CHAPTER TWO
Boarding School
The boarding school was more than a hundred miles from my home, so our journey took us several days. We slept out under the silver moon and the bright stars. Each morning my uncle cooked food for us over the fire, usually mutton and beans. Those meals were so good and the time I spent with him was precious to me. I knew I was soon going to be away from all of my family. I shall never forget that journey.
However, what I remember most is the morning of my arrival at Rehoboth Mission. It did not begin well for me. As soon as my uncle reached the gate of the school, like all the other parents and relatives who had traveled far to bring their children there, he was told that he had to go. He patted me one final time on my shoulder, stroked his mustache with his other hand, and nodded slowly.
“You will remember,” he said.
He watched me walk through the gate before he climbed back up onto the seat of the wagon, lifted his reins, clucked to the horses, and drove off without looking back. He did not say good-bye. There is no word for good-bye in Navajo.
So I was left standing there, a sad little boy holding tight against my chest the thin blanket in which my few belongings were tied. But I was not alone. There were many other Navajo children standing there, just as uncertain as I was. Like me, those boys and girls were wearing their finest clothing. Their long black hair glistened from being brushed again and again by loving relatives. The newest deerskin moccasins they owned were on their feet. Like me, many of them wore family jewelry made of silver, inset with turquoise and agate and jet. Our necklaces and bracelets, belts and hair ornaments, were a sign of how much our families loved us, a way of reminding those who would now be caring for us how precious we were in the eyes of our relatives.
Suddenly, as if everyone had remembered their manners all at once, we began to introduce ourselves to each other as Navajos are always supposed to do. We said hello, spoke our names, told each other our clans and where we were from. As you know, our clan system teaches us how we were born and shows us how to grow. By knowing each other’s clan—the clan of the mother that we were born to, the clan of the father that we were born for—we can recognize our relatives.
“Yáát’eeh,” a tall Navajo boy with a red headband said to me. “Hello. I am Many Horses. I am born to Bitter Water Clan and born for Towering House. My birthplace is just west of Chinle below the hills there to the west.”
Hearing his polite words made me feel less sad and I answered him slowly and carefully. “Yáát’eeh. I am Kii Yázhí. I was born for Mud Clan and born to Towering House. My birth place is over near Grants. I am the son of Gray Mustache.”
A round-faced girl wearing a silky shawl stepped closer to me and bowed her head. “Hello, my relative,” she said. “I am Dawn Girl. I, too, was born to Mud Clan. I am born for Corn Clan.”
It was not always easy for me to understand what those other boys and girls were saying. Even though we all spoke in Navajo, we had come from many distant parts of Dinetah. In those days, our language was not spoken the same everywhere by every group of Navajos. But, despite the fact that some of those other children spoke our sacred language differently, what we were doing made me feel happier and more peaceful. We were doing things as our elders had taught us. We were putting ourselves in balance.
Suddenly a huge white man with a red face appeared on the porch above us.
“Be quiet!” he roared at us in English.
Even though most of us could not understand the words he shouted, we all stopped talking. For a moment, before we remembered it is impolite to stare, we all looked up at him. Many of us had seen white people before, when we went to the trading posts with our elders. Almost every trading post was run by white men. Most of them also had their wives and families with them. Because there were no other kids around, those bilagáanaa boys and girls often played with the Navajo children. Some of those white traders’ children even learned to speak Navajo pretty well—at least much better than their parents.
It is not easy for other people, even other Indians, to learn to speak Navajo properly. The traders always tried to use a little Navajo, but they knew very few words. Sometimes they thought they were saying one thing when they were saying something quite different. I liked to hear the funny way the trader at our post tried to talk Navajo. But I kept a straight face because it would have been rude to laugh at a grown-up, even a grown-up bilagáanaa who had just said that all sheep above the age of six should be in school.
However, even though most of us had seen white men before, none of us had ever seen one like that red-faced white man who yelled at us on my first day at the boarding school. His skin was so red that it seemed to be burning. His hair was also that same fiery color. Moreover, his hair was not just on top of his head—where thick hair is supposed to be. It was all over his face. Among Navajos, some men may allow a little hair to grow on their upper lip—just as my uncle and my father did. But this red man had as much hair on his face as an animal. It was on his cheeks, his chin, his neck. Thick red hair even grew out of his ears. He pointed his finger and yelped more words that none of us understood.
“Is that a man speaking or is it a dog?” one of the boys next to me whispered in Navajo.
He wasn’t joking. It was a serious question. The huge white man’s angry shouts did sound like the barking of a dog. We all put our heads down as that red-dog white man yelped and roared. Finally, he became silent. But he kept staring down at us, waiting for something. When none of us moved, but just stood there, politely looking down at the ground, he barked at us again even louder.
We did not realize that he was ordering us to lift up our faces. We could not understand that he was telling us we must look at him to pay attention. None of us yet had learned that white people expect you to look into their eyes—the way you stare at an enemy when you are about to attack. Among bilagáanaas, the only time children look down is when they are ashamed of something.
“What does he want?” a girl whispered in a frightened voice. “He seems angry enough to eat us.”
A dark-skinned man with a kind face walked up to stand beside the big, red white man. The red white man growled something at him and the dark-skinned man nodded. Then he turned to us.
“Yáát’eeh, my dear children,” he said in Navajo in a comforting voice. “My name is Mr. Jacob Benally. I am born to Salt Clan and born for Arrow Clan.”
That was when all of us realized this dark-skinned man was Navajo. We had not even thought he was any kind of Indian at all before he spoke. It was not just because he was dressed like a white man, but because his hair was so short. He wore no hat and you could see that all his hair had been cut off close to his scalp. We had never seen a Navajo man with such short hair. Back then, all Navajo men were supposed to have long hair.
Realizing that this man, dressed like a white man, was a Navajo made us look around the school yard. We had already noticed there were many older boys and girls there, all in uniforms. We had thought they were bilagáanaa children. They were watching us silently. Now we looked at them differently, seeing that their emotionless faces looked Navajo. But none of them had come to introduce themselves.
Many Horses, the tall boy with the red headband, spoke up.
“My uncle,” he said to Mr. Jacob Benally, using the polite form of address to show he respected this man like a relative, “are those other children in bilagáanaa clothing also Navajos?”
“Yes, my nephew,” Mr. Jacob Benally said, “but I am sorry that I must now tell you something. Listen well. You are forbidden to speak Navajo. You must all speak in English or say nothing at all.”
All of us stood there in silence. Most of us did not know any words in English. Those who did know some English words were so shocked that they could not remember any of them. Finally, Mr. Jacob Benally helped us.
“Children,” he said in Navajo, “here is a word of greeting that you can say. Watch how I hold my mouth and then repeat it after me.
Heh-low. Heh-low.”
All of us did as he said. We opened our mouths and made those two sounds. “Heh-low, heh-low, heh-low.”
We hoped that this kind Navajo man would stay with us and keep talking Navajo. His job as an interpreter, though, was for one day and one day only. After that he went back to working in the stables and speaking broken English.
The only way left to us was to speak English. Thinking back on it, years later, I see now that it was a good policy in one sense. In the weeks that followed, we learned English much more quickly because we could not use our native tongue. But I can never forget how sad it made me feel when I learned enough English to understand what the angry, red white man, whose name was Principal O’Sullivan, had to say about our sacred language and our whole Navajo culture.
“Navajo is no good, of no use at all!” Principal O’Sullivan shouted at us every day. “Only English will help you get ahead in this world!”
Although the teachers at the school spoke in quieter tones than our principal, they all said the same. It was no good to speak Navajo or be Navajo. Everything about us that was Indian had to be forgotten.
CHAPTER THREE
To Be Forgotten
They took away our hair.
“My children,” Mr. John Benally said, after teaching us how to say hello in English, “I am sorry, but you must go now into this room.”
We did as he asked. One by one we were herded into a little shed where three tall, uniformed Navajo boys, whose hair was as short as Mr. John Benally’s, were waiting.
I should explain, grandchildren, that in those days, among our people, both men and women always kept their hair long. It was a sacred thing. Cutting your hair was believed to bring misfortune to you. But at mission school they had other beliefs.
I was the first one in line. Two of the uniformed boys took me by my arms, one on each side, and pulled me over to a chair.
“What are you doing?” I said in Navajo, just loud enough so that they could hear. But they did not answer me.
Instead, they pushed me down into that hard wooden chair and held me firmly—as if I were a sheep about to be sheared. Then another boy with a big pair of scissors chopped off my hair. He did it so quickly that it was over almost before I knew it. Another stunned child was being led in, and shoved into that chair even before I was out the door.
Both boys and girls had their hair cut. The only difference was that the hair of the girls was left a little longer than the boys. But I could see from the looks on their faces that losing most of their beautiful hair made those girls feel the same way I felt. Naked and ashamed.
Not only our hair was stripped away. After being shorn, we were led into two separate buildings, one for the boys and another for the girls. Once we were inside, we were made to take off all our fine clothing and our jewelry. We never saw those clothes or jewels again. Years later I learned that our squash-blossom necklaces and turquoise bracelets, earrings and hair ornaments and silver belts, were sold to white men and women.
In exchange for my clothing and jewelry, I was issued a military-style uniform made of cloth that was rough and itchy, and a stiff cap that was shoved down onto my head. The uniform and cap were too big for me, so big that my cap came down over my eyes. That made no difference to the older students who were handing out our new clothing. Once I was dressed I was pushed out onto the school yard. There, we new students were formed into a line and made to stand at attention, with the boys on one side of the yard and the girls, who were now wearing long brown dresses, aprons, and head coverings, on the other.
It was so strange. Where only a few moments before, there had been a colorful crowd of Navajo children, each one different from the other, now we all looked just the same. In our drab uniforms, the only difference between us boys was our size. Of course, I was the smallest one. I remember thinking that they had removed from us everything that we owned. But I was wrong. There was still one more thing to be taken.
We were led one by one to stand in front of a skinny white man with yellow hair who was sitting at a desk. A white board with curved black marks on it was propped up on that desk. None of us could read English, but I learned later that those curving marks that twisted like worms were the letters of the man’s name: Mr. Reamer. I also learned later that he always did the job he was about to do with us new students because he had convinced himself that he understood our language.
Mr. John Benally stood close to help with translating as Mr. Reamer asked each child the name of his or her father. That translation would help decide each student’s new last name in English. For example, one of the boys in our group said he was the son of Bilíí daalbáhí, “One who Has Roan Horses.” He became John Roanhorse. Mr. Reamer seemed very fond of the name John and gave it to lots of boys. Also, if he did not like the way someone’s last name sounded in English when it was translated from Navajo, he would just choose another last name and give it to that boy or girl.
We did not know it at the time, but some of the last names we got were the names of famous dead white men. Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and so on. That was shocking to me when I discovered it later. Among our people no one is ever deliberately given the name of someone who has died.
When it came to be my turn I stood at attention in front of the desk. The skinny, yellow-haired white man said something to me. What he said sounded very strange. It did not sound like any language I had ever heard before, not even the English that everyone around us was now speaking. Once again the white man made those unpleasant noises. He sounded like someone trying to speak when his mouth is full of food.
“He thinks he is talking Navajo,” Mr. John Benally whispered into my ear. “He is trying to ask you the name of your father.”
“Dágháatbáhi Biye’,” I said. “I am the son of the One with a Gray Mustache.”
“Huh,” said Mr. Reamer as he wrote something down on his paper. “Another Begay.”
Because that white teacher could not really understand our language, he did not realize that Biye’ in Navajo just means “son of.” So he made Biye’ my last name, although he wrote as he heard it—Begay. Lots of other white men at other schools did the same. That is why we now have so many Navajo families like our own with the last name of Begay.
But at least I was not named John. By the time the skinny white man got to me he had already made more than twenty boys John and he was tired of writing that name. So I was given the same first name as that teacher’s dead uncle. Ned.
Thus it was, grandchildren, that I began my day as Kii Yázhí and ended it as Ned Begay.
CHAPTER FOUR
Progress
TRADITION
IS THE ENEMY
OF PROGRESS
That was written in large letters on the big wooden sign in front of the mission school. It was the first thing we were taught to read. Anything that belonged to the Navajo way was bad, and our Navajo language was the worst.
Without thinking, when I saw Mr. Reamer the second day I was at mission school, I spoke the polite Navajo greeting my parents had told me I should always use to an elder. Instead of greeting me back, he yelled something, slapped his hand over my mouth, and picked me up under his arm like I was a little puppy who had done something bad. He carried me inside to the sink where there was a bar of brown soap floating in a bucket, forced me to open my mouth, and then shoved that big, wet bar of soap into it. He rubbed it back and forth between my teeth so hard that foam came out of my mouth and my nose. The soap even got into my eyes and I couldn’t see. I choked and coughed and thought I was going to die.
Finally, Mr. Reamer decided I’d had enough. He ducked my head into the bucket, dropped me on the floor, and just walked away as if nothing unusual had happened. I staggered outside and fell down to my knees. My vision was blurry and my lips were cut and bleeding. Tommy Nez, who was the first friend I made in school, lifted me to my feet. He and another bigger boy I hadn’t yet met whose bunk was close to mine, had to help me get b
ack to the dormitory because I could not walk without falling.
“My relative, you will return to balance again,” that bigger boy, whose name I later learned was Jesse Chee, whispered in my ear in Navajo. “The Holy People have not forgotten you.”
Somehow Jesse Chee knew I had to hear our language just then, though it was a risk even to whisper it. Those teachers had ears that seemed to hear our thoughts. I knew I had found another friend.
I also knew that I never wanted to experience that awful soap again. So I tried my best to avoid speaking Navajo when any adult could hear. I never had my mouth washed out again, but still, to this day, I cannot see a bar of brown soap without feeling a little sick to my stomach.
That same punishment was given to the other boys and girls who spoke Navajo. Whenever they did so, their mouths would be washed out. It happened to Jesse Chee, to Tommy Nez, to Samuel Manyhorses, and to everyone I knew. I don’t think a single child escaped having his or her mouth roughly washed out with soap. Most learned their lesson quickly and watched what they said. However, some of the children were not just forgetful about using our language, they were openly defiant. They refused to give up speaking Navajo.
So they were beaten with heavy sticks. Principal O’Sullivan, who was also the head disciplinarian, punished the most defiant children. He had a favorite stick that hung on the wall behind his desk. Sometimes he would beat the boys and girls so badly that they would not be able to walk the next day. John Roanhorse, who also had a bed in my part of the dormitory, was one of the most stubborn ones. His mouth was washed out so often that it no longer seemed to bother him.
“That bilagáanaa soap is not so bad,” he said to Jesse and Tommy and me one night in the dormitory. “I am getting to like the taste of it.”
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