by Amy Harmon
“It would be nice if you questioned something, sometime.” Samuel was revving up to his argument; I could see the animation in his face. “You live in your own happy little world. You don’t know how it feels to not belong anywhere! I don’t belong anywhere!”
“Why do you think I created my own happy little world?” I shot back. “I fit in perfectly there!” I hated it when he tried to start a fight with me.
“Come on, Samuel. Everyone feels like they don’t belong sometimes, don’t they? Mrs. Grimaldi even told me that Franz Schubert, the composer, said that at times he didn’t feel like he belonged in this world at all. He created amazing, beautiful music. He had this enormous gift, yet he often felt out of place, too.
“Franz Schubert? He was the guy that wrote the song you played at Christmas, right?
“Yes!” I smiled at him like a proud teacher.
“It’s not quite the same thing Josie. I don’t think Franz and I have much in common.”
“Well I hope not!” I said saucily. “Poor Franz Schubert never made any money from his music and was completely broke and mostly destitute when he died from Typhus at only 31-years-old.”
Samuel sighed and shook his head. “You always seem to have an answer for everything, huh? So tell me what to do, Josie. My mother keeps calling me. She calls me late at night, and she’s so drunk all she can do is cry and swear. My grand parents are trying to stay out of it, but I know her calling like that, at all hours, is upsetting them. She says I will never find hozho in the white man’s world. Can you believe she is using the Navajo religion to make me feel guilty, while she is a complete mess?”
I realized none of Samuel’s angst had anything to do with me.
“What’s hozho?” I plied him gently.
“Hozho is at the heart of the Navajo religion. It essentially means harmony. Harmony within your spirit, your life, with God. Some people compare it to karma too, the idea that what you put out comes back to you. It is a balance between your body, mind, and spirit.”
“Have you found hozho on the reservation?” I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t overstepped my bounds.
“Ha!” Samuel mocked, throwing his head back, “I feel closest to it when I am with my Grandmother, listening to her, learning from her, but no...I have never found it there.”
“It doesn’t sound like your mom has it. How can she lecture you about something she doesn’t possess herself?” I grew indignant on his behalf.
“My mom has not had any hozho since my father died. She says she turned her back on her people when she married him, but I think she turns her back on me when she says things like that. I was six years old when he died. I remember being a family! We were happy! My dad was a good man!” Samuel’s composure cracked, and he visibly shook himself.
“Grandma Yates gave me my dad’s journals. He kept them all through high school and during his mission on the reservation. When he left home, he boxed his things up, but somehow the journals were left behind at my grandparent’s. I haven’t read them all, but what I have read makes me want to be more like him, not less! I feel like I am being ripped in half. I don’t want to see my mother anymore; I am disgusted by her. Do you know my father never drank alcohol…..ever! In his journal he said one of his friends in high school raped a girl after drinking too much. He said his friend never would have done something like that without the alcohol. It ruined both the girl’s life and his friend’s life. He decided then and there he would never touch the stuff.
“On the reservation alcohol is a huge problem - I’ve seen Gordon hit my mom so many times it makes me sick. I have fought him off of her only to have her turn on me. She wasn’t always like that. I have memories of her being gentle and happy. She has no excuse! She had my grandmother to raise her. My grandmother Yazzie is the finest woman I know. My Grandfather Yazzie was much older than my grandmother, and he struggled with his health, putting a lot more responsibility on her shoulders, but they both loved my mother and they raised her right - my mother was their only child. My grandmother had a lot of miscarriages; they considered my mother a miracle, a gift. They taught her the traditions and language of our people. I think she turns her back on the dine’ when she hides in the bottle.”
“What does your Grandmother Yazzie tell you?”
“I really haven’t talked to her about any of this. She doesn’t speak English very well, and although she has access to a phone, she’s not comfortable using one. She has my mother make calls for her when it’s necessary, but unfortunately, with my mother in the state she is in most of the time, my grandmother stays away. My grandmother lives out on the land she was born on, in her hogan. My mother lives in tribal housing with her husband and whichever of his kids that happen to be living at home.”
“But you said your grandmother told you that you would need to survive in both worlds, remember? That is why you needed a warrior spirit. Maybe for you, hozho won’t come from either place, but from a merging of both.” I offered, trying to comfort him.
Samuel looked at me then, his eyes sad, his expression conflicted. “Maybe my father’s God can help me find the answers I need. I have his bible. My mother gave it to me a long time ago, before she re-married. I told you she would read it sometimes. She believed it was true when she married my father. I don’t think she’s found any balance in trying to straddle both worlds.”
“But Samuel, you just said she was happy once, before your father died. Maybe the loss of balance came when she rejected your father’s God. She’s rejected both her traditions and her beliefs. She’s not embracing the Navajo way and shunning the other. She’s shunning them both. So she moved back to the reservation after your father died. So what? Living on a reservation doesn’t make you a Navajo.”
“What?” Samuel looked at me with something akin to shock widening his eyes and slackening his jaw. He grabbed my arm. “What did you just say? Say it again!”
“You don’t have to live on a reservation to be a Navajo?” I stammered, confused.
“You didn’t say it like that,” Samuel was shaking his head. “You said ’living on a reservation doesn’t make you a Navajo.’”
“Right . . . so.....?”
“So what does make a Navajo - is that what you’re saying?” It sounded more like a statement than a question
“Yeah, I guess so. What makes someone a Navajo, Samuel? What is it that defines a Navajo? Is it really where you live, the color of your skin, your moccasins, the turquoise you wear around your neck? What?”
Samuel was momentarily stumped. I was anxious to hear what his answer would be. I was a descendant of the Danes - and if someone asked me, I could tell them a little about my ancestry. But was I Danish? I’d never even been to Denmark. I didn’t speak the language. I didn’t know any Danish customs or traditions. It was just my lineage. I had a feeling being Navajo was a lot bigger than just heritage, or ancestry.
Samuel struggled to answer. “Being Navajo is about blood....”
“Check,” I said smartly making a checkmark in the air. Samuel smiled and shook his head in pretend exasperation.
“Being Navajo is about language-”
“Check-”
“Being Navajo is about culture.”
“What about the culture? Can you still be a Navajo and not live in a hogan?”
“Some of the traditionalists might say no. The old medicine men don’t like some of the younger generation of hataali (medicine man) trying to modernize or change the old ways. But Grandma Yazzie says culture is teaching your children the customs, the traditions, and the stories that have been passed on through the generations. This goes back to language. If the younger generations are not taught the language, we lose the culture. There are no English translations for many of the Navajo words, they carry their own meaning - you lose the meaning, you might lose the lesson in the legend, you lose your culture.”
“Hmmm, I would say a definite ‘check,’” I reasoned. “You were taught by the best. So what else?
”
“Being a Navajo is about preserving the tribal lands.”
“Hmmm. You’ll have to explain that one.” My brow furrowed in concentration.
“You may not have to live on the reservation to be a Navajo, but can you imagine not having a land to go back to?”
“Well, doesn’t America belong to all Americans, Levanites and Navajo alike?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“That’s why they call America a melting pot. The idea is that different people from different places come to America, and they become one people. This is a good thing. The difference for the Navajo is that the land from which they originate is the American continent itself. There is no Navajo nation across the water that, simply by its existence, helps preserve the culture of the original people, like an Italy or an Africa or an Ireland. When people from Ireland migrate to America, Ireland still exists, full of Irish people. Where are your ancestors from?”
I knew Denmark had a role in this somewhere, and I answered him, engrossed in his grasp of the issue.
“Okay, so imagine some bigger neighboring country comes along and takes Denmark and makes it into a National Park and says to the Danes, “Take your wooden shoes and get out. You are welcome to move into our country. After all, we are all Scandinavians, and you can live in our country just as easily as you can live here.””
“I don’t know if the Danes still wear wooden shoes,” I chortled.
“You get my point though, right? If the Danish people don’t have a Denmark, they cease to be Danish eventually - they just become Scandinavian, or whatever. If you take away the land from the people, the people cease to be a people. If you take away the tribal lands, the Navajo people will eventually cease to exist.”
It was my turn to stare at Samuel in awe. “You are one smart Navajo, Samuel. I hereby give you an enormous checkmark.”
Samuel rolled his eyes. But there was a peace that hadn’t been there before. He sighed and reached for my headphones.
“What are we listening to anyway?” He said companionably, and ‘hozho’ was restored on our hard green seat on the rickety yellow school bus.
9. Coda
I had given Samuel all the tapes I made for him when he returned from the reservation in March. I had lined them up neatly in a shoe box and written down the each song title along with its composer, making a reference card to fit into each cassette. He said he listened to a different one every night before he went to sleep. I did the same, and I often looked out my window, down the street, to where I could see his grandparent’s house, wondering what composer was keeping Samuel company that night. He would be leaving soon, and I wanted to give him a graduation present – something to remember me by.
Sonja was the one who actual ended up giving me the idea. She was recording my lessons and playing them back to me so I could critique myself, my finger speed, my musical phrasing, my timing. I suddenly knew what Samuel would like better than anything else I could give to him.
For the next week I perfected the piece I had written for him, making sure it was exactly right. The night before school got out, I asked Sonja if I could have a brand new tape. She acquiesced, and I told her that I wanted to record my composition. She was eager to comply and lifted the lid on the grand piano to its greatest height and held her little microphone in its gaping mouth to record my effort. I played with all the feeling I could muster, our imminent parting accentuating my emotions.
When I was done Sonja was staring at me oddly. She turned to push stop on the recording before she spoke.
“My dear, if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d fallen in love.” There was amusement in her tone, but also a hint of apprehension. Her back was to me, and I was grateful for it, as I felt a flush crawl hotly up my neck. She rewound the cassette and slid it into the case.
“I made myself a copy as well, if you don’t mind - ” Sonja changed the subject smoothly and we didn’t end up discussing falling in love for several more years. Regrettably, I never told Sonja about Samuel. He remained a very closely guarded secret until it was too late to tell her, until she no longer had the capacity to care.
Samuel didn’t want to go his graduation ceremony - he said he had earned the diploma whether they handed it to him or not, but Nettie and Don insisted that he go. Johnny was graduating as well, so my family went to the ceremony. It was pretty boring, full of all the trite platitudes about success and making a difference. There were a few lame musical numbers, and the graduating class sang the school song, which could have used a little zip. The Nephi school colors are crimson and gold. The guys get to wear the crimson gowns, and the girls wear the gold. The gold was a little bit mustard in color, and the girls looked mostly washed out.
Samuel was on the back row due to his height and the alphabetical placement of his last name. The crimson looked vibrant next to his warm skin, and I watched him surreptitiously throughout. He showed little emotion when his name was called, and he took his diploma and shook hands with Principal Bracken. Samuel’s big moment had come in the school awards ceremony earlier that week, when Ms. Whitmer had named him her 12th grade English ‘student of the year.’ She said he’d shown such marked improvement and desire to learn over the course of the year that he had truly earned the award. The student body probably didn’t care, but Samuel was quietly proud when he told me about it after school.
After the ceremony, parents were snapping pictures and kids were posing with their classmates. Nettie and Don were enmeshed in conversation, and my Dad was busy wielding the camera. I found Samuel standing to the side, his cap and gown removed and turned back in to the senior class advisor. He wore the black slacks and white shirt he’d worn at the Christmas Eve church service. His black hair was brushed back off his face. It wouldn’t be long before his long hair would be buzzed military short. His recruiter had told him to cut it before he reported for boot camp, but so far Samuel had refused.
His grandparents were driving him to San Diego the following morning. Don and Nettie wanted to make a leisurely trip of it, neither had spent much time outside of Levan. They planned on taking the ‘scenic route.’ Samuel would report at the Marine processing station on Monday morning.
“I have something I want to give to you,” I said awkwardly, trying not to be overheard or draw attention, but wanting to arrange a meeting. “Are you going home afterwards?” There was always a big school celebration after graduation, but I doubted Samuel would stick around for the festivities.
“Nettie and Don want to take me to Mickelson’s Restaurant for an early dinner, but after that we’ll be home.” He gazed down at me for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” His eyes shifted away, detaching himself from me with his body language. “Do you know the big tree that’s split in two?”
I nodded my head. I called the tree and the others around it ‘Sleepy Hollow.’ Sleepy Hollow was where three huge trees grew in a triangle about half a mile up the road from Samuel’s Grandparents home, just before the turnoff to the cemetery and beyond that, Tuckaway Hill. Lightening had struck the tallest of the three trees, splitting it in two about half way down its trunk. Interestingly enough, the tree didn’t die, but simply forked into two trees supported by one massive trunk - like nature’s version of Siamese twins. The upper branches, now angled at 45 degrees, had created boughs, curving into the two other trees across the clearing. The lower branches were twisted and deformed by the strike, causing them to grow sideways instead of up, like leafy arms stretched out in supplication. In the late fall when the tree lost its leaves, the thick gnarled branches appeared like skeletal arms with claw-like fingers curled menacingly, inspiring the name ’Sleepy Hollow.” But in the spring, as the trees donned their leafy adornments, this branched oddity, combined with the other two trees in the gully, created a thick green hideaway - a natural enclosure completely hidden from the dusty lane that ran close by.
“Can you meet me there later, say 8:00?” Samuel s
eemed uncomfortable but determined, and I agreed immediately. The sun didn’t go down until almost nine o’clock as the looming summer days stretched daylight later and later, and I would be free until dark.
I arrived before Samuel and stood in the shelter of the trees, holding my gifts. I’d decided at the last minute to give Samuel one more treasure - something I hated to part with, something that had been a gift to me, but something I knew would be especially meaningful to him.
Samuel rode up on horseback, holding something in his arms. He slid off the horse and looped the reins over a convenient branch. The horse immediately commenced grazing, and Samuel came around her, revealing his furry bundle. A pure white face and a wet black nose wedged into view under the concealment of his folded arms. I gasped.
“Samuel! Oh my gosh!” I gushed, rushing to him. The puppy in his arms was fat with very white fur, like a little polar bear. “Where did you get him?”
“Hans Larsen said I could have a pup when he found out his dog, Bashee, was expecting. My grandpa and Hans help each other out with their herds. I’ve moved Hans’ herd a time or two.
“Is it a lab?” I guessed, looking at his handsome doggy face.
“Half,” Samuel replied. “In his case, half-breed looks a lot like the original, huh?” His voice was light, and I let the half-breed comment go without censure.
“What’s the other half?” I stroked the silky head and tickled the tiny chin.
“Hans Larsen says the dog’s mother is an Akbash - that’s where the name Bashee came from.”
“Akbash? I”ve never even heard of that.”
“That’s because they are sheep dogs native to Turkey. Hans has used the Akbash to guard his sheep for years. He says they aren’t as hyper as your average sheep dog. In fact, they really don’t herd sheep at all. They are considered guardians. They are very calm, and it is their nature to simply lie with the flock. Hans has a sheepdog to help him move the herd, and the Akbash to keep watch and live with the flock. He says this pup’s momma thinks the herd belongs to her.”