When I was a child Memorial Day in New England was called Decoration Day. We took geraniums to graves of family members. This is a new idea on the Navajo Reservation. A grave was never visited and the deceased name never mentioned again. Fear of the person returning is real. They can bring illness or even show themselves to the family. Not even a photo with their face is kept in the home. Also, everything they owned was buried with them. In recent years small cemeteries have been started. But most loved ones give instructions not to be put in a box. Put me under the wood pile or by the sheep coral is their last wish. When these places are visited, which is not normal and is rare, no one speaks. The loved ones are sleeping, we must be quiet. It would be disrespectful to wake them. And no grave is walked over to reach another one. On the mound of dirt will be something the loved one was known for. On the grave of a sheep herder would be his favorite hat. A saddle would be on the grave of a cowboy. Silence and respect is in order at this time. When a person passes over rain or snow must fall to erase any of his foot prints left at home. Some people change their name so the deceased cannot find them. One women I knew changed her name from Katie to Rizza after her mother passed over. She corrected me sharply when I forgot and called her by her old name. Yup, I can goof up.
We are now starting to feel a little more normal after covid. Some are still sick, some lost their beautiful black hair, others are weak. We lost many of our longtime friends-it hurts. School will soon start, the children are thrilled! Mask will be in order there is still much fear among the people. Some students have a sponsor, some are waiting. Till then I am the sponsor of many. Every child is treated the same.
You asked to ride along to the reservation. It’s six am, coffee mug in hand, hold on. The ole truck will rumble over miles of wagon trails and creep down canyons that will make you check up on your prayer life. Two hours later your mug is empty but not your bladder. We stop in the middle of the trail. You glance around, where? you ask. Pick any bush I say but make it fast we have a long way to go and many people are waiting.
We arrive at a home. It is a tar paper shack, a glorified goat shed. About ten people of all ages greet us. We are hugged and invited inside. Seven-month-old twins smile at us. We brought clean blankets, new clothes and pampers. You glance around, you see bare boards for walls, with a copy of the Lord’s Prayer in the center. The dirt floor where one very used mattress lays. An eight-year-old girl smiles at my daughter. They go outside where they toss a ball back and forth. This is the highlight of the child’s day. She feels special, one one-on-one attention. A two-year-old comes to me arms up. I hold her till we have to leave, her head is on my shoulder then she cries and wants to go with us. I cry to, but no one knows. I have had a lot of practice keeping my feelings in check.
Another home down the trail. It is a traditional hogon. Children are home alone. They are excited to see us. They know we brought food. They gather around the table where dishes, pot and pans are piled up. No water so the flies have been having a feast. The little ones dig in and stuff their faces, they are hungry and have been hungry. Thank you for the books you send. The children look through the boxes and find the ones they like. Then they sit down outside in the dirt and read- read- read- each child in turn reading out loud. These children are like most on the Rez. no shower or way to bathe since school closed a year and a half ago. Thanks for the wipes. They are properly named.
The bottled water we give out is precious and used only for drinking.
Love is in the air I see it on your face. You don‘t see the poverty. You see the need and you feel a love in a way you never did before. We talk about school, the children are excited. They are so anxious to sign up. They know breakfast and lunch will be served. Showers are available. Yes !! they are excited. If you like to shop or we can shop for you and save you the shipping. Please, we need new shoes and clothes – any size will do. We are desperate to have these children ready with classroom supplies in hand.
We go to another home. It is more like a goat shed. We are welcomed by all. I am careful how I take a step. Dogs and puppies run around our feet, they also want attention and they are hungry. I hesitate to tell you this but you wanted to see for yourself the truth of life on the Rez. Food is really hard to get, the puppies are a food source when there is nothing else. I know it sounds rough but that’s life here.
Speaking of school. The idea in this area got started a long time ago. A small Indian girl was keeping crows out of the cornfield. Indians of another tribe swooped down and she was one of the many stolen that day. She was taken by another tribe far away to the South. She cried herself to sleep many nights. One day she was taken to school. She lived with this tribe till she was a teenager. Years later she was returned. She brought back pencils, a ball and bat, books and a treadle sewing machine. She was the first teacher and started the first school in the same area where I am today. That school was a traditional log and mud hogon and the students arrived on horseback.
Education was in the air and still is. This is my fifty-third year in this very remote area. To purchase a pair of shoes you would have to travel 150 miles one way. This is impossible for most. We shop and deliver through the months and years school is open. Because of you students have clothes and supplies. With these tools they can go forward, dream and have a future. You have helped students become teachers, nurses, school bus drivers and proud parents will show you photos of their young people in the military.
You spent all day on the Rez. Going home I notice you are quiet. How are you doing I ask. You respond, I just didn’t know, I really didn’t. I will never be the same. I will never complain about what I don’t have – I wanted to be a blessing but I was the one who was Blessed. What hit me the most was when a grandmother laughed at a joke she made, then she said to me, if we don’t laugh we will cry and if we cry we will never stop.
On the Trails,
Sylvia and Sylvia
Indian Mobile Mission 