. I am still dying for my people, the ones who still believe.
“To them, I still have a purpose. I am like the example of what not to be. Who do you know around here, besides the suyapi, that is uglier inside and out than me? As long as I’m around, I will be here to teach. That was why I was made in the first place. I know my purpose. Do you know yours?”
“My purpose is not the point.”
“I think it is.”
“The Coyote I knew long ago at least seemed to somewhat keep on learning through mistakes. You’re old and crusty with battered liver and matching liver spots. You started drinking when the suyapi first came, and you haven’t stopped yet. It’s been, what, over 500 years?
You lost your land, your family, your honor, and respect. You even pawned your bundle that Creator gave you at the beginning of Creation for 50 bucks so you could keep drinking. Now, even your medicine and power are gone.
At least, the Coyote I used to know, my cousin, would have learned and saved the world by now. I don’t get you; you were a slayer of monsters and even a creator. Now, look at you. You beat up Mole and ended up jailed. Then she left you. You’re always in tribal jail because of your public nuisance violations and DUI’s. Who are your sons supposed to look up to when you aren’t around? You’re always drunk.
Big monster slayer legend my ass! You can’t even destroy something tiny and simple like a beer. That monster, alcohol, has beaten you over and over again. One day, it will kill you, and next time Fox ain’t gonna jump over you. He is sick of your s--t too.”
“Hey, now, quit yer bitchin’. I thought you were a dog, not a bitch.”
“I’m sick of seeing you like this. Do something with your life already. I pity you. You’re my cousin, my bro.”
“F--k off. Just drop me off at the Club Bar. I’m not going home. You bum me out, and now I want a beer.”
I parked in front of the bar on Main Street in Ronan. I sighed. What was the use in trying to tell him? We’ve been having this conversation for hundreds of years now.
“I’ve still taught you something, little cousin,” Coyote said. “I know for sure you won’t end up like me. Stay in school, Dog. Pray for me, and one day, who knows what will happen. Maybe I will save the world again. Maybe when I get my bundle out of hock and get some instructions from you know who as to how to kill this monster called alcohol, I will be able to beat this. Until then, see you around and thanks for the ride.”
Marianne Addison (Confederated Salish and Kootenai, Northern Arapaho), 22, lives on the Flathead Indian Reservation with her “two loving parents and a caring extended family.”
Initially she pursued journalism, but poetry and creative writing classes at Salish Kootenai College ( Pablo, MT) helped her to explore other forms of writing. She says, “Jennifer Greene, my creative writing teacher and my former internship supervisor at Char-Koosta News, has always supported me. I thank her for giving me opportunities.” Others who inspired Addison include her psychology instructor, Frank White, and the children she worked with as a teacher’s aide.
She says, “The one thing I struggle with in my writing is finding a good place to stop. My stories, and even my poems, could go on forever, if I let them. Writing is a release from every day life. It is as though my fingers have a mind of their own. I am elevated to a higher consciousness and awareness; I don’t think about what I’m going to write, I just write it.”
Shimá Sani’(excerpt)
 Laura Lee Yazzie |
By Laura Lee Yazzie
My maternal grandmother, shimá sani’, is a big influence in my life. She taught me traditional and cultural values. In a soft, gentle, yet stern manner, she would discipline her grandkids.
If we did not get up early, Grandmother would splash cold water on our faces. The water was so cold I would get goose bumps, but the smell of freshly made tortillas and the gently bubbling hot creamy goat’s milk on the stove would lure me to the table. We would quickly drink down the warm goat’s milk, sometimes breaking pieces of bread into the milk, our own delicious Navajo cereal.
The older sheep and goats would start stirring when they heard me coming. The sheep and goats would bunch up at the gate, jumping over each other, scrambling madly for freedom.
Grandmother would be yelling from a distance, “They’ll nibble on the grass and plants nearby. They won’t go far until it gets too hot then they’ll start looking for shade. Watch Ole Curly Horns! If he gets a chance, he’ll start leading the flock toward the rockiest, hardest mountain to climb.”
While the herd grazed, I would help Grandmother gather the paraphernalia for weaving. Or we would sit in the shade, my grandmother singing softly, spinning the wool, trying to get the wool thin as a string. When the spinning got tedious, I would start carding the wool.
Later in the evening, when the sheep and goats were safely corralled, Grandmother would start a fire. Once the wood burned down to hot glowing coals, she would spread out the coals and cook over the open fire pit. The smell of fried potatoes, mixed with pieces of mutton and freshly made tortillas, would make our mouths water and our little tummies rumble.
After supper, I would get the steel bathtubs ready while two big barrels of rain water steamed over the hot coals. My cousins and I would wash our hair with yucca soap. When grandmother finished pouring buckets of hot water into the tub, I would quickly wash myself, rubbing the abrasive soap over my body.
The soap felt like the tongue of a cat, licking the chéén off my skin. I always wanted to sit in the tub longer, but my cousin would start yelling, telling me to hurry before the water got cold. Grandmother rationed the water. She said, “Water is precious. Do not waste it.”
Finally, I would jump into my sleeping bag and watch grandmother undo her Navajo bun and let her long white hair cascade down her back. I was hypnotized by the sound of the brush stroking her hair. Sometimes she would sing a song, her soft voice luring me to sleep. I was safe and content.
My grandmother talked to me about releasing my frustrations by climbing the mountains. She explained how walking gets people back into tranquility, but the innocence of my youth kept me from understanding the wisdom.
In 1970, during Christmas break, I stayed with shimá sani’ for a week. She was very happy to see me though she was very quiet and not her usual self. She had stored away her weaving loom. She looked older and very fragile. A sadness swept over me, making my heart grow heavy.
The day before I was ready to go back to school, she talked to me about her life. My eyes filled with tears when she said, “Granddaughter, you are young, and the words I tell you may not make sense to you for a while, but I must say them. I have earned every wrinkle on my face, and I find them beautiful. These wrinkles remind me of the serenity in my heart. I have used the strength of my body to serve my family. I have used the curiosity of my mind to discover the truth. I have used the fire in my heart to love without judgment.
“The winter of my life has taught me many things. I am happy I have used all my gifts. I am content with my passage because I have given purpose to every part of my being. Now that all those things are used up, I am at peace. I have completed the vision that was given me. In time, Granddaughter, you will find this state of grace, and you will know that every step you take on the path of beauty honors the memory of those ancestors who walked it before you, clearing the way.”
That following August shimá sani’ suddenly got very sick and died. Her words are treasures to me now. I know their sacredness. I have found peace. I have been able to pass on those teachings to my children. It’s like she once told me in words that resonate with me still, “The spirit never grows old.” She gave me the strength and wisdom I need to pave the way for my children to do the same.
Laura Lee Yazzie (Diné), 53, is of the Salt, Black Streak, Big Water, and Black Sheep clans. She is a law advocate student at Navajo Technical College in Crownpoint, NM, and plans to obtain an Associate in Applied Science Degree in May 2008. Yazzie lives in Lupton, AZ, with her husband of 37 years, Jackie; she credits their traditional arranged marriage as the reason for its success. They have three daughters, two sons, and seven grandchildren; her children inspired her to return to college.
As a community elected official, Yazzie is involved in community and economic development. She also advocates for victims of domestic violence, elder abuse, and dating violence by providing community education.
She loves to read, journals daily, and has a passion for writing. She says, “I am a teacher and a wise elder for the young ones.”