“Yá’át’ééh!”
“Yá-ah—H-hell-o,” I wavered back uncomfortably, refusing to look up.
“Can you spare some change? I need to make a phone call,” rasped the woman’s voice.
I finally glanced up into that unfamiliar brown face, with those familiar bloodshot eyes. “No, I don’t have any change on me. Sorry.”
“Didya know that we’re related? Ya, we’re related. Aoo. Don’t ya know Johnny Yazzie?”
Not only does everyone know a Johnny Yazzie, but everyone is related to a Johnny Yazzie, I thought to myself. I didn’t reply, just continued to fumble with the keys to my rental. Why can’t I find that damn key?
“Aoo. In the Navajo way, we’re related,” the woman stepped closer.
I retracted and again looked into those bloodshot eyes, that unhealthy face.
“Okay,” I sighed, opening the door. “I have to go now. Sorry I don’t have anything to give you.”
“But we’re related. C’mon! I just need something to make a phone call.”
I stepped into the Subaru and slammed the door shut, hoping the drunk lady would saunter back with the crowd of bums gathered outside the Fina. I could only be so lucky. She staggered up to my window and wrapped her claw-like fingers around the cracked window. A sudden wave of fear passed through my body.
“We’re related. Spare some change. Aoo.”
I shook my head, trying to avoid her eyes, and made sure that she couldn’t reach me. Gently moving my long hair to my right side, I cradled it close to my body and put the keys in the ignition. Shimá warned me about those crazies who hang around the gas station. “Avoid talking to them, don’t look into their eyes, don’t give them money, you already have enough bad stuff happening to you,” she cautioned. “This is your first trip to the rez on your own, so you need to be extra careful. People know when you’re traveling alone; people know when to take advantage of you. And you know there’s more bad medicine out there than here. You’ll know who to avoid. Trust yourself, shiyázhí.”
Without looking up, I strained my eyes to the left attempting to gauge a sign of her departure. She just stood there, unmoving. I could feel those bloodshot eyes trying to stare into me, searching for my weakness.
An abrupt smoker’s cough escaped her lips. My body jarred at the sound and forced me to look up at her through the window. Her gnarly fingers still perched at the window, she fixed her gaze right into my eyes. I stared into those eyes, brown with specks of gold, pupils dilated, red spider webs running wild through the whites. I sat there transfixed, immobile, staring at this woman through the clear glass.
A glimmer of light instantly shot into my eyes, forcing them shut. The sun’s reflection from my side view mirror drew me out of the woman’s gaze and back to safety. I immediately reached for the keys already in the ignition and gave them a sharp turn. I stomped on the gas, revving the engine.
The woman jumped back and reluctantly retreated to the crowd of bums, and I took the opportunity to get the hell out of there. Lukachugai, or “Lucky Chucky” as my cousins call it, is not the place I should be right now. And, “lucky” is probably the most ill-suited term to describe this place, unless, of course, being lucky involves getting out of the area unharmed, physically and otherwise.
I wasn’t looking forward to this drive by myself. Good thing Fina had those giant Frappacinos in stock. It’s not that far of a drive to Many Farms, I just hate driving while exhausted. I didn’t sleep last night—I couldn’t. They don’t let you for certain ceremonies. Mine was one of them.
I tried to pay attention to the medicine man’s songs and prayers; it’s just hard when you don’t understand the language very well and when you’ve been trained to be impatient. My mind wandered throughout the ceremony. I thought about my life in the Midwest. The three years of college under my belt, my drinking buddies, my favorite bars, my favorite drinks.
One night, I had a bit too many of my favorite drinks, Jager bombs and vodka cranberries. Blue Moons may have been in the mix. Some girl friends and I were at my favorite bar playing pool and taking pride in keeping up with the boys. Puff, puff. Sip, sip. Gulp, gulp. The drinks kept coming… and coming… and coming.
Next thing I know, I’m being escorted into an ambulance. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember the ride over to hospital. I don’t quite remember the first half an hour, first forty-five minutes, first hour, first two hours I was there either. Must’ve been crazy, judging from the restraints securely strapped around my wrists and ankles. What did I do?
I stared around the room in disbelief. I tugged on the straps testing to see if they were really attached to my limbs. I started screaming, crying out to anyone. “Why the fuck am I here?” “What are you doing to me?” I yelled for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, a half an hour. I can never be too sure. I yelled until my throat felt like it was going to bleed. The Djarum cloves probably had something to do with that, too.
I fell silent, my throat aching. Feeling defeated, I tilted my head to the side and must have passed out.
The next morning, I was out of the restraints. A young blond-haired doctor came into the room and examined me. I remember the icy cold stethoscope on my bare skin, testing the existence of a healthy heartbeat. I remember the claustrophobic feeling of restraint as an armband squeezed around my muscles, testing my blood pressure. I remember the interrogation I received about my patient history.
“How often do you drink?”
“Uh, not very often. Like three times a week. It just depends. I mean, it’s just as much as everyone else.”
“Mhmm,” he glanced down at his clipboard and scribbled something. “And how many drinks do you usually have on a given night?”
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“Give me a rough estimate.”
“Uh, I guess like anywhere from eight to ten drinks. But it’s not like they make the drinks very strong at campus bars, so it’s more like four to five, really.”
“And you’re a smoker, I see,” he glanced over at my open purse with two packs of Djarums sticking out of the top.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But it’s only when I drink.”
He shot me a doubtful look. “Okay, Aimee. Your vitals are back to normal. You’re free to go now. But, you need to rest up and drink plenty of fluids. Don’t be alarmed if you throw up a little bit more. It’s a natural reaction to the charcoal. You’re just lucky we didn’t have to pump your stomach.” Before he left the room, he paused and looked at the raw rings around my wrists, “And you really shouldn’t try to fight the people who want to help you.”
After being given permission to leave, I jumped off the bed, scrambled to my phone, and called a cab. I staggered out of my room and into the waiting room. I wanted to reach the yellow escape vehicle before the reception staff noticed me. But, as I crept by, a familiar looking receptionist glanced my way.
“Aimee?”
“Yeah?”
“I need your student I.D., dear,” she said in a sweet voice.
“Oh. Yeah…”
I gave her my I.D., and she diligently pecked away at the keys on her computer.
“Now, Aimee. I don’t want to see you here again, understood? I’ve seen enough of you this past year.” She handed back the card.
“Yeah,” I squeaked out, whirling around and cascading out through the automatic sliding doors.
I hated recounting all of these details to shimá. But, I had to. She had to know the primary reason I left school. She had to know why I owed so much money to the University and to the hospital. She had to know why my scholarships got revoked. She would only agree to let me live back home if I got a job to help out with expenses and if I went out to shimá sáanii’s for a few weeks out of the summer to undergo a ceremony.
As I went over the story in my head, trying to piece together the little details, trying to remember anything that wasn’t already archived in my brain, I noticed the medicine man had stopped singing. Oh shit, I thought. He knew I wasn’t paying attention. Or, wait, it’s getting light out; it’s almost over. But, he probably knew I wasn’t paying attention anyway. They always just know certain things. This led me to question whether or not it was good for me to examine the incident during the ceremony: I’m not sure if I was supposed to avoid thinking about it or if I was supposed to confront it.
“It is done,” said the old man gesturing toward the door with his lips.
“Aoo,” I replied rising from the dirt floor. Standing up, I walked clockwise to the exit, which is also where I entered last evening. I walked out of the hogan and was immediately greeted by the sun and the mountains to the east. I sheepishly smiled at them, trying to ignore a pang of guilt as I did not feel I was fully present during the ceremony.
Waiting for Mr. Benally to emerge from the hogan, I leaned up against the Subaru. I glanced inside the car seeing all of the items I brought along with me. Oh, yeah! His payment. Shit! I should’ve given this stuff to him beforehand.
As I rummaged through the mess in my back seat, Mr. Benally came out. I wrapped up the huge, turquoise squash blossom necklace inside of the green Pendleton blanket and handed it to him. I stacked the boxes containing a new digital camera and a new IPod, items given to me for my birthday, onto the blanket. I topped it off with a few packages of tobacco and the large bundle of sage that shimá sáanii had given me. She picked it near the family hogan. I handed him all of these things, as well as four hundred dollars. I didn’t feel like it was enough, but it was all I could give.
“Ahéhee’, shicheii,” I said.
“Ahéhee’,” he replied.
After a brief pause, he said, “Now, you’ll be able to run ten miles, no problem. Your lungs, your liver, your heart. They’re all good now.”
“And here.” he added pointing with his thumb at my head, “That’s good, too.”
“Ahéhee’,” I repeated, not quite sure if I wholly believed his words.
Spying a herd of sheep crossing the road in the distance, I slowed down. Coming to a complete halt, I honked at them, trying to make them speed up their journey. A few of them gazed over at me in the Subaru, but turned back to their path uninterested.
What am I thinking? You can’t speed up their journey. Too damned stubborn those dibé.
I waited for them, watching them slowly and steadily pass by. Once they had cleared the two lane road, I pressed on the gas. The familiar mitten-like rock formation and the Many Farms water tower came in to view. Almost to shimá sáanii’s. Good.
Keeping the road in my periphery, I gazed around at the light dancing upon the mesa tops; they warmed themselves in the afternoon sun. I looked at the seemingly empty landscape, the home to many different beings not necessarily visible to the naked eye. The yucca plants, the tumbleweeds, the little critters camouflaged against the dirt, the little stream of water in the wash. Home… I thought…
My attention was then drawn to the sounds emanating from the Subaru speakers. Beth Gibbons’ haunting voice reached out and tugged at my heart. “With western eyes…” she sang. Closer to shimá sáanii’s. “…and serpent’s breath…” Almost to the Kayenta turn off. “We lay our own conscience to rest.” I can’t go back to my cheiis just yet, I decided. Especially after my interaction with that woman. Something’s not right yet; something’s still out of balance. The ceremony isn’t over. I passed through the intersection. My new destination would be Canyon de Chelly.
Arriving at the canyon, I quickly parked and hopped out of my car. A few tourists gathered around the vendors, browsing the handmade jewelry and craft items. Other tourists took pictures of the canyon and everything encompassed within its walls. They spoke to each other in a language I could not understand—sounded German I guess.
I walked to the south, toward the entrance of the trail. Just before the trail, I stopped and crept toward the edge of the canyon. Peering into the chasm I observed the familiar walls streaked with the blood of my ancestors. Shimá sáanii will not come here; like many of the old-timers, she avoids death.
I soaked in the patterns on the walls, the alternating maple and mahogany lines. I soaked in the greenery that continues to exist at the bottom. I soaked in the small stream that divides this part of the canyon. I soaked in the elaborate structure, the “White House,” where the people, the Anasazi, used to call home.
Inhaling the warm air, I closed my eyes. A surge of energy flew through my body and gathered near my heart. I wanted to shout those magic words shicheii told me, but I remembered the tourists, the outsiders, those who may steal those words and misuse them. I cannot give these people those powerful words.
I inhaled deeply. I thought those words in my head, but what came out of my mouth was slightly different: “Yá’át’ééh!” The next one I said louder “Yá’át’ééh!!” Still the next was louder and longer “Yaaat ehhh!!!” And the last one even stronger, “Yaaat ehhhhhaaayy!!!”
The canyon took in my words and whispered them back to me: “Yaaat ehhh”… “yaaat ehhh”… “yaaat ehhh”… “yaaat ehhh…”
At that, I took off toward the mouth of the tunnel, zigzagged my way down, following the path laid out before me. I kicked up dirt, I sped up, I remembered. I ran, remembering the time I raced my father down this trail, remembering the time I had to run water down to my family, remembering that I haven’t been down here in a while, remembering why I’m here now…
I lost track of time. I barely noticed a few tourists hiking back up, but I avoided a collision. I dodged rocks and droppings and other obstacles on the ground. I felt the cool canyon breeze whooshing around me. I bore witness to the beauty within the canyon walls, the beauty in the plants growing through the rocks, the beauty in the dirt underneath my feet, the beauty in the sapphire sky above me. Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…
I didn’t stop when I reached the bottom, but continued to follow the familiar path and all its beauty. I followed it near the hogan and past the sheep corral. I followed it through the stretch of trees that lined the small stream. Clearing the stream in one leap, the “White House” soon came in to view.
I sped up even more, my heart racing. I ran like I was running for my life, but not away from something, toward something. Reaching my destination, I slowed to a halt and collapsed facing the Anasazi ruins to the east. I combed the dirt with my fingers and looked up through the canyon’s opening and into the late afternoon sky.
I inhaled the dirt, the air, the slight smell of juniper that lingered there. I moved my head up and down, left to right staring at the walls, the trees, the rock formations, the home of my ancestors.
I closed my eyes and fumbled for the pack of Djarums in my pocket. Finding them, I pulled one out and put it to my lips. Tasting the flavor on the filter, I reached for my lighter. Placing the lighter up to the end of the cherry cigarette, I reflected on this morning’s events.
“Now, you’ll be able to run ten miles, no problem,” he had said. “Your lungs… your liver… your heart…” and… “here.”
I set the lighter down next to me. Taking the clove from my mouth, I removed the filter and placed it in my pocket. Sitting up, I unrolled the tobacco from its paper prison and dumped it into my hand. I let some of it go in to the wind. The rest, I placed on the other side of the wire fence.
“Yá’át’ééh” I said, letting the wind take my words, my introduction, to everything surrounding me. “Shi éí Aimee Tso-Kaye yinishyé. Honágháahnii eí nishłį dóó biligáana báshíshchíín. Áádóó Ashiihi éí da shicheii dóó biligáana éí da shinálí. This is just the beginning, I know.”
Rhythmically inhaling and exhaling, the wind picked up around me. It rustled the branches of the large bushes and picked up dust into a tiny whirlwind. I glanced at the beauty all around me. “Hozhó,” I whispered into the wind.
A breeze blew by my ear in response, “Aoo, shiyázhí,” I thought I heard it say. “Nizhónígó naniná.”
Ashley Tsosie-Mahieu is a citizen of the Navajo Nation. She is Honágháahnii (One Who Walks Around Clan) born for biligáana (White Man). Her maternal grandfather is Ashiihi (Salt Clan) and her paternal grandfather is biligáana (White Man). Ashley is a Ph.D. Student in the American Indian Studies Program with a concentration in American Indian Education and is working toward a Certification in Higher Education at the University of Arizona. She holds a Master’s of Education degree in Educational Policy Studies with a minor in American Indian Studies and a Bachelor of Arts degree in Comparative and World Literature from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Ashley has had two short works of fiction published in RED INK: A Native American Student Publication: “Generational Gap” and “Walk in Beauty.” Both stories embody modern day ceremonies and the individual healing processes of their female protagonists. Ashley’s academic and creative work is greatly influenced by her experiences as a Navajo woman who has had to—and still continues to—negotiate between different and conflicting cultural spaces and identities.
When she doesn’t have her serious face on, you can probably find her playing softball with her co-ed team the Chuckwallas, participating in long-distance running competitions (even though she has old lady knees), or out at a local Tucson bar out-drinking Bill Wetzel and waxing philosophical about the Insane Clown Posse and other such minutiae with other scholars and writers. She also really, really, really likes belugas and seahorses. She often has trouble convincing people that she’s an adult.
–Art by Ashley Tsosie-Mahieu
Originally published in RED INK: A Native American Student Publication