by Chester Nez
The war ended in 1953, but I was allowed to go home in late 1951. My discharge papers, dated November 1952, acknowledge my promotion to Marine corporal. After World War II and its bloody Pacific island battles, the Korean War was easy living for me. Our secret Navajo code was never used. Later, we code talkers learned that officers believed the war would end quickly, and they didn’t want to risk the code unless it was absolutely necessary. The frantic pressure we lived with during World War II was not present in my role in the Korean War. The bodies of dead buddies and enemies never surrounded me. After my fighting in the Pacific, the Korean War seemed kind of forgotten.
After being discharged, I stood by the side of the road in Pocatello, a Marine in uniform, and stuck out my thumb. A car stopped immediately.
I was heading home.
When my ride dropped me off, I again held out my thumb. Right away, another car pulled over to the side of the road. “Where you headed, son?”
It was like that for two days and one night. Everyone wanted to know about my service in Hawaii and Pocatello and about my part in World War II. Even though I could not divulge my history as a code talker, I enjoyed the conversations.
After two days on the road and the intervening night in Salt Lake City, I arrived at Coolidge’s house in Albuquerque much more quickly than I had dared to hope. I thanked both God and the Holy People that my part in the Korean War had held none of the gut-wrenching fear I’d experienced as a Marine fighting the Japanese in the Pacific.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wedding and White Man’s Work
Early 1950s
Back from the Korean War, I couldn’t wait to finish college and to get married. I returned to the University of Kansas, where I again spent a lot of time with Ethel.
I, of course, had inquired about Ethel’s clan. She belonged to the “Where Two Waters Meet” people. This was significant, because I could only marry into a clan not related to my own Black Sheep clan or my father’s Sleeping Rock clan. The clan is a big part of your identity. When two traditional Navajos meet, they shake hands—avoiding the impolite practice of looking into each other’s eyes—and tell each other their clan and also their related clans.
Each clan had three related clans.49 For Black Sheep people, the related clans were the Salt people, the Canyon people, and the Corn Pollen people. My father’s clan, the Sleeping Rock people, also had three related clans into which I could not marry.
I remember a girl, back when I was a young kid. I really liked her. But Grandma told me that we were related through our clans, so I’d better not entertain any romantic ideas. That would be incest, as strong a taboo in Navajo culture as it is in Anglo culture. So that’s where everything stopped.
Marriage was a very solemn event back then, not to be taken lightly. It’s changed a lot nowadays. You can marry your clan half sister. Or she might be your auntie or she might be your grandma through the clan. It doesn’t seem to matter now.
At any rate, Ethel’s clan, the Where Two Waters Meet people, was not related to my parental clans.
Ethel and I spent every moment we could manage together. After she graduated from her matron’s training course at Haskell, she returned to Window Rock, Arizona. I visited her at her sister Flossie’s house. There, I asked Ethel to be my wife.
She smiled. “You’ll have to talk to my mother.” This was traditional among us Diné.
We bought tickets on a Greyhound bus to Chilocco, Oklahoma. Ethel’s mother worked there, as a matron in a boarding school. All during the trip, I worried about the mother. After all, she was a matron. And my memories of matrons were not good.
When we arrived, Ethel’s sister and brother joined us for dinner. The food was good. Mrs. Catron made an effort to make me feel comfortable. I took a deep breath and looked around the table at Ethel’s family. I knew it was time to ask for permission to marry her. My jaw clenched as I tried to disconnect Mrs. Catron from the severe matrons in my memory. My heart beat so loudly that I wondered whether the others could hear it.
Finally, I addressed Ethel’s mother. “I would like to have your daughter as my wife.”
“There she is,” said Mrs. Catron, pointing at Ethel. Then she smiled. “I think that’s a very wise decision,” she said. “You should set a date.”
When I completed the year—my third—at the University of Kansas, my GI Bill money ran out. My old friend and eighth-grade teacher from Fort Defiance, Freddie Richard, again helped me. He suggested that I apply to the Navajo tribal administration in Window Rock, Arizona, for a loan. I applied, but the tribal leaders informed me that they had no money to lend.
I continued to do farmwork while contemplating my next step. Ethel was working in Window Rock. We kept in touch by mail and had set a date for our wedding: that summer of 1952. I would need a job. Perhaps Albuquerque was the best place for me. I moved there.
1952: Wedding
I found a little house on Marquette Avenue in downtown Albuquerque. It backed up to an alley, giving me access from the rear. I rented the back half from Mrs. Ross, a widow. We shared the bathroom. Lew Wallace Elementary School sat just across the street. I figured that would be handy when Ethel and I had children.
We decided on a half-Anglo, half–Native American wedding. The modern ceremony was to take place in St. Michaels, Arizona, not far from the New Mexico border. One of Ethel’s sisters drove Ethel, who was by then living in Chinle, Arizona, to Albuquerque. The rest of Ethel’s family arrived in Albuquerque, staying with me in my little house for a few days. Then we all headed out for St. Michaels.
Standing outside St. Michael’s Catholic Church, I brushed a piece of lint from the leg of my Marine uniform. My heart beat a staccato rhythm. I prayed that I was doing the right thing. But when I moved inside to the altar and watched Ethel, dressed in a long white wedding dress, walk slowly toward me down the aisle, my doubts gave way to certainty. She looked beautiful, and I knew that she was just as beautiful a person on the inside as she looked on the outside.
I straightened my shoulders under my uniform. Proud of my service as a Marine, I had forgone the custom of displaying Native American finery on my wedding day: no headband, no white pants with velveteen shirt, no rust-colored moccasins with white soles, no heavy silver concho belt or silver-and-turquoise bracelets and rings, no necklace of turquoise heishi beads, enhanced with a drop of turquoise nuggets. Just my Marine uniform.
Ethel approached in her white dress, smiling—no velveteen blouse, no long skirt with sash belt, no turquoise-and-silver jewelry. Her hair was curled in a modern do, not tied into a traditional knot.
Instead of the exchange of a dowry, we stood at the altar and exchanged vows. Instead of Ethel and me drinking water together and feeding each other from a basket holding cornmeal mush,50 we ate wedding cake.
I relaxed. Everything proceeded smoothly. Ethel tossed the bouquet.
Then, to satisfy tradition, Ethel and I dressed in casual clothing and drove to nearby Hunter’s Point, on the reservation, still in Arizona. An outdoor ceremony there was presided over by a medicine man, who blessed us both and blessed our union.
After the blessing, both of our families observed the Navajo tradition of flooding us with advice. Our families, sitting in separate groups, took turns. They talked about things like living according to the Good Way. Grandfather emphasized the responsibilities: caring for each other, caring for the children who would come. Other relatives chipped in with more advice about raising children, and about deciding where to live.
We newlyweds listened carefully. Then we all celebrated with a picnic, reminding me of Ethel’s and my courtship days in Lawrence, Kansas.
After the wedding, we returned to my house in Albuquerque, where I looked for work.
I was lucky. During the week, I ate lunch at the unemployment office. It took almost a month, but they finally called me, and I went to interview at the VA Hospital.
The engineering supervisor at the Veterans’ Administration Hospit
al, Mr. Ertman, had some Native American friends of whom he thought highly. When he interviewed me, he gave me a job on the spot.
I was luckier than many. A lot of the code talkers, after gaining the respect of the Marines, figured they would be able to get that same respect back home in white society. But many couldn’t find jobs. That sometimes led to drinking. And the drinking spiraled into lost opportunities and vanished self-respect. Too many men died of the diseases—both mental and physical—exacerbated by alcohol. Penniless. But they didn’t give away the secret of the code talkers, even to save their own skins.
I worked on the VA maintenance crew. The hospital had its own electric shop, paint shop, and carpentry shop, on-site maintenance for just about everything. I worked in the paint shop. While painting, I discovered that I had a talent for mixing colors to match existing walls and ceilings. Of course, computerized paint mixing had not yet been developed. I guess my fine-arts education helped train my eye. With a spray gun and a paintbrush I painted the entire hospital and the residences surrounding it.
When the chapel needed to be painted, I spent a month designing and executing a mural of Ye’ii figures. The twelve Ye’ii are powerful spirits who act as mediators between man and his creator. Often portrayed as manlike figures with masks and painted chests, they are roughly the Navajo equivalent of the Pueblo Kachinas. Some wear young, flexible piñon branches around their necks. Some carry a gourd rattle and a feather. Hanging from their elbows like banners are designs that represent the universe and the Good Way of life. My mural contained stylized versions of the Ye’ii, because an exact depiction was forbidden according to Navajo tradition. The mural is still there, although the VA chapel was converted into a recreation room some years ago.
I was happy at the VA. I made many friends. One, Benny Gutierrez, was especially close. Benny, a big man, talked a lot and loved to joke. He was also a painter, and he and I worked on many projects together. Occasionally, Benny’s wife, Sally, invited Ethel and me over for dinner.
In our rental, the electricity and running water—with a wringer machine to wash clothes—were a luxurious change from the oil lamps and bucket-hauled water of hogan life. I returned to the hogan on occasion to help Dora with the livestock or just to visit. But fighting side by side with white men in the Marines had changed me. Like many Navajo military men, I expected to live in the white man’s world, to be accepted and treated with courtesy and respect as a contributing member of mainstream society.
I had a wife, a job, and a life that pleased me. My postmilitary life was in balance, and I knew I “walked in beauty.” Like other Navajos, I knew that beauty could be found anywhere if you concentrated on living the Right Way. When things went wrong at work or at home, I set my jaw and determined to do whatever needed to be done to make my life and my family’s lives comfortable.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Children
Early to late 1950s
Life flowed smoothly.
As a boy, I had never hunted. The sheep and goats fulfilled my family’s need for meat. But living in the city, I missed the open vistas of the countryside. And meat no longer approached me on the hoof. A couple of friends and I decided to go for a hunt. Jake Morgan was a buddy I had known overseas, and Jack Begay had been in the Air Force. As veterans, we three found we had a lot in common.
That first hunt, I was nervous about the other hunters. All those guys with guns. I wondered whether they’d be careless.
We slept outside with no tent. Away from civilization, the New Mexico night sky held brilliant splatters of stars. I had grown to know the constellations as a child. They appeared so close. I could almost reach out and pick them like silvery, mica-laden rocks.
We brought no meat with us. After all, we were hunting meat, and we didn’t want the Holy People to think we didn’t need it. I knew we’d shoot a deer if we saw one, but never a bear. We Navajos see bears as relatives, and we respect them like a grandfather. Unlike other tribes, we don’t use bear claws in our jewelry, and bear “trophies” never appear in Navajo homes.
When I bagged a deer, I immediately gave thanks with corn pollen. My prayer apologized for killing the deer and thanked him for allowing me to use his meat. I ate only the liver during the trip, and removed the entrails. I brought the remainder of the meat home.
Although I didn’t take a daylong sweat bath before hunting, as hunters in “the old days” would have done, I left the head and hooves where I’d shot the animal, a sign of respect. There would be no trophies on my wall.
At home I butchered the carcass and saved the pelt. The butchering was done in the “Right Way,” according to tradition, so that the deer could return to the place where it had lived and inform the other deer that it had been treated with respect, in keeping with the balance required by nature. No meat was wasted, so the deer knew there had been a purpose in his death. He would tell the other deer of this. Ethel and I had meat for several months from that single deer.
I paced across the visitors’ lounge in Gallup’s Catholic hospital. How long would this take? Ethel lay somewhere in a delivery room. In a matter of hours, maybe even sooner, I’d be a father. I sat, then stood to resume pacing.
A doctor, his face solemn, approached. “Are you Chester Nez?”
I nodded.
“It was a rough birth,” he said. “We had trouble getting your daughter to breathe. I don’t think she’s going to make it. I’m sorry.”
“My wife?”
“She’s exhausted, but she should be okay.”
I held little Georgann nervously. She seemed perfect, with all ten fingers, all ten toes, and a mop of black hair. But the birth had traumatized her tiny body and she had scratches on her shoulder, cheek, and knees.
She survived for only a half hour in the hospital.
In traditional Navajo culture, girl babies are highly valued. When they marry, their husbands come to live with the family, providing more hands to take care of the animals and crops. When boy children marry, they move away to live with their wife’s family, so their labor is lost. I always wanted a girl, and I often think about the little girl who would have been my oldest.
Almost immediately, Ethel became pregnant again. When her time was near, I took her back to the hospital in Gallup—a three-hour drive from Albuquerque. I again paced the hospital floors while she endured labor. What if this baby died, too? But Stanley survived, a healthy boy, who later showed a talent for art, like me.
Michael was born two years later, in 1955, in Bernalillo County Medical Center in Albuquerque. He was followed by Ray and Albert, who we called “Chubby.”
Chubby didn’t stay with us long. Ethel, older son Stanley, and Chubby went to visit Grandpa Catron on the train. At their stop, two-year-old Chubby jumped off the metal step, then, in high spirits, threw his head back and hit the step, fracturing his skull. He lapsed into a coma and died two weeks later of pneumonia in the Gallup hospital.
Chubby’s death, in October, left my family bereft. Ethel couldn’t seem to stop crying. I often walked outside our little house by myself. Mike tried to follow.
“Your father needs to be alone,” I heard Ethel tell him. But Mike followed me anyway. I tried to wipe the tears from my face before my son saw them.
Then, on December 24, Ethel’s teenage niece had a baby boy. Unmarried, Francine didn’t want to keep the baby. Ethel and I discussed it. I talked to Ethel’s mother, saying we’d like to adopt Tyah.
The baby arrived just after Christmas, when he was only a week or two old. When we placed him in Ethel’s arms, she cried from happiness. We told the other kids that he was a wonderful Christmas present. Everyone was thrilled to have him, the little boy Tyah, whose Navajo name meant “he goes among the people.” His middle name was Chester. We called him TC for short. Stanley became his protector.
Life settled back into a routine, and I prayed that things were once again in balance, that nothing else bad would happen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1968 and Beyond
The secret of our Navajo code was sustained for twenty-three years. In 1968, the military finally proclaimed it declassified. With modern equipment and new encryption methods, they decided they wouldn’t be using the code again. We code talkers were released from our silence.
My father was very quiet when I told him that I had been a code talker. I saw the emotion in his face, and it took him a long time to say anything. He was so happy and proud. After our work was declassified, he used to kind of show me off. Many of my relatives and friends died before the code was released from restriction. I am so glad my father lived long enough to learn about my service as a code talker.
He loved that the Navajo language had played such an important part in the war. “I always thought they should use Navajo,” he told me after learning of my secret role.
With the release of the secrecy surrounding the Navajo code, I became a bit of a celebrity. That could be embarrassing. I know that I did my duty, nothing more. I had always lived by the Navajo custom which taught that no one should be treated as a hero for doing his duty.
I spoke at Harvard about my World War II experiences. Books about the code talkers began to appear, and I attended book signings, parades, and fairs. In 1971, President Richard Nixon honored us code talkers with a certificate thanking us for our honorable service to our country. In honor of the annual Navajo Tribal Fair that is held every September, he also sent word to Navajo Tribal Council chairman Peter McDonald:
