I want to read a poem that is--
you must have realized or noticed
that in all our classrooms, we have American flags
and the Constitution.
And this was a law that was passed last year in Arizona.
So it makes it convenient when I read this poem
about the American flag.
I wrote the poem way before we had to do this,
but this is called, "That American Flag."
"I wouldn't buy anything with the flag on it,
my friend said as I showed her a cute straw handbag
at Mervyn's one summer night.
It had a small, beaded flag in the corner.
There's just something about me and the flag, she said.
I didn't respond.
Yes, the American flag is ubiquitous, these days,
and we had done our share of marches, protests, and sit-ins
in the 1970s.
But later that night, I wanted to call her and explain
about the American flag and us Navajos.
Let me tell you, I wanted to say, that in the mid-1800s,
that flag meant fear and untold turmoil.
Let me tell you, there was little we
understood about those who followed the American flag
onto our land.
That thin rectangle of fabric rippled in the dry gusts
of wind as the troops approached Dinétah.
Though the men were five-fingered like us,
their words seemed loud and careless,
and their mannerisms, dramatic.
Still, we watched for signs of compassion,
as these soldiers had been born of a mother somewhere.
Their mothers had been delighted to hear their first words,
just as some of the men must have talked to their firstborn
soothingly.
Perhaps as they walked on the Diné Bikéyah,
they longed for their families.
These men walk upright, feet moving upon the Earth's
surface, as we do.
From childhood, they have grown upward toward the sun
as the Diné do.
They breathed the air granted all of us by the Holy Ones.
They were like us in these ways, but their hearts
were unyielding.
They were faithful to orders from afar.
They were faithful to voices they had not heard themselves.
They were bound by written orders
and armed with deadly gear.
They were loyal to their flag of freedom.
The government had decreed that Diné be moved to Fort Sumner
so that we could become Americans.
We traveled hundreds of miles to the south.
The winters were cold.
Our blankets became worn and frayed.
Though we were given jackets, wraps, and clothing,
the sick worsened, the elderly passed on,
and often babies died at birth.
At times the children played as children do anywhere.
Other times they were listless from hunger and fear.
The men remained resilient.
They talked late into the night and sang quietly so as not
to disturb the soldiers.
They prayed for the strength and insight
to lead our people home.
The women set up looms, though they were immersed in grief.
We have to weave as we always have, they said.
By weaving, we can make it through these waves of sorrow.
Someday we'll go home, they said.
We have to weave through this hunger, through the pain,
through the deaths that surround us.
We have to keep up our strength, they said.
We have to weave to remember our land, our relatives,
and our animals.
They unraveled the blue military jackets and red undergarments
and wound them into balls of crinkled wool.
They found bits of wool and cotton
and sometimes sheep wool.
The military clothes became thin, red and blue stripes
in the rugs.
The stripes were laced, line by line--
each weft tapped into place by the weaving comb.
Its venerable echo a comfort in itself.
Sometimes they wove in strands of hair, feathers,
bits of plants, and knots of corn pollen
to ensure strength and abundance.
These were offerings to the desolate land around them.
The rugs were prayers with red, blue, black, and white stripes.
The rugs' white horizontal bands are for the early morning sky
and signaled new beginnings.
The background of the American flag
is white, as is our sacred mountain in the east.
Thus, the women knew we would survive.
The red stripes were for the dirt
at home, the sandstone cliffs, and for the sumac that
turns brilliant red each fall.
The red stripes in the flag are for our blood
and for our ancestors, who tried to search
for the good in everyone and everything.
By weaving blue into the rugs, the women
recall the hooghans they built when the men were gone.
They recall the graceful ease with which
their teenage sons chopped wood, built corrals, and rode horses.
In doing so, the women were reminded of their own strength.
The blue in the flag is for the promise of each spring granted
us since Fort Sumner.
The blue stripes honor the men and their strength, tenderness,
and intellect.
Often, the women wove stars in the rugs--
its center is for our home, Nihimá,
the land that was given to us.
We were told that a specific star watches over us,
this star knows everything.
The stars were prayers for the children who held the future--
the ones who became our parents and great grandparents.
The flag's star signaled our eventual return to the Diné
Bikéyah.
When the clouds gather and darken over the Dinétah,
the air becomes sweet with wet dirt, glistening sage,
and creosote.
The black bands are like a woman's hair
pulled back in a tsiiyeel, which ensures
clear thinking, guidance, and a wealth of songs and stories.
Late that summer night, I wanted to tell my friend
that we Navajos have many reasons not
to honor the American flag.
But often, it reminds us of our grandparent's enduring courage.
In the face of terrible odds, the stars and stripes
came to mean that we would return to our homeland.
It taught us that our mother, Nahasdzaan,
cares for us as we care for ourselves and our children.
Let me tell you about the American flag and us Diné,
my friend.
Let my grandparents-- Shimásáni dóó Shícheíí dóó Shináliké,
Let them tell you about the American flag."