I was brought up as an Anglo in Tucson. I went to school, had friends, was a quarterback on the football team. If it wasn’t for my mom, or my skin or the features that I’d inherited from her, no one would have known I wasn’t totally white. I spoke English, and a smattering of Spanish I’d picked up from the Hispanics in class—mostly swear words. I had my life planned out in front of me, and nothing could happen to make me deviate from that path. I had my eye on a football scholarship, maybe eventually joining one of the big teams.
My father was white with a ruddy complexion. He’d met my mother when she’d been selling some blankets she’d woven by the side of the road when he’d driven through the reservation. It had been, apparently, love at first sight. Though he had no need for more, he’d gone back for blankets time and time again. Until one day she’d agreed to get in the car with him, and leave everything she had ever known behind.
I’d come along pretty quickly, but due to complications with my birth, had been their only child. The mom I’d always known seemed happy, content to keep house, a quiet unassuming woman. It was only later I realised she’d burned her bridges, and how much she must have missed her previous life.
My father had given her one stipulation, that I was to be brought up as a white boy. They might not have been able to change the darker colour of my skin, but I’d never considered myself as anything other than Anglo. As I grew older, I realised English wasn’t my mother’s first language, and that she looked different from other boys’ moms. But with the number of Hispanics in Tucson, she didn’t look out of place. I was much older when I first heard the term Navajo, but soon learned not to mention it. Navajo were Indians to the kids I did tell, and for a while I was subjected to whoop-whooping noises whenever I passed. A move to middle school, where I put a zip on my mouth, thankfully left that behind me.
My father must have been disappointed, but never said a word as I grew to resemble the heritage on my mother’s side. My mentality, though, well that was all white.
I pull up for gas. With my tank topped off I get back on the road, and allow the memories to continue to flood over me. My hand tightening on the throttle as I remember exactly how and when my life changed, which led me ending up at the one place I never expected.
All caused by the truck slamming into my father’s SUV, pushing it into a flooded wash in one of the summer monsoons. Injured from the crash, possibly knocked out—we never knew for certain—the car had been swept away and my dad died before he could be rescued.
Mom didn’t even try to survive in the Anglo world without him. Even before the funeral she was packing our bags and ending the lease on the house. Fuck, I’d hated her for that. For wiping everything they’d been together out of existence. Now I’m older, I imagine it was the only way she thought she could cope.
It’s always hard on a boy to lose his father, especially when they’ve had a good relationship. I’d felt adrift, lost in wild seas without anything to anchor me. My sixteenth birthday only weeks away, I couldn’t get my head around the loss. My dad’s gone. He’s never coming back. I was now the man of the family, but not entitled to be involved in any decision making, it would seem.
“We’re what?” My head shakes with incredulity, only a few minutes since I’d come home from school, unable to believe what I was seeing and what she had just told me. “Mom? What’s going on?”
“We’re moving, Tse.”
Looking at the boxes packed and labelled, I can see that. “Yeah, but what did you say? To the reservation?” My head keeps moving side to side as I look around in disbelief. “These are labelled for the thrift shop, Mom.” It looks like we’ll be taking little more than our clothes with us.
“We’re moving in with my parents. Your grandparents. We haven’t got room for everything.”
A crow’s flying alongside me. It stares at me for a moment, a man on his own on his bike on the road, and then it flies off into the desert as if mocking me for being even freer. Yeah, I had to leave everything behind. An Xbox would have been useless on the Rez. Fuck, how upset I’d been. I was going somewhere I’d never dreamed of visiting, let alone living there. Meeting people I’ve never met, and only occasionally heard of. I didn’t know why my father had wanted my Navajo family kept away from me, but that’s what he’d done. To a fifteen-year-old boy it was like my mother was transporting me to a different world. A place I couldn’t begin to imagine. I hadn’t made it easy for her.
“My friends are here. My school…”
“There are schools on the reservation. You’ll make new friends.”
I know it won’t be as simple as that. A new kid on the block, one who can’t even speak the language, is likely to be picked on, not welcomed. I pull my shoulders back. “Mom, I’ll leave school. Get a job. Support you…”
“Oh, Tse,” she sighs. “I can’t survive in Tucson. Not without your father by my side. It’s time I returned to my family. And past time you learned about your culture.”
“It’s not mine. It’s yours.” With that shout as my parting shot, I walk out of the house, go to my friend’s home, and spend the evening sharing my woes.
No argument I put forward can persuade her. One morning a man, not looking unlike myself, parks a truck outside our house. Mom opens the door, and is in his arms, making me glare, remembering the recent loss of my father. They speak in rapid fire Navajo, a language I’ve never heard used in conversation before and one I don’t understand a single word of. Voices rising and falling, making it impossible for me to identify syllables. Hearing them brings my fears back in full force.
I don’t interrupt, just wait until Mom remembers I’m there. She spins around, a smile on her face for the first time since we lost Dad. “Tse, this is my brother. Your uncle. He’s come to take us home.”
We are home, I think as I glare. But at least there’s an explanation for the emotional display.
My uncle steps forward, nodding toward Mom. “Sorry bout Fatter. Muttah reddy ta leave.” His heavy accent confirms all my fears. I’m going somewhere I don’t even understand what they’re saying.
As my eyes go wide, Mom slaps his wrist. “Stop it, Roy, please. Tse’s worried enough as it is.”
A wink toward me, then her brother holds out his hand. “Pleased to meet you at last, Tse. Ready to get going?” His accent has all but disappeared.
I later learned it was a trick they played on tourists, playing the part as expected. In time, I’d come to find most Navajo spoke English no differently from anyone else I’d ever met, except maybe in their excitement pronouncing th as tt. That morning, I was just relieved that despite my concerns, I was probably going to be able to comprehend everything said around me.
Chapter 6
Mouse
Riding automatically, I don’t notice the scenery rushing by, still lost in the past and in recollections of the first time I made this journey. A kid who hid his fear beneath a sullen mask. Who could blame that scared child/man?
It was a new chapter in my life. In some ways like being reborn all over again. Taken from the loving home I’d first entered as a baby, uprooted and then set down in a primitive eight-sided hogan made of logs, staying with my grandparents and mother, all sleeping in one room. There was no electricity in our house, we were too far off the grid.
For a boy brought up in Tucson, it was a complete culture shock. No wonder Mom had given away my Xbox.
The move had been as bad as I’d feared. There I was, a stranger, someone not from the Rez despite looking like I belonged there. Most of the kids expected to spend the rest of their lives on the reservation, so they didn’t bother to keep up their grades, many dropping out of school early. Me? I saw education as a way I’d be able to escape, and, with no friends and nothing much else to do, something to occupy me. So I threw myself into my studies, quickly finding I had an aptitude for using computers for something other than games.
I wasn’t the only outsider, there were a few white kids who attended the school t
oo; children of teachers, nurses, and other Anglos who worked on the reservation. My natural inclination was to gravitate to them, but I wasn’t part of their tribe, and any friendship I made would only set me apart from the Navajo. I didn’t fit in. Anywhere.
A windblown frown comes to my face as I continue to remember. I’d gotten my ass kicked more times than I care to remember, my food dumped off my lunch tray. My tennis shoes once stolen so I had to walk home barefoot. I was as miserable as anyone could be.
One Saturday morning, I was sitting outside the hogan, just kicking my feet, not knowing what to do with myself. Oh, the boys here played football, just like I had in Tucson, but obviously I hadn’t been picked for the team. It seemed no one knew how to treat me, which wasn’t surprising, I hadn’t gone out of my way to make friends.
Until I got my own head out of my ass.
“Got room there for me?”
I inch over to make room on the log for my grandfather to plant his ass next to mine. He stares into the distance, and for a time doesn’t speak. Then he clears his throat. “Your mom ran off with the white man. Didn’t settle easy with me. Knew she had a son, hoped she’d bring you to meet us sooner. Didn’t happen that way.”
It hadn’t. Just as well. There’d have been nothing here for me then, as much as there isn’t now.
“Not good, a boy growing up not knowing his family or his history.”
I shrug. It had suited me just fine. Until Dad died, I’d had all I wanted in Tucson.
He gives me a sideways glance. Unlike my long hair, his was trimmed short. I was surprised to find not many Navajo wore their hair long nowadays, but I’d refused to cut mine just to fit in. Refused to do much to help myself. Just pig headed, another sign I was unwilling to do anything to make my life easier. Kept hoping it was all a bad dream and I was going to wake up and find myself back home. In Tucson, where I belonged.
“You ever hear about your great-grandfather?”
I shrug again. He wouldn’t mean the one on my father’s side who’d fought in the second world war.
“Heard anything about the Navajo Code Talkers?”
“Some.” I vaguely remember something in history, but it wasn’t a subject I was interested in.
“Navajo’s one of the most difficult languages to learn.” My huffed laugh, having already discovered that, rolls past him. “Well, the Navajo had been treated badly by the US Government, but it didn’t stop them joining up to fight alongside Anglos in the war. It was something bigger than this country, something that threatened the whole world.” His eyes, unfocused, look my way but don’t seem to see me. “At that time, the number of non-Navajo people who could speak our language could be counted in tens. And few at that. So, using a code based on Navajo, and using Navajo Marines to translate it, was proposed as a way to organise the troops without the enemy knowing what the American army was doing.”
My shoulders rise and fall, my head shakes. Okay, so they sent and translated messages in code. Big deal.
“They played an invaluable part in being able to beat the Japanese in the Pacific Theatre. Before the code was used, the Japs always got wind of what the US were up to, and what they planned to do. Wasn’t always easy though. Navajo looked like Japs to some of the US troops. Ended up they needed to be paired with a white man to keep them safe. They didn’t sit in an office; they were out on the front line. Saved those Marine asses.”
“And my great-grandfather was one?” My interest begins peaking.
“One of the original twenty-nine.”
“Cool.” For the first time, I realise that part of my history has played an important role in the world. Perhaps the Navajo have more to offer than I thought.
“Was he ever in danger?”
Grandfather grins, looking much like he’s caught a fish on the hook. Now he’s got me wriggling, he continues, “Sure was.” My interest caught, I eagerly listen as he rambles through some old stories, a boy intrigued by tales of war and fighting.
That was my first talk with the old man, but certainly not the last. Through him I started to learn about my Navajo heritage, their beliefs, their understanding of the world and the way it worked. Some things I scoffed at, some things made sense. We spent many a time on that log. Me absorbing an education I wasn’t aware I’d been learning. I smile at the memory as I back my hand off the throttle.
I’m here. I stop my bike at the sign denoting the reservation of the Navajo Nation, killing the engine, listening to the peace and quiet, breathing the air that at one time I never thought would make me think of as signalling I’ve come home. Above, a hawk is flying, dipping down as though to welcome me back. My Navajo blood seems to run freer through my veins. I shake out my hands, stiff from the long ride, then start my engine again. I’ve still got a way to go until I reach my destination, the reservation covers over twenty-seven thousand square miles of land.
Surprisingly, it was the one thing my mom had encouraged me to learn back in Tucson that started me on the road that would see me being accepted by my contemporaries.
“Hey, Tse. Navajo ride horses. Let’s see whether you’re a natural.”
My eyes sharpen as I look up from my book. Billy and Thom aren’t exactly my friends and I don’t immediately trust them. Well, none of the boys here are my friends. But maybe this is where I’ve got something up my sleeve to surprise them.
I’ve been here a few months now. Summer’s turned into winter the likes of which I’ve never previously experienced. Down in Tucson the dark months were mild, but here there’s snow and ice, and the wood stove is kept burning. Like any human I yearn for company, so gradually I’ve started trying to fit in. My initial aloofness I realised was a mistake as it had come back to bite me. Knowing now it was going to be an upward struggle to get Navajo boys to become my friends.
I stand, putting down my book. “Yeah, I can ride a horse.”
They mockingly laugh. “Sure you can.” Billy slaps my back. “Sure you can, White Boy.”
Yeah, because my habits were ‘white’ to them, I’ve picked up a nickname.
I follow them to Billy’s house, and to a corral out back. Then come to an abrupt halt. Hmm. I can ride, but not a fucking unbroken paint horse. But I committed myself when I told them I could. Can’t back out now. Not without looking like a pussy. Can’t be much worse than breaking Niyol back in Tucson.
As Billy approaches him with a bribe of an apple in his hands, I see the horse accepts the halter at least. But I also note the white in his eyes. My hands clench by my sides. I can do this. In my head, I see myself calming the mustang, bringing him under control, and back to my friends fully broke. One side of my mouth turns up. I got this. I’ll be the one to tame him. I’ll show them.
Picturing that image in my head, I saunter down to where the horse is now being led toward a gate.
“You sure you want to do this, White Boy?” Thom, at least, has a look of concern on his face. Billy’s just grinning widely.
“Said I would, didn’t I?” Without hesitation, as though I’ve been rodeo riding all my life, I take the rope of the halter, then lead the horse the final few steps to the gate. Climbing the rails, I sit on top, then in one smooth movement, lower myself down gently, and quickly have myself on the back of the horse.
A split second’s warning is all I get before the beast takes off, bucking and broncing across the corral. The space isn’t large, obviously not big enough for the mustang’s liking. Aware of horrified exclamations behind me, before I know it we’ve jumped the fence and are galloping out over the reservation.
I’ve no saddle, I’m just using my balance, having nothing to grab but that long mane for support. Tugging on the rope attached to the halter does nothing to slow the speed. There are moments when I can enjoy the rush of air through my hair, interspersed with longer intervals of sheer panic, knowing it’s today I’m going to die.
I tug again, at least I’m turning his head, now we’re heading back the way we came at speeds I’ve
never gone, when suddenly the mustang gives an enormous buck. As its rear heels come up over its head I’m heading in the same direction, somersaulting through the air, landing with a crash on my back, knocking the wind out of me.
“You alright?” Billy’s voice seems to come from far away. “Fuck, Thom. Go and get help…”
“I’m fine,” I gasp on the whoosh of air leaving my lungs. “What about the horse?”
Billy puts his arm around me and helps me sit up. He does that thing all Navajo do, instead of pointing with his finger, he pouts his lips and I follow the direction he turns his face in. The fucking horse is grazing only a few yards away. At least it’s not galloping across the plains with a rope that could get trapped around its feet.
Surprisingly Billy puts out his fist, I bump it with mine. “You can ride, White Boy.”
Thom’s shaking his head. “Lost the bet. Didn’t even think you had the nerve to get on.”
I know I’ll feel the bruises later, but for now I’m grateful to be alive. For a moment, I thought I was dead.
I might not have broken the horse, but that day caused the first crack in the defences I’d put up between me and those I eventually came to see as my brethren. It also resulted in a warming of them to me. Something in common. Perhaps the ‘white’ boy wasn’t so useless after all. Soon after I began kicking a football around with them, then was selected for the team.
As winter turned into spring, spring to summer and autumn came around once again, I began to feel this was my place. I even started to call it home.
Again I stop the bike, this time turning off the engine and dismounting, heading for the place I lived when I first arrived. A now neglected hogan, left for the elements to eventually destroy. I stand near, but don’t go in through that door, which, like in all hogans, opens to the east to get the morning sun and good blessings. Inside is where twelve years ago, just two years after I’d arrived, my grandfather died, taking his last peaceful breath after a severe stroke had left him incapacitated. A merciful ending, as he wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. In the way of my people, the hogan, having been a place of death, was vacated and thereafter left empty, now regarded as cursed or haunted.
Mouse Trapped Page 5
