Luci Tapahonso is originally from Shiprock, New Mexico,
is now a professor at the University of Arizona.
She has also taught at the University of New Mexico
and the University of Kansas in Lawrence.
She's the author of two children's books,
including Navajo ABC--
A Dine Alphabet and Songs of Shiprock Fair
and five books of poetry, including most recently,
Blue Horses Rush In--
Poems and Stories, which won the Mountains and Plains
Booksellers Association Award in 1998.
Among her honors are the 1998 Kansas Governor's Art Award
and Distinguished Woman Award from the National Association
of Women in Education and the Girl Scout Council.
Luci Tapahonso [? is one of ?] the most distinguished voices
in American poetry and a very bright light
in the constellation of new writing
from American Indian people that we
have had the privilege to celebrate in the past decade
or so.
To say she is a poet in a way diminishes
the reach of her work.
She is a captivating and often comic storyteller,
a lyric singer, a thoughtful witness
of contemporary and ancient culture
and of how those two strands of being
can continue to coexist in us, a task
she fulfilled so memorably in writing about the Hohokamki
village that was destroyed to build an expressway in Phoenix.
And I rely on Luci to be a teacher, one
who educates the heart to take nourishment
from the essentials of our shared humanity.
And that harmony of being present for one another
feels so natural and easy in her work,
as simple as sitting down together for a cup of coffee.
Please welcome Luci Tapahonso.
Yá'át'ééh, [SPEAKING DINÉ BIZAAD] good evening.
[SPEAKING DINÉ BIZAAD] I'm originally from Shiprock, New Mexico,
and I've just told you what my clans are, Tódik'ǫzhi.
And I'm born for Tódich'ii'nii.
My grandparents are Deeshchii'nii, their shicheii
is originally from Rock Point.
[SPEAKING DINÉ BIZAAD] They're from Red Rock around Oak Springs,
they're Kinlichii'nii, the red house.
I'm going to begin this evening reading a poem called,
Sháá Áko Dahjiníleh.
I want to thank all of you for coming.
It's really a wonderful feeling to see all of you here.
As you know, we've just moved here, and the welcome to Tucson
has really been something.
I want to thank the Poetry Center for asking
me to read this evening.
I'm very honored to do so.
I want to also thank American Indian Studies for all
the support they've given me not just this year
but for many years in various things
as well as the College of Humanities
and the English Department where I
have a number of very good friends for a number of years.
And the university has also been very gracious.
President Likins is a really warm and caring person.
We are honored that he has come out and welcomed us to Tucson.
[DINÉ BIZAAD], that's what they do at home when people come home
or when you come to a new community.
They come out, and welcome you, and eat for you.
So we've really been eating a lot in Tucson.
The community of Tucson has also been very generous, [DINÉ BIZAAD].
This is a poem called, Sháá Áko Dahjiníleh,
"Remember the Things They Told Us."
"1, before this world existed, the holy people
made themselves visible by becoming the clouds, sun, moon,
trees, bodies of water, thunder, rain, snow,
and other aspects of this world we live in.
That way, they said, we would never be alone.
So it is possible to talk to them
and pray no matter where we are and how we feel.
Biyázhí daniidlí, we are their little ones.
2, since the beginning, the [? people have gone outdoors ?]
at dawn to pray.
The morning light, adinídíín, represents knowledge and mental
awareness.
With the dawn come the holy ones who bring blessings
and daily gifts because they are grateful when we remember them.
3, when you were born and took your first breath,
different colors and different kinds
of wind entered through your fingertips and the whirl
on top of your head within us as we breathe
or the light breezes that cool summer afternoon.
Within us, the tumbling winds that precede rain;
within us, the sheets of hard, thundering rain;
within us, dust-filled layers of wind that sweep in
from the mountains.
To see this, blow on your hand now.
Each sound we make evokes the power of these winds,
and we are at once gentle and powerful.
4, think about good things when preparing meals.
It is much more than physical nourishment.
The way the cook or cooks think and feel
become a part of the meal.
Food that is prepared with careful thought, contentment,
and good memories tastes so good and nurtures the mind
and spirit as well as the body.
Once, my mother chased me out of the kitchen
because it is disheartening to think of eating something
cooked by an angry person.
That was when I was a teenager.
5, be careful not to let your children sit or eat--
sit or play on tables or countertops.
Not only is it bad manners, but they
might have to get married far sooner than you would ever
want.
6, don't cut your own hair or anyone else's after dark.
There are things that come with the darkness
that we have no control over.
It's not clear why this rule exists,
but so far, no one is willing to become
the example of what happens to someone
who doesn't abide by it."
This is called, "Yes, It was My Grandmother,"
and this is for shinálí, my father's mother,
who was also a very renowned weaver.
"Yes, it was my grandmother.
Yes, it was my grandmother who trained wild horses
for pleasure and pay.
People knew of her saying, she knows how to handle them.
Horses obey that woman.
She worked, skirts flying, hair tight secured, wind and dust.
She rode those animals hard and was thrown time and time again.
She worked until they were meek and wanting to please.
She came home at dusk, tired and dusty,
smelling of sweat and horses.
She couldn't cook, my father said smiling.
Your grandmother hated to cook.
Oh, grandma, who freed me from cooking,
grandma, you must have made sure I
met a man who doesn't want to share the kitchen.
I am small like you and do not protect my careless hair
from wind or rain.
It tangles often, grandma, and it is wild and untrained.
This is a poem, a sestina for all of you
English majors and for people who might
be thinking of taking my class.
A sestina, as you may know, is a poem.
It's in Italian form.
It's a poem of 6's.
And it has six stanzas.
It uses six words which repeat in a certain form
at the end of each line, and the ending word of each stanza
is the last word of the first line of the next stanza.
I really like this form.
I particularly like combining Navajo and English.
I think it's a real gift to know more than one language.
This is a poem that's called, "The Canyon was Serene."
And you'll see that it's really a song
in that once you begin writing in this form,
it starts off on its own.
You don't know what's going to happen.
So this was a surprise for me in many ways.
And in fact, I had to go back after I was maybe
in the third stanza and fix the first two because the poem did
something that I didn't expect.
It's called, "The Canyon was Serene."
And as I said, it's a poem of 6's.
"Tonight, as the bright moon fills the bed,
I am certain that I can't rise and face the dawn.
Dreams of Chinle and the mountains
urged me to drive back to the rest.
My family knows why I left, but my husband's gentle horses
must wonder where he went.
Since it happened, there has been no way
to weave this loneliness and the quiet nights
into that calm state called hozjo.
Maybe it doesn't exist.
These days, it makes me sad and jealous
that some Navajos really live by hozjooji.
Yes, I am jealous of how the old ways actually work for them.
They wake, rise, and pray each morning
knowing they are blessed.
For me, the beauty way is abstract most of the time.
At dawn, I rush out and drive to work
instead of praying outside.
They say we should weave these ancient ways
into our daily lives.
Do you remember the horses his mother gave at our wedding?
They're traditional people and brought horses
to my family, such strong and exquisite animals.
We heard that people were jealous, but we dismissed it.
Back then, I rode horses for hours, used
to weave until sunset each day.
Once, we went camping in Canyon de Chelly.
The moon rise was so bright, we could see tiny birds
in the brush.
The four-wheel drive got stuck in the sand,
and two guys helped push it out.
That night, the beauty of the old Canyon, the moon,
and the surprise rescue proved that the beauty
the elders speak of does exist.
Late that night, a small herd of wild horses came to our camp.
They circle and sniff the worn-out four-wheel drive.
It smelled of gas and sweat.
The canyon was serene.
It's easy to be jealous of the people who live there,
how much more substantial the sunrise blessing seen there.
During those summers not long ago,
it was easy to weave story and many others like it
into my rugs.
Back then, I used to weave and pray, weave and sing.
The rhythm of the batten comb meant
that beauty was taking form.
Nights like that and his low laughter
made my rugs rise evenly in warm, delicate designs.
Once I wove the colors of his horses into a saddle blanket,
he teased me and said that my brother would be jealous
because I had not made him one.
Sometimes, memories of his riding songs drive me to tears.
What ever happened to that saddle blanket?
Once on a drive to Albuquerque, the long, red mesas
and smooth cliffs showed me how to weave them into a rug.
I was so happy.
Here I was, sometimes frustrated of weavers who seemed
to live and breathe designs.
I learned that beauty can't be forced.
It comes on its own.
It's like the silky sheen of horses on cool summer mornings.
It's like the small breezes, the sway and rise
of an appaloosa's back.
Back then, we drove sheep home into pure beauty
of Chinle Valley twilight.
Will I ever weave like that again?
Our fine horses and tender love cause jealousy.
He's gone.
From his grave, my tears rise."
I want to-- this is a story that I remembered when I was here
in Tucson some years ago.
I've been fortunate in that this university has
been asking me to become a part of the university
for some time.
And one year, one spring, I was here.
And when you're interviewing for a job,
you go out to dinners, and receptions, and all this.
So there's a lot of people in the English department
with whom I'm good friends.
And we were supposed to go out to dinner,
and they're supposed to ask me questions
about what I would teach, and how would I do this and that.
But instead, we just started telling stories.
And I guess it's OK that I say this now
that I'm actually here.
So we were telling car stories, and we
had a really, really good time.
And this was one of the stories that I told.
And they were telling me, have you written the story down?
They asked me if I had written it down, and I hadn't.
So I did, and it's called--
I remember this one in Tucson.
It's about a car.
"When I lived in Albuquerque, I was
going to my part-time job at the bookstore
across from the university campus one afternoon.
My friend, Nita, offered to drop me off on her way home.
I didn't know she meant that literally.
She had just bought a new used convertible
and was so excited when she was able to purchase it.
She had had her eye on it for months
and had even lit candles at church hoping she could get it.
Nita and I were good friends.
We had both married young and had our older children
about the same time, life-changing events occurring
in quick succession.
For years, we both struggled to attend classes,
pay daycare bills, and dress our kids and ourselves decently.
So money was one thing there was never enough of.
Anyway, it felt good when Nita finally saved enough money
to buy the car she really wanted, the one she had dreamed
about, neither an affordable little compact that
got great mileage nor sturdy car her parents gave her when they
bought a larger luxury car.
True, it was a used car, but car main gears
weren't made anymore.
A classic, we kept saying to each other.
It was beautiful, a shiny orange body and creamy leather top.
The price was good.
And at the time, we didn't consider
the condition of the engine or that sort of thing.
We went to the car lot between classes
and simply looked at the car.
We ran our hands over the leather interior
and imagined driving up the winding roads to Sandia
Crest with the top down.
Do you think I should?
She asked me a hundred times when she finally
had the total amount.
Of course, you deserve it, I said.
Not to mention, I deserve to have
a friend with a convertible.
We decided not to tell our husbands because we
wanted to surprise them.
We felt sure they would be happy and proud.
After she bought it, the car drove like a dream, her words.
I followed her back to campus, and nothing out of the ordinary
happen.
It drove well that evening when her family saw it
for the first time.
Her husband wasn't exactly ecstatic.
Instead, he said things like, you paid the sticker price?
Did you try offering less?
How could I?
Nita said.
That's the price it said, so that's what I paid.
Over the years, we've become smarter in these matters.
Beginning the next week, the car became unpredictable.
Nita drove the car half-time, and the rest of the time,
it was in an auto mechanic's garage.
We found out quickly that a classic car's repair bills
hovered near heaven somewhere.
I lent Nita some money, but my husband
said it wasn't our responsibility.
But I was there the whole time, I said.
I told her she deserved a car like that.
She does, he said.
So we had yard sales and sold whatever
we found in the remote corners of our homes
at the flea market.
I couldn't believe how expensive the repairs were,
but we kept telling each other that after the breaks were
done, it would be a long time before they go out again.
But after the breaks were replaced,
the transmission needed work.
It seemed like it would never end.
Their insurance was high, too.
Nevertheless, we remain optimistic that come summer,
we'd be cruising the Duke City and Santa
Fe in the cute, orange convertible, our kids tucked
in the back seat.
That afternoon, Juanita offered me the ride to the bookstore.
I got in, and it was so cool.
The top was down, and it was a bright spring day.
I leaned back and looked at the turquoise sky
as Nita was talking.
Then in the middle of everything,
she said, oh, I meant to tell you that once this car starts,
I can't stop it.
If I stop, it won't start again.
What?
I'm trying to comprehend what this meant.
Oh, it's really no problem, she said.
I'll drop you off in the alley behind the store
rather than on central.
She paused.
I already thought this through, no problem.
OK, she continued.
I'll slow down real slow so that you can just get out.
I've practiced this.
I'll drive so slow that it will seem like I'm stopped,
but of course, I won't be.
Well, OK, I said.
I could see there was no other way.
Besides, I needed to get to work.
We drove through the alley, and Nita
told me to throw my shoes and purse out first.
They might weigh you down when you jump, she said.
She drove slowly to show me how simple it would be just to jump
out the next time through.
After I threw my things out, we turned around
in an empty parking lot and came back down.
And then just before the car was almost
stopped near the bookstore, for some reason,
I started screaming, now, now!
Go ahead, Nita, yelled.
I can't, I screamed.
You have to, you have to, she yelled,
her voice rising with panic.
Then just before I jumped, she accidentally
hit the horn several times.
We were both yelling and screaming
as I landed on my hands and knees in the gravel right
beside my purse.
It happened so slowly, I even close the door
as I was leaping out.
Then suddenly, it was quiet, and Nita sped off
raising a bit of dust and wave, and we did it, she yelled.
I got up and brushed myself off.
Then I realized that several people
had gathered in the alley to investigate the noises.
I was so embarrassed, yet I managed
to walk away with one or two shreds of dignity.
Later, they said that people thought we were
being attacked in the alley.
Oh, no, I said, her car wouldn't stop,
so I had to jump out when it was still moving.
I could tell they just didn't understand."
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
Every time I read that, I can still see my boss standing
there, looking at me.
This next poem is a poem--
in Navajo, there's various words to describe
stages of relationships.
And there's not really a word in Navajo, I think,
that has the same connotations of being
married as there is in English.
But this is a poem called, 'Ahídzískéii which sort
of comes close to that.
It's about marriage.
"It's not a grand thing, after all, just that warm comfort
and murmuring good night before I
sink into that dark quiet that exists only
when we're together.
Otherwise, when I'm traveling the same good night
on the phone, and I listen intently.
For what, I'm not sure.
Leave a light on for safety.
Drift off to sleep half-listening.
A little noise, and I'm sitting up in bed,
surveying the room, sometimes, even
the entire block from the hotel window.
I rush to the phone and double-check.
Should I dial 0 or 8911?
I check the locks again then lie back down, afraid to sleep yet
wanting to sleep, knowing that fatigue
will be obvious in the morning.
I've had so much practice.
When we're together, checking locks doesn't occur to me.
Local crime seems so far away, never
mind that we are in the heart of the city.
I insist upon complete darkness, and what I am sure of
is that if I turn over, your warm chest or arms
will surround me, that should I awaken--
use as to where I am once again.
You will reach for me, knowing exactly how to reassure me.
And when we drink coffee together in this bright
California morning, mountains towering around us,
I move closer to knowing what the Creator means by nizhónígo
'ahídzískéii--
they are sitting beside each other in a house of beauty."
And this next poem is--
well, it's not actually a poem.
It's pieces of a story.
This is a book that just came out about a month ago.
It's called, Songs of Shiprock Fair,
and it's about Shiprock Fair, obviously.
And the little girl in the story, her name is Nezbah.
And I'll read four pages from the story.
For people that come from Shiprock--
it's one of the biggest events that happened during the year.
It's a combination of social events,
academic events, competitive agricultural events,
as well as religious and spiritual kinds of rituals.
So it's a time when a lot of people
come home and take part in it.
And so I'll read four pages.
The artwork is really beautiful.
It's by a young man named Emerson Chee, and really
wonderful work.
This is Nezbah and her family.
This is Nezbah up here in the back of the pickup,
and they're taking their agriculture or their produce
to the fair to be entered in the exhibit.
And here she is on the Ferris wheel,
and there's the Carrizo mountains way over there
and the fairgrounds, really wonderful work.
This is the parade.
There's the band.
They're wearing traditional clothes,
and there's some Pueblo women carrying
the pottery on their heads, and people are all
watching the parade.
And then they're all Navajos, but there's
a couple over here that are tourists,
so it's the real thing.
And then there's also--
one of my favorite pages is this one.
This is at the fair, and this is at the carnival.
And there's people all dressed up in their best hoes,
and grandmas are riding the Ferris wheel
and eating cotton candy, and teenagers are hanging out.
And it's just really, really, really beautiful artwork.
So this first part is when they're
getting ready to enter their dues in the exhibit.
"Nezbah and her family live in Shiprock
where everyone prepares for the fair each year.
Children work on their art projects
for the school contests.
4-H members groom their animals for the competitions.
High school students finish sewing entries for the Home
Economics exhibits, and school bands practice marching songs
during their lunch period everyday.
As artists and jewelers put the final touches on their entries,
they sing for each piece of jewelry or each painting.
At various schools, parents, relatives, grandparents,
and teachers work into the evenings, building
and decorating floats for the parade.
Navajo songs from radios drift through the air
as they talk and laugh.
Throughout Shiprock, people prepare for the fair.
Those who will sell food, jewelry, pottery,
and other items set up their booths and tables
alongside the roads.
Music drifts through the air or hope for a bit of rain
so it won't be too dusty.
The scents of fry bread, stew, and roasted mutton
rise from outdoor grills.
It makes everyone hungry.
The smell of strong, fresh coffee
mingles with the noises of passing
cars, country music, sizzling fry bread, and children
begging for candy.
The whole town brims with excitement.
It is almost time for the Shiprock Fair."
And then this is when they're at the carnival.
"At the top of the Ferris wheel, Nezbah
shows her cousin's sister the Shiprock
peak in the distance and the cold moonlight Shiprock
just start to enlarge.
They wave and shout, shima, my mother.
Long ago, Shiprock rescued the Navajos from floods.
They wave and laugh in the clear night air
as the Ferris wheel passes above the fairgrounds.
They see the long lines of car light-- highways below.
They see the small fires at the Yeibicheii.
They see the thin, shiny river to the north,
and above them is the bright harvest moon.
Nezbah and her sister laugh and wave as the Ferris wheel
glides to the ground."
And then this is when they're at the Yeibicheii.
"Whole families watched the Yei dance,
and above them, the moon moves slowly
across the clear, cold sky.
They listen as the Yei sing their low, harmonious songs.
They watched her evergreen branches sway back and forth.
They watched the flames of the fire flicker as the Yei prays.
They watch and know that the Yei have blessed them again.
Nezbah and her family sit and watch
until the last Yei has danced.
It is early morning.
The moon is flowing in the west above the Carrizo mountain."
And then the last page is when finally, she
goes home early in the morning.
Her father carries her into the house.
This is her father carrying her into the house.
"The Shiprock Fair is over.
The Yeibicheii have returned to their sacred home.
The children are sleeping.
They dream of parade candy, carnival rides,
the Yei dancing.
They dream of all their relatives being together.
They are laughing and eating.
Nezbah is sleeping.
She is smiling.
She is dreaming of the next Shiprock Fair."
I want to read this story, which is
a combination of poetry and song, actually, prose and song.
It's a Navajo social song.
It has English words in there.
And you might be familiar with Vincent Craig's song called,
"Rita."
This is Rita as a grown-up, and she's still
at the trading post.
So the title of this whole thing is called, "Far Away."
The nice thing about Navajo songs, especially this kind,
is that they're just a lot of fun,
and you can do all kinds of things with them.
So there's four sections, and they're
interspersed with songs.
"Rita was at the trading post waiting
to have her check approved.
She stood over to the side while people move
through the cashier's line.
Then this guy came over after buying
a bottle of Joy detergent.
He said smiling, it's really sad to be alone, I found out.
That's why I'm buying this, to wash my dishes alone.
Rita was so startled, she just said, oh.
After he went out, the cashier said,
hey, is that all you can say?
Oh?
Rita and everyone in line laughed.
When Rita came out of the trading post,
that guy with the Joy was gone."
And then this is a little song, part of it that goes,
(SINGING) where trading posts at?
Where trading posts at?
[DINÉ BIZAAD], far away, far away, [DINÉ BIZAAD].
"The traffic is awful at Shiprock Fair.
You have to park at 6:00 AM to get
a decent spot for the parade.
Most families have a traditional spot,
and every year, relatives and friends can find them there.
Sometimes, we sell coffee and pop
from the back of the pickup.
But usually, we drink all the coffee ourselves
and forget to pay.
The kids get so excited, they try
to dance with all the dance groups that come by.
They'd catch candy from the various floats.
When it's all over, they're sweaty, sticky with candy,
and grouchy.
So we pack up our chairs, blankets,
bags of free stuff and candy and ease
into the long lines of traffic.
No matter-- we want to go.
It's slow-going.
It's easier if the traffic officer is a relative.
Then you can say, She'awéé', my baby, let me in.
Then they'll stop cars and let you break into line.
Once in traffic, a friend said, Shiprock Fair
is not the only one you know.
Tuba's City Fair is better than this.
We just all looked at her and thought, (SINGING)
where Tuba city?
Where Tuba city?
[DINÉ BIZAAD], far away, far away, [DINÉ BIZAAD].
When we were children, my mother always
sat beside daddy as he drove, sit together
on the driver's side.
He'd open the door for her and help her in.
Daddy had a dog named Sandwich that he really liked.
Sandwich followed him around everywhere
and sat on the passenger side when they went places.
Then one day, Sandwich leapt in before mom
and sat beside daddy.
After that happened three times, mom said,
I'm not going anywhere with you if that dog sits in the middle.
Daddy just smiled then fixed Sandwich watch a special place
in the back of the pickup.
Later, mom got in, and looked around,
and said, where is that old dog?
(SINGING) Where that old dog?
Where that old dog?
[DINÉ BIZAAD], far away, far away, [DINÉ BIZAAD].
For once, they went dancing in Albuquerque.
It was perfect-- not too smoky, a live band playing,
smooth, uncrowded floor, attentive waiters.
And best of all, Leona's husband was a good dancer.
They danced to almost every song except after fast swing numbers
when they caught their breaths and sipped
on cold, chilled drinks.
After midnight, he went to the men's room,
and Leona sat watching people.
Then the band started playing, Check Yes or No Oh,
shoot, my favorite song, she thought.
Just as an open hand appeared requesting a dance,
she glanced up and saw it belong to a tall cowboy.
Hey, please, he said smiling.
No, thanks, Leona replied.
Suddenly, he fell to one knee and said,
just one dance, please, I'm begging you.
He was still smiling, partly at his own dramatic plea.
Then the cowboy took his hat and cleared a wide path
to the dance floor with a sweeping wave.
She just smiled, then he leaned over and whispered, remember,
you broke my heart, and left.
(SINGING) Where the dance at?
Where the dance at?
[DINÉ BIZAAD] far away, far away, [DINÉ BIZAAD], far away, far away,
[DINÉ BIZAAD]."
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
There's one of those points when you're
reading that you just keep feeling
like saying, [VOCALIZING].
It's hard to read because you just
feel like laughing yourself.
This is a poem that I think I better read or else somebody
will scold me afterwards.
It's a point that's been real popular.
It's called, "Raisin Eyes."
And the poem itself is about Navajo men,
but I think it's really a poem about men in general.
"Raisin Eyes-- I saw my friend, Ella, with a tall cowboy
at the store the other day in Shiprock.
Later, I asked her, who's that guy, anyway?
Oh, Luci, she said, I knew what was coming.
It's terrible.
He lives with me, and my money, and my car,
but just for a while.
He's in AIRCA and rodeos a lot, and I still work.
This rodeo business is getting to me, you know?
And I'm going to leave him, because I
think all this I'm doing now will pay off better somewhere
else.
But I stay with him, and it's hard, because he just
smiles that way, you know?
And then I end up paying entry fees
and putting shiny Tony Lama's on layaway again.
It's not hard, but he doesn't know when I'll leave him.
And I'll drive across the flat desert
from Red Valley and blue morning light straight to Shiprock
so easily.
And anyway, my car is already used
to humming a morning song with Gary Stewart complaining again
of aching and breaking, down and out love affairs.
Damn, these Navajo cowboys with raisin eyes and pointed boots
are just bad news.
But it's so hard to remember that all the time,
she said with a little laugh."
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
This is another poem that's in fixed form.
It's a villanelle which is 19 lines,
and there's three lines that are repeating
in each of the stanzas.
It's called, "Near to the Water."
And again, this is a poem that combines Navajo and English.
It's an old French form, traditional French form.
"Most afternoons at Níísťah, when the sky is a brilliant
teal, Hanáábah is at the sunlit stove,
tending the speckle enamel pot.
The hooghan is redolent of simmering soup and cornmeal.
As a child, Hanáábah learn to blend the fine cornmeal
in the still mountain mornings.
The quiet cadence of the stirring spoon
brought forth her mother's voice on those afternoons
when the sky was a brilliant teal.
Later, when Tó'áhani saw the red sunset--
--bread, simmering stew, and blue cornmeal.
On quiet, cold nights, the elders
tell of how a woman's long hair reveals enduring wisdom.
They say change in a woman's hair averted drought
and a dusty hot afternoon centuries
ago when the sky was a brilliant teal.
For Tó'áhani, the glistening of Hanáábah's hair recalled a low
teal of distant thunder when thin corn stalks ripple in dry
fields and sought, cool rain.
Now the hooghan is redolent of simmering soup and blue
cornmeal as Hanáábah stirs the enamel pot in the low winter
dust, her songs, your memories of Tó'áhani, his resonant
voice, his dark eyes.
The decades have taught Hanáábah that those long ago afternoons
when the skies were a brilliant teal ensured their children
would thrive on old stories, simmering soup,
and blue cornmeal.
--poem I really wanted to do something.
My father really liked blue corn fixed in any form.
And in the years before he passed on,
that was a meal that he had everyday three times a day.
And so I sort of wanted to do something for him.
I'm just going to read two more points.
This is a poem called, "In 1864."
It's about a period of Navajo history
that's very familiar to Navajo people,
but for many non-Navajo's, it's a period
that many people are just learning about
or have not heard about.
It's a point that's told in three voices.
It's a time when over 8,000 Navajo people were forced
to March over 300 miles to Bosque Redondo in Southwest,
New Mexico, and they were held there for four years.
And the poem I refer to, Dinétah which means Navajo country,
it also means, homeland of the Navajos.
And Bosque Redondo was the name for Fort Sumner.
And Kit Carson was named, Red Shirt in Navajo.
Hwééldi is also the Navajo name for Fort Sumner.
"While the younger daughter slept,
she dreamed of mountains, the wide, blue sky above,
and friends laughing.
We talked as the day wore on.
The stories and highway beneath became a steady hum.
The center lines were a blurred guide.
As we near the term to Fort Sumner, I remember the story.
A few winters ago, he worked as an electrician on a crew,
installing power lines on the western plains of New Mexico.
He stayed in his--
was connected to a generator.
The crew parked their trucks together
and built a fire in the center.
The nights were cold, and there weren't any trees
to break the wind.
It snowed often on, a quiet steel blanket.
The land was like he had imagined from the old stories,
flat and dotted with shrubs.
The arroyos and washes cut through the soft dirt.
They were unsuspectingly deep.
During the day, the work was hard,
and the men were exhausted.
In the evening, some went into the nearby town
to eat and drink a few beers.
He fixed a small meal for himself and tried to relax.
Then at night, he heard cries and moans carried by the wind
and blowing snow.
He heard the voices wavering and rising in the darkness.
He would turn over and pray, remembering
songs, how many songs he remembered from his childhood.
The songs returned to him as easily
as if he had heard them every afternoon.
He sang for himself, his family, and the people whose spirits
lingered on the plains, in the arroyos
and in the old, windswept plants.
No one else heard the thin wailing.
After the third night, he unhooked his camper,
signed his time card, and started to drive north to home.
He told the guys, sure, the money's good,
but I miss my kids, and it sure gets
lonely out here for a family man.
He couldn't stay there any longer.
The place contained the pain and cries
of his relatives, the confused and battered spirits
of his own existence.
After we stopped for a Coke and chips,
the storytelling resumed.
My great aunt always started the story saying,
you are here because of what happened
to your great grandmother long ago.
They began rounding up the people in the fall.
Some were lured into surrendering by offers
of clothes and livestock.
So many of us were starving and suffering that year
because the bilagáanas kept attacking us.
Kit Carson and his army had burned all the fields,
and they killed our sheep right in front of us.
We couldn't believe it.
I covered my face and cried.
All my life, we had sheep.
They were like our family .
It was then I knew our lives were in great danger.
We were all so afraid of that man, red shirt, and his army.
Some people hid in the foothills of the Chuska mountains
and in Canyon de Chelly.
Our family talked it over, and we decided to go to this place.
What would our lives be like without sheep, crops, and land?
At least we thought we would be safe from gunfire,
and our family would not starve.
The journey began and dissolved all around us.
All of us walked.
Some carry babies.
Little children and the elderly stayed
in the middle of the group.
We walked steadily each day, stopping only
when the soldiers wanted to eat or rest.
We talked among ourselves and cried quietly.
We didn't know how far it was or even where we were going.
All that was certain was that we were leaving Dinétah, our home.
As the days went by, we grew more tired,
and soon, the journey was difficult for all of us,
even the military, and it was they who thought all this up.
We had such a long distance to cover.
Some old people fell behind, and they wouldn't
let us go back to help them.
It was the saddest thing to see.
My heart hurt so to remember that.
Two people were near the time of the births of their babies,
and they had a hard time keeping up with the rest.
Some army men pulled them behind a huge rock,
and we screamed out loud, and we heard the gunshots.
The women didn't make a sound, but we cried out loud
for them and their babies.
I felt then, I would not live through everything.
When we crossed the Rio Grande, many people drowned.
We didn't know how to swim.
There was hardly any water deep enough to swim in at home.
Some babies, children, and some of the older men and women
were swept away by the river current.
We must not ever forget their screams and the last
we saw of them, hands, a leg, or strands of hair floating.
There were many who died on the way to Hwééldi.
All the way, we told each other, we
will be strong as long as we are together.
I think that was what kept us alive.
We believed in ourselves and the old stories
that the holy people had given us.
This is why, she would say to us,
this is why we are here, because our grandparents prayed
and grieved for us.
The car hums steadily, and my daughter is crying softly.
Tears streamed down her face.
She cannot speak.
Then I tell her it was at Bosque Redondo
that people learned to use flour,
and now fry bread is considered to be the traditional Navajo
bread.
It was there we acquired a deep appreciation for strong coffee.
The women began to make long-tiered calico skirts
and fine Velvet.
Shirts for the men.
They decorated their dark velvet blouses
with silver dimes, nickels, and quarters.
They had no use for money then.
It is always something to see, silver
flashing in the sun against dark velvet and black, black hair."
This is a poem that's always difficult to read,
but I think it's a poem that's important not just for Navajo
people but for all of us.
I think in all of our histories, we
have similar stories of strength and survival.
There's one more poem that I should read,
and it has to do with coffee, which I
mentioned in the previous poem.
This is a poem that's been popular.
It's called, "Hills Brothers Coffee."
"My uncle is a small man.
In Navajo, we call him, shidá'í, my mother's brother.
He doesn't know English, but he's-- in the white way is Tom
Jim.
He lives about a mile or so down the road from our house.
One morning, he sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee.
I just came over, he said.
The store is where I'm going to.
He tells me about how my mother seems to be
gone every time he comes over.
Maybe she sees me coming then runs and jumps in her car
and speeds away, he says smiling.
We both laugh just to think of my mother jumping in her car
and speeding.
I pour him more coffee, and he spoons in sugar and cream
until it looks almost like a chocolate shake.
Then he sees the coffee can.
Oh, that's that coffee with the man
in a dress like a church man.
Oh, that's the one that does it for me, very good coffee.
I sit down again, and he tells me, some coffee has no kick,
but this one is the one.
It does it good for me.
I pour us both a cup, and while we wait for my mother,
his eyes crinkle with a smile, and he says, yes, oh, yes, this
is the very one, putting in more sugar and cream.
So I usually buy Hills Brothers coffee once
or sometimes twice a day.
I drink a hot coffee, and it sure does it for me.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
I'll end with this one.
This is a poem called Shisóí, which means,
my daughter's child, and I think it's a good way to end
the evening.
Our grandchildren are the future and are
just like shimmering lights, shimmering beauty for all of us
who are grandparents.
And this is for Briana, who's my middle grandchild.
And I have a little grandson who's a year and a half.
His name is Isaiah.
And then Chamisah Bah is 8, and Briana Nezbah is 6 years old.
It's called Shisóí.
"She was born on a bright fall afternoon, already chubby
and quivering with wetness.
She gasped for air and for her mother's warm body.
Her name is, she who brings happiness,
because upon being carried she instinctively-- to the warmth
of your shoulder and neck.
She nestles like a little bird into the contours of your body.
All you can say is, she's so sweet.
I don't know what to do.
And we smile, beaming with pleasure.
She sleeps even breaths and milky sighs just
below your ear.
Other times, she snuggles into you
and watches with bright, dark eyes.
It feels so much like the trust we have somehow
forgotten over the years.
All you can do is kiss her warm forehead and say,
she's so sweet.
I don't know what to do.
Sometimes, when I haven't seen her for a day or even a week,
she runs to me, her arms straight out for balance,
and hugs my legs.
My grandma, she murmurs into my skirt, then she
holds her arms up and says, [WHIMPERING],,
and her up, she snuggles into me, sighing.
Then I tell her, No shinaa, shiyázhi, shisóí,
ho shił nizhóní.
My little one, my daughter's child,
what happiness you are to me.
She cries a little, [CRYING],, like the infant
she no longer is, and I hold her like the sweet surprise
she will always be.
We sit like that a while, then she hums, [VOCALIZING]..
I take the hint and sing the old lullaby
her great grandmother saying to the child I once was."
And this is the little refrain.
[VOCALIZING]
She shifts on my lap, saying, star, star.
We turn to the twinkling Christmas lights
still up in July and sing, twinkle, twinkle, little star.
She falls asleep, and I hand her to her mother, saying,
she's so sweet.
I don't know what to do.
Now each time she toddles into the room, we turn and say,
Ashénee shiyázhi.
You want some juice?
How about milk?
She who brings happiness smiles and climbs
onto the nearest lap.
As she snuggles comfortably into the circle around the table,
we murmur, she's so sweet.
We don't know what to do.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
Ahéhee'
Thank you.
That was wonderful.
Oh, thank you.