by Johnny Rustywire
I was in Albuquerque the other day and found myself standing on the street next to the Old Albuquerque Boarding School. It was a nice place the old buildings and I remember the kids who went to school there. The campus was clean, grass in front of the buildings and the voices of the children there, the comings and goings to the nearby stores and movies. The Dorm life, staying there with a bunch of others, the dorm attendants checking on everyone, cleaning all the time and all those things. The cafeteria food, the playing of basket ball outside and lounging around on the grass at the park next door.
I remember Tuesday nite was haicutting time, everyone stood in line and got buzz cuts, the Marines had nothing on us, we sat there and it was over in thirty seconds and the next kid sat down. Wednesday was Indian Club, I learned to eagle dance, to sing and learn my voice was better off on the quiet side. There were the bus trips to the zoo and movies on Friday, getting ready, counting change, you needed $.35 cents to get in to Ben Hur and we were packed on the bus to go see it. There were mini tournaments and home work and long walks to look around. These things I remember.
Those buildings were old, the school was built way back in the 20's and I think some of those buildings were that old, red brick, great big Victorian structures. There was a circle in the middle, a sidewalk with trees that was nice.
Mainly I remember kids like Bettian Judee from Shonto, long hair and a nice smile. Her and many other graduated from Valley High, alot of kids went to schools in the area there. Life experiences were gained in this place, learning to live with one another and to see what a city was like. All these things came from this place.
I stand here looking at this school, but I find that it has all been torn down and there is nothing but an empty field of weeds, a few pieces of broken concrete that were foundations and no trees. Everything is gone. It is an empty feeling standing here, much that was here and in other places like Stewart, Richfield, Manuelito Hall, Intermountain, these old schools that were us are all gone. There is no monument not even a plaque to say this is a place where young Indian kids learned about life and work to native children in a world of the white man. No, there isn't anything. I listened to the rustle of the wind and there is nothing more.
I have seen old pictures of Carlisle in Pennsylvania and the Grand Junction School in Colorado of those children standing there in black and white with buttoned up uniforms, shades of grey and they have no names. They are faces and not much is known about them. How many of our children have gone to these places and there is nothing written about them and so their names are gone with the wind.
I stand on this empty street and realize I am one of those faces now in some notebook, in a filing drawer about Indian education, but this place was much more than that there is nothing to mark this spot. It is time to go and so I step into my ride and drive away and see there is nothing, nothing left, it is gone forever....
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Baseball, Monsters and Night Creatures, Oh My!
by Johnny Rustywire
Baseball season at Shiprock High would be after school. My cousin Michael and I would play ball with the team. We lived in Toadlena, about 45 miles South of Shiprock. The school had an arrangement with the Trailways bus that stopped at Bonds & Bonds store, the old store by the bridge. Those kids who lived far away could catch the bus at 7:00 PM South toward Newcomb and Sanostee and get a meal at the cafe. We used to ride that bus to Burnham Junction, now there is a Thriftway gas station and laundry there, but then there was nothing.
When we got off the bus we used to begin running home toward Toadlena 16 miles away. We used to run 150 white lines, it takes three strides to cover the distance between the lines and we had done it many times before. We would run like crazy then walk five lines. When the moon was out it was easy, we would run until someone came by and gave us a ride. Sometimes we got a ride sometimes we didn't.
This one night when we got off the bus we started to run, it was about 8:00 and we kept going and no one was on the highway. There was no moon and we had a hard time seeing what was in front of us. All we could see was the lights way off in the distance looking like stars from miles off. We ran for a long time down the middle of the road it was hard to see the lines, it was so dark. After a while we settled in and realized we were going to have to cover the 16 miles home on our own.
As we ran, we could hear some noises coming from the sage brush but couldn't see what was there. We thought this area is flat and no one lived around this spot, we knew all the families, the closest ones were the Jumbos and they lived South of the road across the wash about a mile. We would run then stop and listen.
It was so dark. We did not show each other we were afraid, we couldn't do that, but man you could sure hear us breathing. We got past the road that went to Two Grey Hills and kept going. All of a sudden a big black shadow emerged in front of us, not on the side of the road but right there in the middle. We were running pretty good and it stood up in front of us. It was just big, black and we thought of monsters, a lost skin walker or that some creature of the night had finally found us.
We stopped and it stood there silent, just a big hulking dark thing. We didn't say a word, just stood there and listened. Then we heard it make it's sound. It went MOOOO. We dropped dead in our tracks and started to laugh it was a cow in the middle of the road, and so we took off again and got home by 11:30 or so. Such was our brush with monsters that night...
Baseball season at Shiprock High would be after school. My cousin Michael and I would play ball with the team. We lived in Toadlena, about 45 miles South of Shiprock. The school had an arrangement with the Trailways bus that stopped at Bonds & Bonds store, the old store by the bridge. Those kids who lived far away could catch the bus at 7:00 PM South toward Newcomb and Sanostee and get a meal at the cafe. We used to ride that bus to Burnham Junction, now there is a Thriftway gas station and laundry there, but then there was nothing.
When we got off the bus we used to begin running home toward Toadlena 16 miles away. We used to run 150 white lines, it takes three strides to cover the distance between the lines and we had done it many times before. We would run like crazy then walk five lines. When the moon was out it was easy, we would run until someone came by and gave us a ride. Sometimes we got a ride sometimes we didn't.
This one night when we got off the bus we started to run, it was about 8:00 and we kept going and no one was on the highway. There was no moon and we had a hard time seeing what was in front of us. All we could see was the lights way off in the distance looking like stars from miles off. We ran for a long time down the middle of the road it was hard to see the lines, it was so dark. After a while we settled in and realized we were going to have to cover the 16 miles home on our own.
As we ran, we could hear some noises coming from the sage brush but couldn't see what was there. We thought this area is flat and no one lived around this spot, we knew all the families, the closest ones were the Jumbos and they lived South of the road across the wash about a mile. We would run then stop and listen.
It was so dark. We did not show each other we were afraid, we couldn't do that, but man you could sure hear us breathing. We got past the road that went to Two Grey Hills and kept going. All of a sudden a big black shadow emerged in front of us, not on the side of the road but right there in the middle. We were running pretty good and it stood up in front of us. It was just big, black and we thought of monsters, a lost skin walker or that some creature of the night had finally found us.
We stopped and it stood there silent, just a big hulking dark thing. We didn't say a word, just stood there and listened. Then we heard it make it's sound. It went MOOOO. We dropped dead in our tracks and started to laugh it was a cow in the middle of the road, and so we took off again and got home by 11:30 or so. Such was our brush with monsters that night...
Come My Child
by Johnny Rustywire
Come my child, walk with me
take my hand and stay a while with me
I have seen you cry, and wiped the tears from your eyes
stay with me just a short while
I have traveled these crazy funny roads of life
and still I can see there is a ways to travel
will you walk with me my child
follow me and I will show what I know
Look isn't this a pleasant place
take care for sometimes rocks slip
listen to sound of all that is around
someday you won't see me
you will hear me in the wind
I am thinking of days ahead when you will walk alone
times will come when you don't want to go on
I will be there with you in these things I give to you
Come my child, walk with me
I can see you are growing and soon will leave
Oh my heart sings and crys
you look at me with innocent eyes
grow old and walk these places I have known
Look over there, way up high an eagle flys
Come my child walk with me
go there to the high places crossing valleys long and dark
I stand with you in this place for just a little while
you will forever be my small child
look you now stand so tall
come walk with me my child
come walk with me
Come my child, walk with me
take my hand and stay a while with me
I have seen you cry, and wiped the tears from your eyes
stay with me just a short while
I have traveled these crazy funny roads of life
and still I can see there is a ways to travel
will you walk with me my child
follow me and I will show what I know
Look isn't this a pleasant place
take care for sometimes rocks slip
listen to sound of all that is around
someday you won't see me
you will hear me in the wind
I am thinking of days ahead when you will walk alone
times will come when you don't want to go on
I will be there with you in these things I give to you
Come my child, walk with me
I can see you are growing and soon will leave
Oh my heart sings and crys
you look at me with innocent eyes
grow old and walk these places I have known
Look over there, way up high an eagle flys
Come my child walk with me
go there to the high places crossing valleys long and dark
I stand with you in this place for just a little while
you will forever be my small child
look you now stand so tall
come walk with me my child
come walk with me
My Daughter's Yeis
by Johnny Rustywire
No coffee in the house this morning, wandered around trying to find a can, but there was none. I got up and drove down to the store...while driving I realized there were YEI's all around, these are Navajo supernatural beings in the days way before ordinary men and women like me were here. My daughter used to see them when she was small...this morning I saw them...they were quiet giants and tall, they look like stick figures, standing quietly watching, not moving or saying a word.
Their faces had no expression, plain and showed no emotion. In the old days they would go about, they had certain gifts, I saw these in their hands, they gave these to young people, two being Monster Slayer and Child Born for Water, the Navajo Twin Heros who went about to slay monsters, giants and big snakes who sought to destroy people. We are because of their efforts.
Today, I could see those gifts, straight lightning, zigzag lightning and in angry times spotted lightning, these things I saw. I did not see any flashes just them standing there with those things in their hands.
I have not really noticed them before, they stand quietly watching as I go about my daily life, they see each passing dawn and sunset, serene and peaceful.....my daughter used to say when she was small look there they are and I would say yes that is them.
Now they are all over the world, standing still, I am sure you have seen them......look about when you go out. They stand fifty feet tall, their arms extended out, they crisscross all lands and they carry these gifts of light, lightning now electric power, look closely they are my daughters' YEI's.
No coffee in the house this morning, wandered around trying to find a can, but there was none. I got up and drove down to the store...while driving I realized there were YEI's all around, these are Navajo supernatural beings in the days way before ordinary men and women like me were here. My daughter used to see them when she was small...this morning I saw them...they were quiet giants and tall, they look like stick figures, standing quietly watching, not moving or saying a word.
Their faces had no expression, plain and showed no emotion. In the old days they would go about, they had certain gifts, I saw these in their hands, they gave these to young people, two being Monster Slayer and Child Born for Water, the Navajo Twin Heros who went about to slay monsters, giants and big snakes who sought to destroy people. We are because of their efforts.
Today, I could see those gifts, straight lightning, zigzag lightning and in angry times spotted lightning, these things I saw. I did not see any flashes just them standing there with those things in their hands.
I have not really noticed them before, they stand quietly watching as I go about my daily life, they see each passing dawn and sunset, serene and peaceful.....my daughter used to say when she was small look there they are and I would say yes that is them.
Now they are all over the world, standing still, I am sure you have seen them......look about when you go out. They stand fifty feet tall, their arms extended out, they crisscross all lands and they carry these gifts of light, lightning now electric power, look closely they are my daughters' YEI's.
Navajo Tortillas-Nunescahdi
by Johnny Rustywire
My grandmother and mom were sitting in the front room of my grandmother’s two room house. We were sitting at the table, the wooden top having the marks of many meals served on it, my mom was sitting looking East out the screen door. Go get some water from the drums she said. I took the pitcher and dipper and ran out by the little coal shack to the water barrels and dipped out cool water and slowly walked back to the house. We had just gotten back from checking the mail at the trading post and it was still morning.
Grandma stood at the porch and was looking through the Navajo Times Mom said, "I am going to make some Nun es cahdi,"(Navajo Tortillas), she was at the table, dipping out cupfuls of flower into a large white pan, porcelain with a strip of red around the rim. There was a small chip on the rim showing the black metal underneath.
"Mary Jumbo was up to the trading post just a while ago". She was one of the oldest ladies around, she lived North of the Toadlena Trading Post about a ½ mile on the side of the mountain. She lived alone and her hair was all white, it looked like if a strong wind came along she would blow over, but she made her way every once in a while to the trading post for the mail just like us.
The old folks took their time to get there, you see the trading post sits on the side of a hill so you have to walk up the hill, kind of steep at the last part to get to it. If you went early to get the mail, you would find the old folks like to sit outside and watch the comings and goings of the place. They would sit there and talk and visit for a little bit. There weren’t many secrets there in that place, cuz most people all knew what you were doing sometimes before you did. Mary Jumbo wore her white hair in a traditional bun, with a long dress and old red velveteen shirt that has a few missing buttons. She always had an easy gentle manner and a smile every one she ran into when I saw her.
Mom was putting in the baking powder and slowly mixing the four, her hands were now coated, all white. Grandma sat down. "Get your Grandma, a cup of coffee, Sonny." I put a cup in front her as she looked at the page for pictures.
My mom said, "Mary Jumbo’s daughter, Ella is coming back from California, her and her kids are coming back sometime in the next two weeks, dahtsii-(maybe, I guess). They are going to move in with her up on the hill."
She poured in the water and started to mix the flour, it was all soft and gooey. She worked that dough like she had so many times before. She said, "Nellie Theodore is going to the clinic today over the Shiprock, she is not feeling good. Her son is coming from Farmington today, supposed to be here, so she’s gonna make him take her". Nellie Theodore was one of my relations, I don’t know how, but she was family and I had to listen to her when she got after us for running around anytime we ran aroiundt he chapter house or the trading post. The dough was getting round and my mom used her hands to knead that dough over and over.
Grandma said, "Maybe we should go see Nellie, over to her place to check on her". Nellie’s kids were all living away in Farmington and only came on the weekends. I knew before I heard it, "Sonny, you better go see her in a little while", I said, ok,
Grandma had used the wood stove to heat water for washing dishes and took some pieces of wood and lifted the round top of the stove and put the wood in their and then put the heavy iron pan on. She reached into the cupboard, covered with curtain and took out the butter and put a little in . My mom was flipping the small balls of bread between her hands flattening them out, this one was ready and she put it in the pan. She then took another one and started to flatten it and make it round so she could flip it back and forth.
"That Mr. Stock, the trader at Two Grey Hills is moving from there, they said". Grandma looked up at the paper. Mr Stock had been there for ages and everyone knew him. He must have gotten tired of the place, no civilization out here. We lived far from town. I thought he is getting pretty old and maybe wanted to live in town. He would give us kids a sucker every once in a while. Grandma said, "We better go see him before he leaves and see how he is doing".
Before long the Nun nes dah di’ was done, the smell filled the house. There was a pile on the table, all warm and tasty looking. They are not flat like Mexican tortillas, these had weight and were thick. I got the butter and jam and my Grandma gave me one. It was good. She then put some in a pan and told me, "Go over and see Nellie Theodore and take this to her", she covered it with a cloth and I took off out the door.
I could see Grandpa coming back with the sheep, he saw me leaving and waved from far off. He could see I was carrying a pan of something so he knew there was something good to ear for lunch. He was following the sheep back in.
I looked inside the pan and there was hot Nun nes dah di there, Nellie would be glad to see them. As I was walking I was thinking I don’t she needs to eat all of them by herself, it might get her sick. Yeah, just to make sure I think I’ll just have one on the way.
My grandmother and mom were sitting in the front room of my grandmother’s two room house. We were sitting at the table, the wooden top having the marks of many meals served on it, my mom was sitting looking East out the screen door. Go get some water from the drums she said. I took the pitcher and dipper and ran out by the little coal shack to the water barrels and dipped out cool water and slowly walked back to the house. We had just gotten back from checking the mail at the trading post and it was still morning.
Grandma stood at the porch and was looking through the Navajo Times Mom said, "I am going to make some Nun es cahdi,"(Navajo Tortillas), she was at the table, dipping out cupfuls of flower into a large white pan, porcelain with a strip of red around the rim. There was a small chip on the rim showing the black metal underneath.
"Mary Jumbo was up to the trading post just a while ago". She was one of the oldest ladies around, she lived North of the Toadlena Trading Post about a ½ mile on the side of the mountain. She lived alone and her hair was all white, it looked like if a strong wind came along she would blow over, but she made her way every once in a while to the trading post for the mail just like us.
The old folks took their time to get there, you see the trading post sits on the side of a hill so you have to walk up the hill, kind of steep at the last part to get to it. If you went early to get the mail, you would find the old folks like to sit outside and watch the comings and goings of the place. They would sit there and talk and visit for a little bit. There weren’t many secrets there in that place, cuz most people all knew what you were doing sometimes before you did. Mary Jumbo wore her white hair in a traditional bun, with a long dress and old red velveteen shirt that has a few missing buttons. She always had an easy gentle manner and a smile every one she ran into when I saw her.
Mom was putting in the baking powder and slowly mixing the four, her hands were now coated, all white. Grandma sat down. "Get your Grandma, a cup of coffee, Sonny." I put a cup in front her as she looked at the page for pictures.
My mom said, "Mary Jumbo’s daughter, Ella is coming back from California, her and her kids are coming back sometime in the next two weeks, dahtsii-(maybe, I guess). They are going to move in with her up on the hill."
She poured in the water and started to mix the flour, it was all soft and gooey. She worked that dough like she had so many times before. She said, "Nellie Theodore is going to the clinic today over the Shiprock, she is not feeling good. Her son is coming from Farmington today, supposed to be here, so she’s gonna make him take her". Nellie Theodore was one of my relations, I don’t know how, but she was family and I had to listen to her when she got after us for running around anytime we ran aroiundt he chapter house or the trading post. The dough was getting round and my mom used her hands to knead that dough over and over.
Grandma said, "Maybe we should go see Nellie, over to her place to check on her". Nellie’s kids were all living away in Farmington and only came on the weekends. I knew before I heard it, "Sonny, you better go see her in a little while", I said, ok,
Grandma had used the wood stove to heat water for washing dishes and took some pieces of wood and lifted the round top of the stove and put the wood in their and then put the heavy iron pan on. She reached into the cupboard, covered with curtain and took out the butter and put a little in . My mom was flipping the small balls of bread between her hands flattening them out, this one was ready and she put it in the pan. She then took another one and started to flatten it and make it round so she could flip it back and forth.
"That Mr. Stock, the trader at Two Grey Hills is moving from there, they said". Grandma looked up at the paper. Mr Stock had been there for ages and everyone knew him. He must have gotten tired of the place, no civilization out here. We lived far from town. I thought he is getting pretty old and maybe wanted to live in town. He would give us kids a sucker every once in a while. Grandma said, "We better go see him before he leaves and see how he is doing".
Before long the Nun nes dah di’ was done, the smell filled the house. There was a pile on the table, all warm and tasty looking. They are not flat like Mexican tortillas, these had weight and were thick. I got the butter and jam and my Grandma gave me one. It was good. She then put some in a pan and told me, "Go over and see Nellie Theodore and take this to her", she covered it with a cloth and I took off out the door.
I could see Grandpa coming back with the sheep, he saw me leaving and waved from far off. He could see I was carrying a pan of something so he knew there was something good to ear for lunch. He was following the sheep back in.
I looked inside the pan and there was hot Nun nes dah di there, Nellie would be glad to see them. As I was walking I was thinking I don’t she needs to eat all of them by herself, it might get her sick. Yeah, just to make sure I think I’ll just have one on the way.
They Can Have Him-A story about the Indian Child Welfare Act
by Johnny Rustywire
A few years ago I worked for a while as a tribal court advocate with Navajo Legal Aid in Window Rock. As an advocate you act as a representative of the people, the office handled divorces, custody issues, wills, probates, repossessions, criminal defense and a lot of different things people came in for.
There were a few of us and the caseload was heavy, sometimes as many as 40 cases per advocate. It got to the point that someone would come in and you would talk to them trying to figure who it was was and what they were there for, then going to the case file and seeing where everything was at. Often times when an advocate had two cases to go at the same time, one of us would pick up the folder and take off to the court house.
The court houses were in Chinle, Tuba City, Shiprock, Kayenta, Crownpoint, Ramah and Window Rock. Sometmes this would involve driving hours away, Tuba City was five hours from Window Rock, so it took all day to handle these matters.
On arriving at the court the advocate would meet the clients on the steps, shake hands and go from there. Sometimes you did not know them, or had just met them; others you were well acquainted with. There are alot of legal problems out there, so you always have a heavy caseload. It was the issue at the heart of the case that was important and so you worked with what was in the file and went from there..
Often times, the people represented have a want and feeling that there should be bitterness or dislike by the advocates toward the other parties. That in representing them there is support in their position to have nothing at all to do with the other opposing party, but there have been times it is not so, it is just a another case. A cup of coffee, a meal shared between litigators is common place, it is a file, an issue and for the court room. You win or lose or make some compromise and go on to the next one.
Justice, what is it? To a woman whose husband has left her and their children without support it is a desire to have the judge tell him he is a bad man, that he should have take better care of them and what he did was WRONG. That in the traditional way of doing things that he has broken promises and a home and is a serious matter. This is what our people would like to see.
But in the courts, the matter before a Judge of the Court is to just answer some basic questions, did he leave his wife, does she want a divoirce, are there grounds, and if there are; then it will be granted, then decisions on who gets the kids, and if not him, how much will he pay. The fact is very seldom will a judge call the man in front of him and tell him what his wife wants to hear. She waits to hear it but it does not come, so in a way it is less than what justice means to her.
Justice, it is a word, it means to be fair, impartial and to make things right, to restore one to where you were before, but it is not always so.
For a time my wife went to school in Provo, Utah and so I would go up there on the weekends. One on occasion I was with her and we happened to meet an old school friend of hers on the street, near downtown. She was a white woman, and had young Indian child with her, what was his name?
Standing on the sidewalk in Utah looking into the young eyes of this little Navajo boy, innocent and so young, a thought crossed my mind, maybe you are the one they talked about... maybe your life will be rent and torn and made the example.... The thought flew but lingered a minute as I looked into the smiling face of the new mother, a childhood friend not really known.
I remembers a few months earlier in Window Rock, I was standing by some lawters as they were having a discussion about Navajo family life, values and testing the waters of the Indian Child Welfare Act. This act was made to keep Indian children with their own people, as too many Indian children had been lost to tribes, and a part of this was that any adoptions of indian children could be reviewed by the tribe within a certain amount of time. Many of these cases involved Indian women or children away from the reservation where adoptons took place in state court and often times placed the Indian mother, parents and families at a disadvantage.
I heard these tribal lawyers and some advocates talking about the need for such a case, I agreed that it would be good to see that the Indian mothers, children and families have a say over their own. The law had to be tested, a case where an Indian mother had given up a child and possibly the requirements of the law were not fulfilled such as a review by the tribe before the adoption was complete.
During this time, a young Indian woman was having a child and thoughts of making a home with the Indian father were going through her mind. This was not the case, the father left to his home, to his reservation and left her alone. She ended up giving up the child in faraway Northern Utah and returned to the Navajo Reservation.
I stood there listening to the discussion between these Navajo litigators and thought about what would happen to the people caught up in such a case. The lawyers talked about a test case where the state and adoptive parents would be required to come to the court in Window Rock, under the jurisdiction of the Navajo Tribe to hear what justice would be imposed in these our courts.
The lawyers talked on about such a case based on circumstances that would allow such a challenge to take place, to bring a child home with the legelese, jargon and hopefully acclaim and notoriety as well for those involved. The die was cast and case had to be found.
I remembered Provo and him standing there, this little boy he had two names, one his mother gave him and the one his new parents had provided for him.. He stood maybe 2 1/2 feet tall. He was with his mother, who happened to be a childhood neighbor to my wife. They were eating at a place called Hawkins Drive Inn.
The young couple was adopting him and he was their child. He was Navajo, from somewhere off the the Navajo Reservation. I thought about how such a child came to be here in this place in Utah.
Months later going I was going into the court room for a hearing at Window Rock, I could see there was a small faint looking Navajo woman making her way slowly down the steps from the court room upstairs. She looked so sad and at the bottom there were some reporters wanting to talk to her. An older woman, maybe her mother was with her.
There were others there, some secretaries, staff, visitors and strangers. Someone was heard to say she should just let them take the boy, he is already theirs. She did not look at the crowd, held her head down and slowly went outside. The group there was saying she was the mother of the boy, This family I had seen on the sidewalk in Utah was coming down the stairs, with this little Navajo boy. They came down and were silent but smiling. They looked a little worried with all the Indians watching them, wondering if they were friendly or hostile. The Navajo people there clapped for them, it was heard the child was better off.
Going up stairs I turned and could see the couple talking to the news reporters and made an announcement that they had won and the child was theirs. He would be going home with them. They left the building and drove off with their lawyer.
The paperwork was dropped off and on going to the parking lot, there was a car, an older one with the mother still sitting there with a far off look in her eyes. She did not look happy and as Navajo woman don't get emotional she was not crying. This was the same woman with the child I had seen months earlier.
Later the mother when she returned to her home over toward Crownpoint way, left her family at the house and walked far off as if she were herding sheep but there were none. She sat there in the open, alone and cried her heart out for this child; this one naturally born to her and now gone. She had waited to be alone and found the time hard, she cried for a long time and then returned to the house silent, quiet and without tears.
The woman had gone to court to take back her son, to raise him, retrieving him from a mistake done while young and far from home. After hearing the talk, and the words of lawyers talking about traditional vs. anglo values, family life, opportunites and all the things lawyers say in times like this. She spoke up and said she wanted to put an end to it all and said "they can have him...".
This young man had heard much in the way of the lack of many things on the Navajo Reservation, the poor life, poor education system, the lack of good health care and the strangeness of living in a remote area. After all there was no Hawkins Drive Inn or mall there. They were all glad to hear it, those there and those waiting outside.
The people there and the child did not know then that sometimes a mother's love is greater than anything and sometimes it is greater than her own needs, wants and hopes. She gave him away that day and left to hear whispered taunts, disdainful looks and lost hope from those outside. Standing not too far off, I watched as all this happened.
As time as gone I wonder about a Navajo mother standing alone on a hill away from home crying over a decision to live a lifetime without a child. I think it is a pain that does not go away. What is the price of love, of nuturing. A thought about the wisdom of Solomon comes to mind and so it goes that the well of a mother's love is so deep that to draw out of it leaves it empty for her and so this was the case.
Life goes on, careers of lawyers move ahead. Reflection on those young men from days as tribal lawyers, protection of sovereignty, jurisdictions, power in the use of the law can make some drunk without a taste of whiskey, it is not so evil but rudimentary in the process of rights, privileges and carving out a career. It is as if sculpturing real life carvings out of peoples' lives in this case one child.
It is not done with malice or ignorance, it is the just the process of law that must be applied with all it's force, meaning and defining issues to resolve future like cases. It goes on.
In meeting the letter of the law, the meaning is lost or justice takes a back seat to everything; the law and justice stand far apart, sometimes leaving a gulf as deep as the Grand Canyon and that is how it is. So it went with this young man, his mother and the adopted parents, bringing in lawyers, social workers, the Navajo Nation, the State of Utah, and many others who stand by and watch the workings of the courts and mystery of how just a little bit of wording, actions taken and things written will affect life forever.
His name comes to mind and I wonder how his life will be and that of his mother, and the adoptive family who have gone through the stately halls of justice so that life wlll go on for him and others who should follow him.
This story is an old one but not really, it makes one wonder how the lives of those involved played out. These thoughts came to mind. I do not mean to condemn lawyers or the justice system, it is the best we have at present. In September at the Four Corners U.S. Attorneys Conference on Indian lands, Peterson Zah speaking to the U.S. Attorneys from the the states bordering Navajoland, the county attorneys, tribal judges from different tribes, prosecutors and child workers meeting in Flagstaff stated that the two party adversarial system is a result of English law and that maybe the traditional way of presenting a case to trusted elders might offer an alternative to such things. It sounds like an idea that needs to come to fruition. Anyway this is what I am thinking.
A few years ago I worked for a while as a tribal court advocate with Navajo Legal Aid in Window Rock. As an advocate you act as a representative of the people, the office handled divorces, custody issues, wills, probates, repossessions, criminal defense and a lot of different things people came in for.
There were a few of us and the caseload was heavy, sometimes as many as 40 cases per advocate. It got to the point that someone would come in and you would talk to them trying to figure who it was was and what they were there for, then going to the case file and seeing where everything was at. Often times when an advocate had two cases to go at the same time, one of us would pick up the folder and take off to the court house.
The court houses were in Chinle, Tuba City, Shiprock, Kayenta, Crownpoint, Ramah and Window Rock. Sometmes this would involve driving hours away, Tuba City was five hours from Window Rock, so it took all day to handle these matters.
On arriving at the court the advocate would meet the clients on the steps, shake hands and go from there. Sometimes you did not know them, or had just met them; others you were well acquainted with. There are alot of legal problems out there, so you always have a heavy caseload. It was the issue at the heart of the case that was important and so you worked with what was in the file and went from there..
Often times, the people represented have a want and feeling that there should be bitterness or dislike by the advocates toward the other parties. That in representing them there is support in their position to have nothing at all to do with the other opposing party, but there have been times it is not so, it is just a another case. A cup of coffee, a meal shared between litigators is common place, it is a file, an issue and for the court room. You win or lose or make some compromise and go on to the next one.
Justice, what is it? To a woman whose husband has left her and their children without support it is a desire to have the judge tell him he is a bad man, that he should have take better care of them and what he did was WRONG. That in the traditional way of doing things that he has broken promises and a home and is a serious matter. This is what our people would like to see.
But in the courts, the matter before a Judge of the Court is to just answer some basic questions, did he leave his wife, does she want a divoirce, are there grounds, and if there are; then it will be granted, then decisions on who gets the kids, and if not him, how much will he pay. The fact is very seldom will a judge call the man in front of him and tell him what his wife wants to hear. She waits to hear it but it does not come, so in a way it is less than what justice means to her.
Justice, it is a word, it means to be fair, impartial and to make things right, to restore one to where you were before, but it is not always so.
For a time my wife went to school in Provo, Utah and so I would go up there on the weekends. One on occasion I was with her and we happened to meet an old school friend of hers on the street, near downtown. She was a white woman, and had young Indian child with her, what was his name?
Standing on the sidewalk in Utah looking into the young eyes of this little Navajo boy, innocent and so young, a thought crossed my mind, maybe you are the one they talked about... maybe your life will be rent and torn and made the example.... The thought flew but lingered a minute as I looked into the smiling face of the new mother, a childhood friend not really known.
I remembers a few months earlier in Window Rock, I was standing by some lawters as they were having a discussion about Navajo family life, values and testing the waters of the Indian Child Welfare Act. This act was made to keep Indian children with their own people, as too many Indian children had been lost to tribes, and a part of this was that any adoptions of indian children could be reviewed by the tribe within a certain amount of time. Many of these cases involved Indian women or children away from the reservation where adoptons took place in state court and often times placed the Indian mother, parents and families at a disadvantage.
I heard these tribal lawyers and some advocates talking about the need for such a case, I agreed that it would be good to see that the Indian mothers, children and families have a say over their own. The law had to be tested, a case where an Indian mother had given up a child and possibly the requirements of the law were not fulfilled such as a review by the tribe before the adoption was complete.
During this time, a young Indian woman was having a child and thoughts of making a home with the Indian father were going through her mind. This was not the case, the father left to his home, to his reservation and left her alone. She ended up giving up the child in faraway Northern Utah and returned to the Navajo Reservation.
I stood there listening to the discussion between these Navajo litigators and thought about what would happen to the people caught up in such a case. The lawyers talked about a test case where the state and adoptive parents would be required to come to the court in Window Rock, under the jurisdiction of the Navajo Tribe to hear what justice would be imposed in these our courts.
The lawyers talked on about such a case based on circumstances that would allow such a challenge to take place, to bring a child home with the legelese, jargon and hopefully acclaim and notoriety as well for those involved. The die was cast and case had to be found.
I remembered Provo and him standing there, this little boy he had two names, one his mother gave him and the one his new parents had provided for him.. He stood maybe 2 1/2 feet tall. He was with his mother, who happened to be a childhood neighbor to my wife. They were eating at a place called Hawkins Drive Inn.
The young couple was adopting him and he was their child. He was Navajo, from somewhere off the the Navajo Reservation. I thought about how such a child came to be here in this place in Utah.
Months later going I was going into the court room for a hearing at Window Rock, I could see there was a small faint looking Navajo woman making her way slowly down the steps from the court room upstairs. She looked so sad and at the bottom there were some reporters wanting to talk to her. An older woman, maybe her mother was with her.
There were others there, some secretaries, staff, visitors and strangers. Someone was heard to say she should just let them take the boy, he is already theirs. She did not look at the crowd, held her head down and slowly went outside. The group there was saying she was the mother of the boy, This family I had seen on the sidewalk in Utah was coming down the stairs, with this little Navajo boy. They came down and were silent but smiling. They looked a little worried with all the Indians watching them, wondering if they were friendly or hostile. The Navajo people there clapped for them, it was heard the child was better off.
Going up stairs I turned and could see the couple talking to the news reporters and made an announcement that they had won and the child was theirs. He would be going home with them. They left the building and drove off with their lawyer.
The paperwork was dropped off and on going to the parking lot, there was a car, an older one with the mother still sitting there with a far off look in her eyes. She did not look happy and as Navajo woman don't get emotional she was not crying. This was the same woman with the child I had seen months earlier.
Later the mother when she returned to her home over toward Crownpoint way, left her family at the house and walked far off as if she were herding sheep but there were none. She sat there in the open, alone and cried her heart out for this child; this one naturally born to her and now gone. She had waited to be alone and found the time hard, she cried for a long time and then returned to the house silent, quiet and without tears.
The woman had gone to court to take back her son, to raise him, retrieving him from a mistake done while young and far from home. After hearing the talk, and the words of lawyers talking about traditional vs. anglo values, family life, opportunites and all the things lawyers say in times like this. She spoke up and said she wanted to put an end to it all and said "they can have him...".
This young man had heard much in the way of the lack of many things on the Navajo Reservation, the poor life, poor education system, the lack of good health care and the strangeness of living in a remote area. After all there was no Hawkins Drive Inn or mall there. They were all glad to hear it, those there and those waiting outside.
The people there and the child did not know then that sometimes a mother's love is greater than anything and sometimes it is greater than her own needs, wants and hopes. She gave him away that day and left to hear whispered taunts, disdainful looks and lost hope from those outside. Standing not too far off, I watched as all this happened.
As time as gone I wonder about a Navajo mother standing alone on a hill away from home crying over a decision to live a lifetime without a child. I think it is a pain that does not go away. What is the price of love, of nuturing. A thought about the wisdom of Solomon comes to mind and so it goes that the well of a mother's love is so deep that to draw out of it leaves it empty for her and so this was the case.
Life goes on, careers of lawyers move ahead. Reflection on those young men from days as tribal lawyers, protection of sovereignty, jurisdictions, power in the use of the law can make some drunk without a taste of whiskey, it is not so evil but rudimentary in the process of rights, privileges and carving out a career. It is as if sculpturing real life carvings out of peoples' lives in this case one child.
It is not done with malice or ignorance, it is the just the process of law that must be applied with all it's force, meaning and defining issues to resolve future like cases. It goes on.
In meeting the letter of the law, the meaning is lost or justice takes a back seat to everything; the law and justice stand far apart, sometimes leaving a gulf as deep as the Grand Canyon and that is how it is. So it went with this young man, his mother and the adopted parents, bringing in lawyers, social workers, the Navajo Nation, the State of Utah, and many others who stand by and watch the workings of the courts and mystery of how just a little bit of wording, actions taken and things written will affect life forever.
His name comes to mind and I wonder how his life will be and that of his mother, and the adoptive family who have gone through the stately halls of justice so that life wlll go on for him and others who should follow him.
This story is an old one but not really, it makes one wonder how the lives of those involved played out. These thoughts came to mind. I do not mean to condemn lawyers or the justice system, it is the best we have at present. In September at the Four Corners U.S. Attorneys Conference on Indian lands, Peterson Zah speaking to the U.S. Attorneys from the the states bordering Navajoland, the county attorneys, tribal judges from different tribes, prosecutors and child workers meeting in Flagstaff stated that the two party adversarial system is a result of English law and that maybe the traditional way of presenting a case to trusted elders might offer an alternative to such things. It sounds like an idea that needs to come to fruition. Anyway this is what I am thinking.
If You Haven't Got A Turkey Leg...
by Johnny Rustywire
The sound was squeky and you could tell the record player had a worn needle, but the soeng, "If you haven't got a turkey leg, then God Bless you Gentlemen, God Bless you" was playing.
When it ended, small brown hands reached over and started it over again, and the sound of this little Indian boys voice carried the song through the three room house. He sat and smiled as he heard the song again as if he had never heard it before. There was amile there and he ran into the kitchen where his mother was cooking Thanksgiving dinner. He looked large eyes at the oven and said, I get the rumstick. His mother said, I don't know if you can eat it, it is hard to eat, and there are things in it that might get stuck in your throat. His smile vanished and he just stood there, thinking what to say.
He went into the room where the beds were and started the record again and layed on the bed looking up. There were stars up there and it was midday, they sparked against the night sky and he could see them.
He said, I wish I could be up there with those stars. His sister looked at him and said, those aren't stars, ther're just nails in the ceiling. Their father because the house was cold had put black roofing felt paper all over the ceiling and walls to keep it warm and had used roofing nails to hold it down. If you squinted your eyes, you could see the stars, too.
I don't care, they are there. I want the turkey leg, cuz it's my turn. He looked at his sister and his eyes were cross eyed a little but they shined brightly at the thought of having a turkey all to himself. Years ago a childhood sickness made him that way and he was not as fast as some, when he walked he seemed to stagger, but the family did not notice anymore, he was just the little brother.
Dad came home, he had to work today but got a break for a little bit to come home and eat. He brought a pie from the Brokeshoulder family and some sage. He took a plate and lighted the sage and took it from room to room to clear the air. A Zenith tv, which was just brand new, bought on time from Harpers Furniture down the street showed the parade from somewhere back East.
There were big floats and lots of people standing in the background as the tv people talked about the parade. The little boy rolled off the bed and ended up in front of the tv, it was black and white but you could see the parade really good from there. He stood up and walked around to the back. His father said, what are you doing back there? The little boy said, I want to see the floats, how do I get in to go see them.
It is magic, you have to stand in front of the tv and watch it happen, if you don't stand in front of it you can't see it. The boy went back to his spot right in the middle in front of the tv and watched the parade.
His father liked the same song and he played the record again, and the little boy went into the kitchen again and said with a soulful look in his large brown eyes, Is it done? Can I have the turkey leg? His mother looked at him and touched him, she called him Baby Cheeks cuz his cheeks were big and soft. I guess it is up to your Daddy. He took off into the other room and said, Daddy, Daddy can I have the turkey leg. The song was playing in the background. His father was fixing the Indian dance outfits for the boarding school kids at teh Indian dorm. He taught them how to dance and the program was Saturday nite for the nursing home folks. He stopped and looked at his son. I guess so, your getting to be a big boy now.
It was as if Christmas had come and he danced around, so happy the turkey leg was his. He ran around the house and washed his hands and sat at his place at the table waiting for the food to come.
Time to eat, he heard and he was ready. His mom brought the turkey out and set it on the table. All the family sat down and his father told him he could say the prayer. He said I don't know how to say it. His father told him, just tell the Lord your happy about Thanksgiving and thank him. The little boy put his hands together bowed his bushy head and said...
Thanks God for the turkey and Thanksgiving. Thank you for the turkey and I wish those who don't have a turkey leg today be blessed because they don't have one. Help us to be good people and help Dad with his sore back and mom when she goes to clean rooms. Help my brothers and sisters treat me nice and that the snow will come soon and we get what we want for Christmas. AAAAAmen.
His mother put the turkey leg on his plate and it was the best Thanksgiving in the world.....
The sound was squeky and you could tell the record player had a worn needle, but the soeng, "If you haven't got a turkey leg, then God Bless you Gentlemen, God Bless you" was playing.
When it ended, small brown hands reached over and started it over again, and the sound of this little Indian boys voice carried the song through the three room house. He sat and smiled as he heard the song again as if he had never heard it before. There was amile there and he ran into the kitchen where his mother was cooking Thanksgiving dinner. He looked large eyes at the oven and said, I get the rumstick. His mother said, I don't know if you can eat it, it is hard to eat, and there are things in it that might get stuck in your throat. His smile vanished and he just stood there, thinking what to say.
He went into the room where the beds were and started the record again and layed on the bed looking up. There were stars up there and it was midday, they sparked against the night sky and he could see them.
He said, I wish I could be up there with those stars. His sister looked at him and said, those aren't stars, ther're just nails in the ceiling. Their father because the house was cold had put black roofing felt paper all over the ceiling and walls to keep it warm and had used roofing nails to hold it down. If you squinted your eyes, you could see the stars, too.
I don't care, they are there. I want the turkey leg, cuz it's my turn. He looked at his sister and his eyes were cross eyed a little but they shined brightly at the thought of having a turkey all to himself. Years ago a childhood sickness made him that way and he was not as fast as some, when he walked he seemed to stagger, but the family did not notice anymore, he was just the little brother.
Dad came home, he had to work today but got a break for a little bit to come home and eat. He brought a pie from the Brokeshoulder family and some sage. He took a plate and lighted the sage and took it from room to room to clear the air. A Zenith tv, which was just brand new, bought on time from Harpers Furniture down the street showed the parade from somewhere back East.
There were big floats and lots of people standing in the background as the tv people talked about the parade. The little boy rolled off the bed and ended up in front of the tv, it was black and white but you could see the parade really good from there. He stood up and walked around to the back. His father said, what are you doing back there? The little boy said, I want to see the floats, how do I get in to go see them.
It is magic, you have to stand in front of the tv and watch it happen, if you don't stand in front of it you can't see it. The boy went back to his spot right in the middle in front of the tv and watched the parade.
His father liked the same song and he played the record again, and the little boy went into the kitchen again and said with a soulful look in his large brown eyes, Is it done? Can I have the turkey leg? His mother looked at him and touched him, she called him Baby Cheeks cuz his cheeks were big and soft. I guess it is up to your Daddy. He took off into the other room and said, Daddy, Daddy can I have the turkey leg. The song was playing in the background. His father was fixing the Indian dance outfits for the boarding school kids at teh Indian dorm. He taught them how to dance and the program was Saturday nite for the nursing home folks. He stopped and looked at his son. I guess so, your getting to be a big boy now.
It was as if Christmas had come and he danced around, so happy the turkey leg was his. He ran around the house and washed his hands and sat at his place at the table waiting for the food to come.
Time to eat, he heard and he was ready. His mom brought the turkey out and set it on the table. All the family sat down and his father told him he could say the prayer. He said I don't know how to say it. His father told him, just tell the Lord your happy about Thanksgiving and thank him. The little boy put his hands together bowed his bushy head and said...
Thanks God for the turkey and Thanksgiving. Thank you for the turkey and I wish those who don't have a turkey leg today be blessed because they don't have one. Help us to be good people and help Dad with his sore back and mom when she goes to clean rooms. Help my brothers and sisters treat me nice and that the snow will come soon and we get what we want for Christmas. AAAAAmen.
His mother put the turkey leg on his plate and it was the best Thanksgiving in the world.....
Thanksgiving, Snow and No Ride
by Johnny Rustywire
In 1972 I was going home from college. Like most Indians my family lived way off the beaten path, no car or phone. I caught the bus home but due to a snow storm the bus missed a connection because we were late. I ended up hitchiking to Shiprock, New Mexico it was blowing and cold. I went to a small store there called Bonds & Bonds which was a bus stop and eating place.
It was toward evening and since I couldn't find a ride I started walking. You know the area, barren landscape, high rock formations and a lonely road, no one coming or going. I started to walk. It seemed I walked forever, the wind was blowing, it was cold and there was sleet beginning to fall, I walked about 12 miles South to a place called Table Mesa. It was getting past 10 or so. The wind was picking up, a slow cold wind and sleet, the kind that clings to you was falling. I was thinking I would probably end up walking all night. It was the kind of storm where you keep moving all night long, you could not stop but had to go on til morning. There wasn't a good place to lay down and take cover.
I was walking and heard the whine of a small motorcycle coming from behind me, it went by me and went on. On it was an old Navajo man on his way to check his sheep. I could hear the sound coming back and it slowed and stopped by me. The old man said get on and I rode back down the road from where I had come. We rode and I could see us drive up to a simple two room house lighted by kerosene lamp and wood stove. It was a small place, not much really. He spoke to his wife and bid me to come in. His wife fixed me a warm meal and a bed roll. I ate and layed down and was out like a light. I slept well that night.
In the morning they fed me and he took me up the road to where he picked me up. It was light and the storm had passed, the ground was covered with snow. I caught a ride and got home for the holidays. He didn't tell me his name.
A few years later I went back looking for him and his wife, the small shacks that were in the area were all torn down. I'll never forget him, that they didn't have much, but what they had was more than what I needed that night long ago. He saw a young man, cold and wet and took him in. I remember this kindness given to a stranger on a cold wet night. Sometimes we think we don't have the ability to help someone, but then really we have enough if we want to and it maybe more than someone needs. It could be a kind word, a ride, a visit or a warm place, a meal and a place to sleep. Now I try to keep him in mind as the holidays approach each year and wish him well for his kindness has stayed with me all these years and I try to remember this during the winter.
In 1972 I was going home from college. Like most Indians my family lived way off the beaten path, no car or phone. I caught the bus home but due to a snow storm the bus missed a connection because we were late. I ended up hitchiking to Shiprock, New Mexico it was blowing and cold. I went to a small store there called Bonds & Bonds which was a bus stop and eating place.
It was toward evening and since I couldn't find a ride I started walking. You know the area, barren landscape, high rock formations and a lonely road, no one coming or going. I started to walk. It seemed I walked forever, the wind was blowing, it was cold and there was sleet beginning to fall, I walked about 12 miles South to a place called Table Mesa. It was getting past 10 or so. The wind was picking up, a slow cold wind and sleet, the kind that clings to you was falling. I was thinking I would probably end up walking all night. It was the kind of storm where you keep moving all night long, you could not stop but had to go on til morning. There wasn't a good place to lay down and take cover.
I was walking and heard the whine of a small motorcycle coming from behind me, it went by me and went on. On it was an old Navajo man on his way to check his sheep. I could hear the sound coming back and it slowed and stopped by me. The old man said get on and I rode back down the road from where I had come. We rode and I could see us drive up to a simple two room house lighted by kerosene lamp and wood stove. It was a small place, not much really. He spoke to his wife and bid me to come in. His wife fixed me a warm meal and a bed roll. I ate and layed down and was out like a light. I slept well that night.
In the morning they fed me and he took me up the road to where he picked me up. It was light and the storm had passed, the ground was covered with snow. I caught a ride and got home for the holidays. He didn't tell me his name.
A few years later I went back looking for him and his wife, the small shacks that were in the area were all torn down. I'll never forget him, that they didn't have much, but what they had was more than what I needed that night long ago. He saw a young man, cold and wet and took him in. I remember this kindness given to a stranger on a cold wet night. Sometimes we think we don't have the ability to help someone, but then really we have enough if we want to and it maybe more than someone needs. It could be a kind word, a ride, a visit or a warm place, a meal and a place to sleep. Now I try to keep him in mind as the holidays approach each year and wish him well for his kindness has stayed with me all these years and I try to remember this during the winter.
Fake Indians
by Johnny Rustywire
I remember when I was in college we had a Native American dance group that was made of students from a number of tribes. We would go around and do shows to earn extra money. I did the hoop dance and helped with the props. We had a number of requests for putting on presentations and put together some skits and dances from each tribe. At the end of the show we invited everyone to dance from the audience. We did a round dance gathering the audience and all the dancers in a circle, it was a good ending.
One time we had a request from a hoop dancer who was quite good, he used 27 hoops, but he was not Indian, but a young white kid. He learned to dance at the boy scouts. We put his joining to a vote of the whole group and it was decided he could not join us.
I remember we told him that the intent of the group was to dance our own tribal dances by each tribal member affiliated with that tribe. We wanted to be as true to the dance as possible. But in the end he was quite hurt by it, and after talking among ourselves we realized we did not want to appear as "apples", red on the outside, white on the inside, so we did not want him to dance. The dance group wanted to remain all native and that is what we wanted to portray, Native Americans doing the native dances.
The group had the following tribal representations, Hopi, Zuni, Navajo, Ute, Southern Cheyenne, Cree, Crow, Apache, Northern Cheyenne, Blood, Paiute, Shoshone, Arapaho, Sac & Fox, Arikara, Chippewa, Pine Ridge Sioux, Assinaboine, Blackfoot, Ponca, Mandan, Lumbee, and Florida Cherokee, as well as a few Canadian Natives like Metis, Dene and two Alaskan Natives.
The group totaled 35 or so altogether. We made our own outfits, learned dances from each other and allowed each respective tribe to display their own culture and that was what it was about. I am not sure what happened to the young man, but he did not join us. I have thought about it all these years later and still feel we made the right decision.
There is nothing like watching your own people dance and sing their own songs, and in that they speak for all of their own people. These dances were tribal specific. I did not dance Northern style nor for any other tribe, and to this day don't believe in mixing tribal cultures. I have no problem with Pow Wow Dancing, it is to me a social dance. I would not dance though, because I have my own tribal ways, but that is my own opinion.
I have met a number of people wanting to be native, Indian or claim to be some tribe, and I think it is a sound all Indians, Natives or tribal members hear all the time you don't know whether they are really telling your the truth or just saying something. Indian people have all experiened this and you know how it is. I find there those people who want to know more about a way of life that is diminishing. I look at myself and see that what I knew is not all that I remember.
I have seen some who are not Native who know more than the Natives about their own culture. I have also seen our youth not wanting to know these things anymore and with the passing of the elders of our tribes and peoples we lose ourselves more so into the melting pot of America. I have seen some profess to know more about culture, Indian ways, sings, sweats, pipe ceremonies and share these at a price, for a buck and I wonder about them.
I had a friend of mine who died not too long ago, he was a Zuni, we were like brothers. We figured one day we would hit the road when we reached the age of 55 and become preachers and tell people they were going to hell and get paid for it, more or less becoming charlatans, flea bags and deceivers. It was a joke to us as we could see there are some preachers who go out like this, not all, but there are some that are that way.
In many ways Indian culture has gone down a similar path and there is exploitation from every angle. I am not an expert in this field but I have seen some of what I am talking about.
I have met some fake Indians and at times feel sorry for them and yet they look on me with pity, maybe they know something I don't. Anyway I am sitting at a computer and my children are scattered like sand in a heavy wind. I am a survivor of sorts for my family as many of the problems of reservation life have taken my aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and many other people I knew that were good and kind. I can see that there is nothing to mark their time, other than they were Natives just trying to get by and in the way of life did not find a place to rest and call home.
I think this restlessness is the same with non-Indians looking for some identity. I don't have any answers, I still have a lot of questions about life just the same as you I guess. There are no secrets to life here, just alot of people trying to find their own way...
I remember when I was in college we had a Native American dance group that was made of students from a number of tribes. We would go around and do shows to earn extra money. I did the hoop dance and helped with the props. We had a number of requests for putting on presentations and put together some skits and dances from each tribe. At the end of the show we invited everyone to dance from the audience. We did a round dance gathering the audience and all the dancers in a circle, it was a good ending.
One time we had a request from a hoop dancer who was quite good, he used 27 hoops, but he was not Indian, but a young white kid. He learned to dance at the boy scouts. We put his joining to a vote of the whole group and it was decided he could not join us.
I remember we told him that the intent of the group was to dance our own tribal dances by each tribal member affiliated with that tribe. We wanted to be as true to the dance as possible. But in the end he was quite hurt by it, and after talking among ourselves we realized we did not want to appear as "apples", red on the outside, white on the inside, so we did not want him to dance. The dance group wanted to remain all native and that is what we wanted to portray, Native Americans doing the native dances.
The group had the following tribal representations, Hopi, Zuni, Navajo, Ute, Southern Cheyenne, Cree, Crow, Apache, Northern Cheyenne, Blood, Paiute, Shoshone, Arapaho, Sac & Fox, Arikara, Chippewa, Pine Ridge Sioux, Assinaboine, Blackfoot, Ponca, Mandan, Lumbee, and Florida Cherokee, as well as a few Canadian Natives like Metis, Dene and two Alaskan Natives.
The group totaled 35 or so altogether. We made our own outfits, learned dances from each other and allowed each respective tribe to display their own culture and that was what it was about. I am not sure what happened to the young man, but he did not join us. I have thought about it all these years later and still feel we made the right decision.
There is nothing like watching your own people dance and sing their own songs, and in that they speak for all of their own people. These dances were tribal specific. I did not dance Northern style nor for any other tribe, and to this day don't believe in mixing tribal cultures. I have no problem with Pow Wow Dancing, it is to me a social dance. I would not dance though, because I have my own tribal ways, but that is my own opinion.
I have met a number of people wanting to be native, Indian or claim to be some tribe, and I think it is a sound all Indians, Natives or tribal members hear all the time you don't know whether they are really telling your the truth or just saying something. Indian people have all experiened this and you know how it is. I find there those people who want to know more about a way of life that is diminishing. I look at myself and see that what I knew is not all that I remember.
I have seen some who are not Native who know more than the Natives about their own culture. I have also seen our youth not wanting to know these things anymore and with the passing of the elders of our tribes and peoples we lose ourselves more so into the melting pot of America. I have seen some profess to know more about culture, Indian ways, sings, sweats, pipe ceremonies and share these at a price, for a buck and I wonder about them.
I had a friend of mine who died not too long ago, he was a Zuni, we were like brothers. We figured one day we would hit the road when we reached the age of 55 and become preachers and tell people they were going to hell and get paid for it, more or less becoming charlatans, flea bags and deceivers. It was a joke to us as we could see there are some preachers who go out like this, not all, but there are some that are that way.
In many ways Indian culture has gone down a similar path and there is exploitation from every angle. I am not an expert in this field but I have seen some of what I am talking about.
I have met some fake Indians and at times feel sorry for them and yet they look on me with pity, maybe they know something I don't. Anyway I am sitting at a computer and my children are scattered like sand in a heavy wind. I am a survivor of sorts for my family as many of the problems of reservation life have taken my aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and many other people I knew that were good and kind. I can see that there is nothing to mark their time, other than they were Natives just trying to get by and in the way of life did not find a place to rest and call home.
I think this restlessness is the same with non-Indians looking for some identity. I don't have any answers, I still have a lot of questions about life just the same as you I guess. There are no secrets to life here, just alot of people trying to find their own way...
Tell Me A Christmas Story
Tell Me A Christmas Story
by Johnny Rustywire
I remember my father in Navajoland about 1907 lived on a pine tree covered mountain in a hogan with 9 smaller brothers and sisters. His parents hitched up the wagon and went down the mountain to the trading post. While gone it snowed and the parents did not return right away the next day. That following night, the kids heard noise on the hogan roof. They were afraid to look out of the smoke hole in the middle of the night and sat against the wall. They thought it was a Yei-be-che, who would take bad children away. The kids sat up all night.
In the morning they were afraid to go outside until it was full daylight. On going outside there were no tracks in the snow. On looking at the hogan roof, they saw a gunny sack sitting by itself. He walked all the way around the hogan and finding no one there, they crawled up on the roof and brought the bag down. It was full of goodies, sweet bread, sweet corn ears roasted underground, wooden toys. It was such a surprise and each child had something to eat and play with. In those days toys were hard to come by and treats were far and few between. It jst so happened to be around Christmas. They did not know who was on the hogan roof that night making noise and left now tracks. It was later that morning and the parents came back. They did not know where these things came from. He never said where the gunny sack came from. He told the story as if it were a scary story, but it made us laugh.
by Johnny Rustywire
I remember my father in Navajoland about 1907 lived on a pine tree covered mountain in a hogan with 9 smaller brothers and sisters. His parents hitched up the wagon and went down the mountain to the trading post. While gone it snowed and the parents did not return right away the next day. That following night, the kids heard noise on the hogan roof. They were afraid to look out of the smoke hole in the middle of the night and sat against the wall. They thought it was a Yei-be-che, who would take bad children away. The kids sat up all night.
In the morning they were afraid to go outside until it was full daylight. On going outside there were no tracks in the snow. On looking at the hogan roof, they saw a gunny sack sitting by itself. He walked all the way around the hogan and finding no one there, they crawled up on the roof and brought the bag down. It was full of goodies, sweet bread, sweet corn ears roasted underground, wooden toys. It was such a surprise and each child had something to eat and play with. In those days toys were hard to come by and treats were far and few between. It jst so happened to be around Christmas. They did not know who was on the hogan roof that night making noise and left now tracks. It was later that morning and the parents came back. They did not know where these things came from. He never said where the gunny sack came from. He told the story as if it were a scary story, but it made us laugh.
4 Indian Boys and Thanksgiving
4 Indian Boys and Thanksgiving
by Johnny Rustywire
One time my college roommate ran into the room and said our neighbors next door, Harley a Zuni and Bob, a Southern Cheyenne had gotten big bucks and wanted to treat us out to eat. We were ready in flash, we were always hungry so we went out and ate.
My roommate, Mike was a Sioux, and I the Navajo; many times the four of us would get together with a big bass drum and we would go into the main living room of the dorm and sing Indian songs. We would sing songs we knew and invite other skins to sing with us and we would do this every once in a while. We had a good time. The room would fill up with the other students and pretty soon we had a crowd standing around us. We would teach each other our own tribal songs and would really wail. These three were my brothers and we did a lot of things together, and one of them was to eat.
We were in college and always looking for free meal. There were these girls from Onandagawa, New York, Seneca girls and we would see them all the time and follow them back to the their apartment and munch on what was around the place. It was a thing with us, we had a reputation as munchers, always asking for food. There were some other girls who were from Zuni and the Pueblos, we used to go see them, they were in the next complex and we would munch down whatever they had. They were good cooks, those Pueblo girls can really cook, so can those Senecas. There was some other girls we knew who were not Indian but were from places like Chicago, San Antonio, Seattle, who sure could cook, too. We used to go see them and after a while they all would bring us treats like cookies, cake and stuff like that, dropping it off at our dorm.
Thanksgiving was coming up and since all four of us room mates were going home we made a big deal of eating something for Thanksgiving. You have to understand we were always broke, but managed to go out somehow once in a while. Well we all sort of said to each of these girls that we didn’t want to eat turkey in the student union, so we could get a free Thanksgiving meal from somebody. The day after class let out for the holiday we each got an invitation to eat with the Pueblo girls, and then one from the Senecas and one from our friends who were pale faces. We talked about it and figured we would just go to one dinner and beg off that we forgot about the other dinners later.
At 11 AM, Becky Lasiloo and her Pueblo and a couple of Lumbee girls from North Carolina laid out a spread you would not believe and they watched us four eat. We were young, and helped ourselves to everything they had. They offered more they couldn't take no for an answer and so we ate good. We joked and laughed and had a good time.
Afterward we were on our way back to the dorm, when Sue Jimerson and other Seneca girls picked us up and took us to their apartment. There in their living room they had borrowed a big dining table, tablecloth, and real silverware, just like in a fine restaurant. They had turkey with all the trimmings. Now Mike was a big eater, so we sat down and started to eat. The taste of turkey gets kind of old the second time around when your are already full. What could we do, we didn't tell them about the first dinner, so we ate again, but couldn't eat desert. We had a good meal; good conversation and they made us eat.
We then walked back to our dorm, when Sally and girls in the next complex came over and said, we fixed a meal for you guys. Mike looked at me and we smiled faintly, then he went next door and told Harley and Bob the girls had fixed us Thanksgiving dinner. We looked at each other; we didn't have to say anything it was all in the look. We made our way over there and they had quite a spread. We stood there and looked at all the food, those girls standing there so proud of their meal.
We sat down and started to play with the food, but they wouldn't let us alone. Harley started to say we had already eaten, and the girl’s reaction was not good. They told us they were going to throw the food out if we did not eat and they had spent a good part of the day fixing it for us. All four of us sat there and ate; trying to smile and talk, but it was a tough meal to get through. We sort finished part of the meal and they made us stay for desert. We went into their living room, they wanted to know how the meal turned out, we told them it was good, and the best meal we had ever.
After that we got out of there as quick as we could. Halfway back, it all started to come up, too much of good thing. We were miserable, the long and short of it was the girls all found out what we had done and none of them were happy with us, we did not get a Christmas meal and I can't say we were sorry about it either....
by Johnny Rustywire
One time my college roommate ran into the room and said our neighbors next door, Harley a Zuni and Bob, a Southern Cheyenne had gotten big bucks and wanted to treat us out to eat. We were ready in flash, we were always hungry so we went out and ate.
My roommate, Mike was a Sioux, and I the Navajo; many times the four of us would get together with a big bass drum and we would go into the main living room of the dorm and sing Indian songs. We would sing songs we knew and invite other skins to sing with us and we would do this every once in a while. We had a good time. The room would fill up with the other students and pretty soon we had a crowd standing around us. We would teach each other our own tribal songs and would really wail. These three were my brothers and we did a lot of things together, and one of them was to eat.
We were in college and always looking for free meal. There were these girls from Onandagawa, New York, Seneca girls and we would see them all the time and follow them back to the their apartment and munch on what was around the place. It was a thing with us, we had a reputation as munchers, always asking for food. There were some other girls who were from Zuni and the Pueblos, we used to go see them, they were in the next complex and we would munch down whatever they had. They were good cooks, those Pueblo girls can really cook, so can those Senecas. There was some other girls we knew who were not Indian but were from places like Chicago, San Antonio, Seattle, who sure could cook, too. We used to go see them and after a while they all would bring us treats like cookies, cake and stuff like that, dropping it off at our dorm.
Thanksgiving was coming up and since all four of us room mates were going home we made a big deal of eating something for Thanksgiving. You have to understand we were always broke, but managed to go out somehow once in a while. Well we all sort of said to each of these girls that we didn’t want to eat turkey in the student union, so we could get a free Thanksgiving meal from somebody. The day after class let out for the holiday we each got an invitation to eat with the Pueblo girls, and then one from the Senecas and one from our friends who were pale faces. We talked about it and figured we would just go to one dinner and beg off that we forgot about the other dinners later.
At 11 AM, Becky Lasiloo and her Pueblo and a couple of Lumbee girls from North Carolina laid out a spread you would not believe and they watched us four eat. We were young, and helped ourselves to everything they had. They offered more they couldn't take no for an answer and so we ate good. We joked and laughed and had a good time.
Afterward we were on our way back to the dorm, when Sue Jimerson and other Seneca girls picked us up and took us to their apartment. There in their living room they had borrowed a big dining table, tablecloth, and real silverware, just like in a fine restaurant. They had turkey with all the trimmings. Now Mike was a big eater, so we sat down and started to eat. The taste of turkey gets kind of old the second time around when your are already full. What could we do, we didn't tell them about the first dinner, so we ate again, but couldn't eat desert. We had a good meal; good conversation and they made us eat.
We then walked back to our dorm, when Sally and girls in the next complex came over and said, we fixed a meal for you guys. Mike looked at me and we smiled faintly, then he went next door and told Harley and Bob the girls had fixed us Thanksgiving dinner. We looked at each other; we didn't have to say anything it was all in the look. We made our way over there and they had quite a spread. We stood there and looked at all the food, those girls standing there so proud of their meal.
We sat down and started to play with the food, but they wouldn't let us alone. Harley started to say we had already eaten, and the girl’s reaction was not good. They told us they were going to throw the food out if we did not eat and they had spent a good part of the day fixing it for us. All four of us sat there and ate; trying to smile and talk, but it was a tough meal to get through. We sort finished part of the meal and they made us stay for desert. We went into their living room, they wanted to know how the meal turned out, we told them it was good, and the best meal we had ever.
After that we got out of there as quick as we could. Halfway back, it all started to come up, too much of good thing. We were miserable, the long and short of it was the girls all found out what we had done and none of them were happy with us, we did not get a Christmas meal and I can't say we were sorry about it either....
Shaa Alchine' means "All My Children"
Shaa alchin e- means my children.
It was a night unlike this one when I sat up after feeling the movement of something tiny and small moving against the wall of my wife's stomach it seemed like. We were young, and had no money, just two rez kids starting out in life, but the fleet soft flicker of life made me sit up in bed. My young wife, this Indian girl who took my hand sat against the headboard with her long hair streaming down. Her eyes twinkled at the feel of this child, my child moving around inside her.
I reached out and touched her, she is a shy person and felt awkward that I was trying to feel the movement and we laughed a little at one another. It was a cold winter night, and we were alone together, no one but us. I felt like I had never been before, to know that this small tiny person growing was reaching out and letting us know he was there and making his presence known. I remember it well, this was not like any other night, this was our life growing. What will the future hold, where will we be, how will things be as he gets older. How can such a thing be, a miracle, this young life growing.
I find myself this evening waiting to hear the sound of a baby's cry, a small voice sounding out that a new century, a new life has taken root. My children have grown, the eldest has a new daughter in the past few days and my only daughter is just now waiting to hear the sound of her own child making his way into the world. Where will they go and what will they be, I am not sure, but looking back I stand with my father, and his father and his father all the way to the time we began just like a small voice, a new born held by a woman, our mothers who took great pains to care for us from then to now. It begins again and though I have not seen him yet, I know a little about him. I live a little through him, though he has no name yet, but then he is one of my children, a part of myself.
My daughter spoke with me a little while yesterday and said she needed some leather, some buckskin to make the cradleboard fit him. When he is placed in it, he will be surrounded by zig zag lightning from his feet to his head, which will be protected by a rainbow and shaded from the sun. The long boards come from a tree, not too far from where we have always lived. This young woman, my daughter now grown sat at the feet of her grandfather, I remember them talking and he told her the story of how the cradle board is made and how the child is wrapped, that from pain comes life, that in this a red sash belt is needed to hold on to, and that when all was done, that the child would be protected and blessed by the Twin Heros, that such is the way it has been and will always be. I can see him, my father as he took her small hands and showed her how it was done when she was just a child. Now she came to me and said tell me again how it is with such things. We talked a little bit and it was repreated word for word just like she knew, but these are the things you do in times like this.
My daughter is no longer a child, but will be mother on the morrow, and she will sing, and dance in the places of her mother, and know the places of her father. He does not have a name yet, but he carries the stories of his people, my wife's people and those of my own. The song of his cry will carry to the valley and to mountain top, it will not be loud but it will be voice of ages and lives lived in these places, we call it Dinetah, and her people say Nooravoop, it is about life, land, air, and all that goes with it, the past and future tied together.
Tonight I can find no rest, I feel the earth and see the stars haven't changed their place, but yet I know I will go on from this day and so will continue on. How strange it is to know that for all the struggles, cares and woes that have come to us, we continue to survive, to go on and to hope for long summer days, cool water and to hear the laughter of children playing not too far off. So it goes with such things....
It was a night unlike this one when I sat up after feeling the movement of something tiny and small moving against the wall of my wife's stomach it seemed like. We were young, and had no money, just two rez kids starting out in life, but the fleet soft flicker of life made me sit up in bed. My young wife, this Indian girl who took my hand sat against the headboard with her long hair streaming down. Her eyes twinkled at the feel of this child, my child moving around inside her.
I reached out and touched her, she is a shy person and felt awkward that I was trying to feel the movement and we laughed a little at one another. It was a cold winter night, and we were alone together, no one but us. I felt like I had never been before, to know that this small tiny person growing was reaching out and letting us know he was there and making his presence known. I remember it well, this was not like any other night, this was our life growing. What will the future hold, where will we be, how will things be as he gets older. How can such a thing be, a miracle, this young life growing.
I find myself this evening waiting to hear the sound of a baby's cry, a small voice sounding out that a new century, a new life has taken root. My children have grown, the eldest has a new daughter in the past few days and my only daughter is just now waiting to hear the sound of her own child making his way into the world. Where will they go and what will they be, I am not sure, but looking back I stand with my father, and his father and his father all the way to the time we began just like a small voice, a new born held by a woman, our mothers who took great pains to care for us from then to now. It begins again and though I have not seen him yet, I know a little about him. I live a little through him, though he has no name yet, but then he is one of my children, a part of myself.
My daughter spoke with me a little while yesterday and said she needed some leather, some buckskin to make the cradleboard fit him. When he is placed in it, he will be surrounded by zig zag lightning from his feet to his head, which will be protected by a rainbow and shaded from the sun. The long boards come from a tree, not too far from where we have always lived. This young woman, my daughter now grown sat at the feet of her grandfather, I remember them talking and he told her the story of how the cradle board is made and how the child is wrapped, that from pain comes life, that in this a red sash belt is needed to hold on to, and that when all was done, that the child would be protected and blessed by the Twin Heros, that such is the way it has been and will always be. I can see him, my father as he took her small hands and showed her how it was done when she was just a child. Now she came to me and said tell me again how it is with such things. We talked a little bit and it was repreated word for word just like she knew, but these are the things you do in times like this.
My daughter is no longer a child, but will be mother on the morrow, and she will sing, and dance in the places of her mother, and know the places of her father. He does not have a name yet, but he carries the stories of his people, my wife's people and those of my own. The song of his cry will carry to the valley and to mountain top, it will not be loud but it will be voice of ages and lives lived in these places, we call it Dinetah, and her people say Nooravoop, it is about life, land, air, and all that goes with it, the past and future tied together.
Tonight I can find no rest, I feel the earth and see the stars haven't changed their place, but yet I know I will go on from this day and so will continue on. How strange it is to know that for all the struggles, cares and woes that have come to us, we continue to survive, to go on and to hope for long summer days, cool water and to hear the laughter of children playing not too far off. So it goes with such things....
My Son and the Sick Old Man
My Son and the Sick Old Man
by Johnny Rustywire
We went to Gallup, my family my youngest son was four years old, Luke. We were driving when he spotted a man who was really sick. We didn't notice him, but there he was standing on the sidewalk not too far from where we were parked waiting for the light to change.
My son had been looking out the window watching him for a while when he exclaimed, "That man, he needs help, he needs help he is sick...no one will help him." With that we all looked out the window in the direction Luke was pointing. The man was elderly, dressed in levis and western shirt. He looked sick, and was so sick he had to lean against the car next to him.
My son said, "Why won't anyone help him, he needs help" The sound of concern was thick in his voice and we could see that no one paid any attention to his predicament. Luke looked at me and said to me, "Dad, we have to help him, he can't even stand up, he is so sick!". I looked at the man again and realized I had to pull off the road, which I did very quickly. My son was insistent we rush over to him and so our family got out and went to his aide.
Luke asked the man if he was alright, the man was too sick to say anything, he was half bent over from being sick. Luke said we have to take him to the hospital. I looked at Luke and told him, I don't know if we can take him. No sooner than I had said this when Luke immediately said, "WE HAVE TO TAKE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL". It was settled, we helped the man into the car and my other kids moved over. The man was elderly with gray hair, an older Navajo man, he wore a plaid shirt which was coming out of his pants. Luke helped him into the car and told him, "We will take care of you". We drove up the hill to the Indian Health Service Hospital.
I wanted to park in the parking lot, but Luke said, no go to the emergency entrance, which I did. The kids helped the old man out and asked for a gurney or wheel chair to help the old man into the hospital. The nurses were slow to react and Luke was there to tell them, "That man needs help, you have to help him, right now" Luke made them hurry and they did.
When the nurses took him in, one of them told my son. That man hurt himself, son, don't you know that. No one hurt him. My son looked at the nurse with dismay and said, no he didn't. The nurse told him, the old man had been drinking alcohol and that had made him sick and put him in the condition he was in. Luke did not believe this and told the nurse he was sick and needed help.
We later left the hospital, my son Luke was trying to figure all that happened out, and was at a loss as to how so many people had walked by the man and no one had helped him. I tried to explain it was due to liquor, to drinking, but Luke could not understand it. He saw someone who could not walk and sick in the midst of a crowd and was amazed no one help him, so he had to do something and he did.
It took him a while but later he learned that drinking does that and that sometimes "drunks" get sick. For a moment I oculd see the wonder and amazement of a child confronted with wanting to help, to see someone so sick they could not stand up and leaning against something to be able to have balance. Luke is nearly grown, and at times when I see someone in that condition think about the wide eyed innocence of a young boy wanting to help. As we grow older we become jaded to such sights and just walk by.
by Johnny Rustywire
We went to Gallup, my family my youngest son was four years old, Luke. We were driving when he spotted a man who was really sick. We didn't notice him, but there he was standing on the sidewalk not too far from where we were parked waiting for the light to change.
My son had been looking out the window watching him for a while when he exclaimed, "That man, he needs help, he needs help he is sick...no one will help him." With that we all looked out the window in the direction Luke was pointing. The man was elderly, dressed in levis and western shirt. He looked sick, and was so sick he had to lean against the car next to him.
My son said, "Why won't anyone help him, he needs help" The sound of concern was thick in his voice and we could see that no one paid any attention to his predicament. Luke looked at me and said to me, "Dad, we have to help him, he can't even stand up, he is so sick!". I looked at the man again and realized I had to pull off the road, which I did very quickly. My son was insistent we rush over to him and so our family got out and went to his aide.
Luke asked the man if he was alright, the man was too sick to say anything, he was half bent over from being sick. Luke said we have to take him to the hospital. I looked at Luke and told him, I don't know if we can take him. No sooner than I had said this when Luke immediately said, "WE HAVE TO TAKE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL". It was settled, we helped the man into the car and my other kids moved over. The man was elderly with gray hair, an older Navajo man, he wore a plaid shirt which was coming out of his pants. Luke helped him into the car and told him, "We will take care of you". We drove up the hill to the Indian Health Service Hospital.
I wanted to park in the parking lot, but Luke said, no go to the emergency entrance, which I did. The kids helped the old man out and asked for a gurney or wheel chair to help the old man into the hospital. The nurses were slow to react and Luke was there to tell them, "That man needs help, you have to help him, right now" Luke made them hurry and they did.
When the nurses took him in, one of them told my son. That man hurt himself, son, don't you know that. No one hurt him. My son looked at the nurse with dismay and said, no he didn't. The nurse told him, the old man had been drinking alcohol and that had made him sick and put him in the condition he was in. Luke did not believe this and told the nurse he was sick and needed help.
We later left the hospital, my son Luke was trying to figure all that happened out, and was at a loss as to how so many people had walked by the man and no one had helped him. I tried to explain it was due to liquor, to drinking, but Luke could not understand it. He saw someone who could not walk and sick in the midst of a crowd and was amazed no one help him, so he had to do something and he did.
It took him a while but later he learned that drinking does that and that sometimes "drunks" get sick. For a moment I oculd see the wonder and amazement of a child confronted with wanting to help, to see someone so sick they could not stand up and leaning against something to be able to have balance. Luke is nearly grown, and at times when I see someone in that condition think about the wide eyed innocence of a young boy wanting to help. As we grow older we become jaded to such sights and just walk by.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
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