email
No more rain, not a drop. Gramps arrived after a few days. The wash had dried out. It was back to being a wide, empty river with a trickle of water. He and Shimá had coffee while I unloaded the pickup. I knew what they were talking about.
“Need a lift back to town? I don’t charge much.”
“Sure. I need to send a couple of emails. Maybe I can get a return ticket for your next trip back?” I tried to smile.
“No problem.”
“I’ll get my things; won’t take long.”
I was stuffing a few clothes into my backpack when Shimá came into the hogan. She walked over to the shelves on the back wall and slid out a book.
“Maybe you would like to borrow this?” She handed me the copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry.
I didn’t know what to say or how to thank her for the book, for sheep camp, for everything. “I would like that.” Then I let my un-Navajo self wrap my arms around her. “You going to be all right here alone?”
“This is my home.”
“I’m coming back. I still have that waterfall to find.”
“When you email Gabriella, tell her she was right.” Shimá grinned. “Those sneakers didn’t fit you, but they sure look snazzy on my feet. And she said lime green was your favorite color.”
Gramps gave a short honk. He wanted to get back on top of the mesa before the weather changed or the wind kicked up.
“OK, OK,” I called. “I just need to say a few good-byes.”
Shimá looked puzzled.
“Yes, I might even miss those noisy sheep! And the mares.” I smiled at Shimá. “Bandit might need a little extra hay soon.”
Shimá raised her eyebrows as her reply.
And then we left. I sat next to Gramps in the front.
“Any word from Gaby?”
“Your sister emails your ma almost every day.”
“She doing OK?”
“Seems to be.”
After that, neither of us said another word the rest of the ride out of the canyon. That was the Navajo in me.
As soon as we got home, Mom and I drove to Tuba.
My hands were shaking as I touched the keyboard. There was email from Gaby.
From: Gaby
Sent: July 5, 2003, 5:04 PM
To: Tess
Subject: Everything OK?
Hey Little Sister,
Something’s got me really worried. Something’s happened, I can feel it. Are you OK? Write back—SOON.
Gaby
P.S. I miss you. My turn here for dish duty, and I’ve never seen so many!
I hit “reply.” I stared at the screen. Finally I wrote.
From: Tess
Sent: July 8, 2003, 1:27 PM
To: Gaby
Subject: RE: Everything OK?
Gaby,
I’m OK. But you were right. Something terrible happened. Blue ran off and got hurt. In the canyon.
There was nothing we could do to save him. Forgive me, someday.
Tess
That wasn’t anything like what I had planned to say. All my words had dried up. I hit “send” anyway.
Mom and I shopped for groceries. It felt like she was tiptoeing around me.
“Shimá asked me to get her more yarn. I’m going over to Frank’s. Want to come along?”
I shook my head, smiling, wondering if Grandma was wearing her new sneakers. “I’ll get some coffee. I already miss Shimá’s cowboy brew. Meet me back at the café?”
Mom had that worried look of hers. “It’s too soon for a reply.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
I logged on. There was a new message. From Gaby.
From: Gaby
Sent: July 8, 2003, 2:12 PM
To: Tess
Subject: RE: Everything OK?
Tess,
Maybe what’s hardest of all is doing what we swore we would never do. And then we have to make a choice. That’s one lesson Lori taught me.
Blue made his choice. He chose to run free. Maybe I knew all along that’s where his heart was.
Forgive you? I cried with relief reading that you are all right. That’s what I care about, Tess—family. Here, every day, families are blown apart.
The rest we’ll figure out together.
I love you,
Gaby
twenty-five
’ dootł’izhii, blue horse
Sometimes we do what we swore we would never do. The words kept echoing inside my head even though I didn’t want to hear them.
It was time to bring supplies back down to the canyon. I asked Gramps if I could go along.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I am.” I was afraid to see that empty corral. But I had promised Shimá that I’d be back.
The truck bumped over the last part of the road—two parallel lines of gray rubbery tire marks left on the long smooth slabs of bare red rock. The truck eased down stone inclines, inching our way lower and farther into the canyon. Heat radiated from the rock walls as if someone had turned on an oven. A scattering of juniper and pinions twisted upward. How did those trees grow out of the bare rock? Sleek lizards scurried from sunbathing perches and disappeared beneath boulders. Silence, except for us, rumbling, creaking, the truck’s brakes squealing. The truck seemed no more eager to reach our destination than I was.
Grandpa and I didn’t talk. We didn’t exchange one word until we drove up the dry riverbed and bumped to a stop in front of the hogan.
“Ready?”
I knew Gramps was looking at me, worrying.
“Guess so.”
He opened his door, got out. I opened mine.
Shimá Sání stood in the doorway of the hogan.
I had promised myself I would not cry. Promises. So easy to make. My hand reached into my pocket. It was still there, an unpolished hunk of turquoise. Gaby had sent it when she first got to Iraq. At first I didn’t know why. Then I realized. It was for Blue.
Blue. Damn that horse.
Shimá Sání nodded her welcome. Familiar smells escaped from the hogan—coffee and mutton stew. Somehow she knew we were coming today.
“Got cowboy coffee. Looks like you need some.”
I wiped dusty tears and my runny nose on my sleeve. “Thanks, I could use it.” Shimá put a steaming mug into my hands. I looked at my grandma’s face, really looked. Not a very Navajo thing to do. My hands stopped shaking. Shimá Sání. One fine lady.
“This place still give free refills?” I asked.
“Only for regular customers.”
We both smiled. “It’s good to be back.”
Gramps handed his empty mug to Shimá. “Thanks. Best coffee around.” He chuckled. “Time to start unloading. We brought down extra supplies, plus a dozen hay bales. That should last you for a few weeks in case the rains return.”
“Need some help, Gramps?”
“I’ll hand you the boxes of food. The hay is easy to toss next to the corral.”
The corral. I did not want to look at the corral.
I carried in the boxes. Shimá unpacked. She paused, laughed softly. “Good, more Oreos.” She glanced at me. I smiled back and touched the turquoise in my pocket. I knew. I would take Gaby’s gift to the waterfall.
Grandpa stepped into the hogan. “My stomach says it’s time to eat. My nose says this is the place.”
Shimá nodded for him to sit down. “Teshina, how about you?”
“No, thanks. There’s something I need to do first.”
I stepped out of the hogan. I dared myself to look, to see the corral.
There was no one prancing in circles to greet me.
No familiar nicker. No impatient snorting.
No Blue. Not today. Not ever.
I held on to the fence rail.
Blue, you chose wild. I wanted you to choose me.
I closed my eyes, swallowed, let the tears fall.
Ł’ Dootł’izhii. Blue Horse. Fly home.
I was ready for that refill of c
owboy coffee.
twenty-six
gh’, october
Summer stops. Autumn begins. Winter soon walks forward. Gh’. Season of change. The morning sky was bumpy with clouds. Fall had arrived.
I sat at the kitchen table and finished writing a letter to Gaby. Sometimes I preferred actual letters. A letter can be held, carried in a pocket, and reread anyplace. Sometimes I needed to touch the words, smell the paper.
Gaby preferred email. She could type almost as fast as she could talk. She always had lots to say. Every Friday on the trip home from school in Flagstaff we stopped at the espresso café in Tuba City. Yesterday there were emails waiting for Shimá, for Mom, and one for me. She always wrote something about Blue. I was glad for that.
From: Gaby
Sent: October 25, 2003, 7:01 PM
To: Tess
Subject: Thinking…
Tess,
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I still miss Blue, every day. But you did right. Sometimes I wish I could rewind time and maybe make different choices. When I think about coming home and walking down to Blue’s corral, it’s hard, Tess. But it’s not about forgiving you—it’s about forgiving how life is. If I die here tomorrow, you’ll be madder than hell at me. Sometimes there’s no real understanding—just accepting the choices we make, accepting what happens.
I guess my talking about death isn’t very Navajo, but I’m half white too, just like you. And guess I’m still trying to figure it out. Life. And death. Even mine.
Be safe, little sister, my soldier sister. I love you.
Gaby
Last week Gramps had phoned me at school and asked, “Will you ride with me? On Veterans Day?”
“Ride? I don’t have a horse.”
“Your mother said you could ride hers.”
“I’m out of shape for long-distance riding. The last time I was on a horse was in the canyon.” My throat tightened up. I swallowed.
He asked again. “On Veterans Day. I’d like you to come home and ride with me.”
Gramps waited to hear my answer.
“Let me think about it.”
Across the Navajo Nation, schools were closed on Veterans Day. My school in Flagstaff wasn’t closed. What would I say to my coach, to my teachers? Then I realized the white part of me in Flagstaff and the Navajo part of me in Tuba City didn’t need to fight. My Navajo voice was ready to say at my white school: My sister is a soldier, carries a rifle, and is willing to die for her country. I am Navajo, and I want to honor her and all our warriors. At first it was scary to say those words out loud, to explain to teachers and kids that for Navajo, honoring warriors is serious, almost sacred. But then it felt good.
I came home.
Veterans Day. Everyone has a part, helping or riding. Families prepare all week.
Veterans groom their horses so even the hooves shine. Soldiers from any war or conflict—both women and men—clean and polish tack, get uniforms out, and prepare to ride.
Before sunrise I fed the horses that would stay behind, old Chaco and Bandit. Extra hay for Bandit now, her sides already a little swollen. Good job, Blue. When Gaby comes home, a little foal—a part of Blue—will be here to greet her. Maybe it’d be a colt, a beauty like Blue.
I stood outside and looked across the mesa. It was still dark, but lights were on in most of the homes and hogans. Soon at each ranch, including ours, riders would mount their horses. Off they’d go, riding across the washes and arroyos, over sand dunes and rocky red paths, toward the chapter house, the official governing and gathering place of each community. Along the roads, families would be waiting and watching, eager to be the first to spot a horse and rider. Kids would put up hand-printed signs: Free coffee and doughnuts for veterans.
Gramps walked up to me. “Ready?” He handed me his US Marine Corps cap, the kind that folded flat so a soldier could tuck it into his belt. “Would you like to carry this?” He hesitated. “In honor of your sister?”
“Yes. It takes courage to be a warrior. Army or Marine Corps—it doesn’t matter.”
He nodded. “I guess we’re ready.”
I rode alongside Gramps. He had on his bright-red Code Talker hat with gold letters across the front—USMC.
We started out at a trot, but then we let the horses break into a smooth, loping canter. I relaxed into the motion of the horse’s steady rhythm. I thought about that wild ride on Blue. How terrified I had been as we flew down the canyon, between boulders and past cottonwoods. Now those trees would be a blaze of yellow. Soon their gold would fade and the leaves would fall. One season stopped and a new one began. Like life.
Grandpa urged his horse into a gallop and pulled ahead. I leaned forward, loosened the reins, and gave a loud “Yahoo!” The wind dried the tears off my face and carried my words to the sky. “I miss you, Blue. Thank you for saving my life. I hope your spirit is galloping, racing wild and wonderful through those canyons with mares galore.”
Our horses took off, eager to run. We were flying! Hózh náhásdl’.
All has become beauty again.
about the navajo language
While developing the Navajo glossary for this book I have enjoyed many interesting and informative discussions, first with the late Rose A. Tahe, Diné, educator and reading specialist, Many Farms, Navajo Nation, Arizona; and then with Ellavina Tsosie Perkins, Diné, Navajo linguist, member of the Navajo Grammar Project (Navajo Language Academy); and also Mary Taylor, Diné, both members of the Navajo Language Renaissance Team (Rosetta Stone Endangered Languages Preservation Project).
The Navajo language has many sounds, glottal stops, and tones (high and low) that are not used in English. Thus, a simple syllable-by-syllable pronunciation guide would be inaccurate, for it could only approximate how a Navajo word or expression is pronounced. For example, the Navajo word for horse is , and its correct pronunciation is nearly impossible for an English speaker. One begins to say by holding the tongue near the palate and breathing out between the tongue and gums—and that’s just the beginning.
The Navajo language is beautiful and unique. To learn more about the Navajo language, visit www.lapahie.com, an ongoing, evolving online dictionary. To hear spoken Navajo, listen to individual words at www.forvo.com/languages/nv. A more comprehensive online dictionary is in the works, being created by Karletta Chief, PhD, a professor at the University of Arizona and Miss Navajo Nation, 2000–2001. Rosetta Stone has a Navajo language learning text with interactive CDs.
There are many videos available online about the Navajo language. If you search for “Navajo language” on YouTube, you’ll find videos demonstrating everything from how to say hello to the names for colors to how to start a conversation.
The Navajo language is traditionally an oral language, and although a written form was created in the 1900s, only recently have spellings, usage, and nuances of definitions been standardized, although some disagreements still continue. I have tried to use only the standardized written forms.
glossary
Bilagáana: white person
Dibé Nitsaa: Big Sheep (Hesperus Mountain, Colorado)
Diné: the people; the traditional name for Navajo
Ghąąjį’: October; time of change; the separation of summer and winter; start of the year in Navajo tradition
hastiin: term of respect for an older Navajo man; mister
hoghan: traditional home; ceremonial home; sometimes spelled hooghan
Hózh: beauty around, surrounds; be in peace, in harmony; it is peaceful
Hózh náhásd’: all has become beauty or harmony again; all is beautiful or in harmony again; it is peaceful again
kinaaldá: coming-of-age ceremony for Navajo girls
Ł’ Dootł’izhii: dark horse, blue horse; depending on the light, could be gray blue
Náhooksjigo: toward north; toward the northern mountains
shideezhí: my younger sister
shimá sání: maternal grandmother, my mother’s mot
her; shimá means “mother” and sání means “old”; shimá is often used alone to mean grandmother
T’áado ’áhó’ne’ída?: What is there to do?
yá’át’ééh: everyday greeting; it is good; hello!
Yé’ii: Holy Ones who return to the sacred mountains for the winter (traditionally to the San Francisco Peaks near Flagstaff, Arizona); supernatural beings
reference
Goossen, Irvy W. Diné Bizaad: Speak, Read, Write Navajo. Flagstaff, Arizona: Salina Bookshelf, Inc., 1995.
acknowledgments
I wish to honor Lori Piestewa, 507th Maintenance Company, US Army. Lori was born on December 14, 1979, and died on March 23, 2003, at the age of twenty-three. She was awarded the Prisoner of War Medal and the Purple Heart. Her convoy became lost and came under fire while crossing the desert in southern Iraq, just three days after the United States invaded. Lori was able to save the lives of several soldiers, including Jessica Lynch, who was captured by Iraqi soldiers and whose rescue by Navy SEALs made international news. She often described Lori as the true hero. Lori’s courage and marksmanship stood out among her peers.
Lori Piestewa was a member of the Hopi tribe and was also Mexican American. She is now remembered as the first Native American woman in US history to die in combat on foreign soil while serving in the military. While her family and the citizens of Tuba City, Arizona, waited to hear news about the captive soldiers, signs were hung all around the city that said: Put your porch light on. Show Lori the way home. This book is dedicated to her valor, her enthusiasm for serving her country, and her dedication to family and friends.
All other characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is coincidental.
I wish to thank several Navajo elders and educators who have reviewed Soldier Sister, Fly Home to ensure that the Navajo culture and language are portrayed with authenticity, accuracy, sensitivity, and appropriate use. Any inaccuracies are my own. Navajo language is both precise and complex regarding names for family members. Shimá Sání is the official name for one’s maternal grandmother. Shimá has become an acceptable abbreviation.
Soldier Sister, Fly Home Page 11