December 9^th

December 9^th, 1976. I was 9 years old. My family had just driven with cars full with clothing, 2 kids, 2 dogs, and a cat from Groveton, Texas to our new home on the Navajo reservation in Navajo, New Mexico. Before that day, my knowledge of Native Americans was limited to the following. (I suspect that many Anglo' knowledge of Native Americans is similarly limited.):

1. A faint memory of a Native American boy who had sat behind me in school in first grade in Wisconsin. I hated him because he liked to pull my hair. I don't remember his tribe, but I remember his name: Warren.
2. The fact that my great grandfather had told me that I was “part Indian,” and that “blood” came from his mother's side.
3. Watching a movie about how Europeans had moved in on Native American land. It might have been included as part of Little Big Man, but I'm not sure. I remember feeling sad and kind of guilty about it.
4. The traditional Thanksgiving tale about the Pilgrims and the “Indians” breaking bread together.
5. A strange little prayer that I had said several times when living in Texas. To this day, even with my current skepticism towards religious ideas, I can't explain this. I had decided that I wanted to know more about “Indians,” as they were commonly called. I wanted to know them in person. I wanted to live among them. I wanted to have them for neighbors, next door and across the street. And in my 8 year old crazy naive fantasies, I prayed for that experience.

I had prayed for many ridiculous things around that age: ponies, genie powers, for my dead pets to come back to life, you name it. And I was starting to figure out that God doesn't grant crazy wishes to whimsical little girls. Yet, this prayer was answered in full.

Our house wasn't ready when we arrived at the reservation, so we had spent a day or days at the Navajo Nation Motor Inn in Window Rock. My mother, who really wanted to assimilate from day 1, ordered a Navajo Taco at the restaurant there. When this meal—a big piece of fry bread with chile beans, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and salsa—arrived, she didn't know how to eat it. She wasn't sure whether to pick the whole thing up with her hands, hold it flat, roll it, or just give up and use a knife and fork. I remember her looking around to see who else had ordered one, so that she would know what to do. And then, finally, hunger forced her face her fear of the waiter being offended. She asked, “How am I supposed to eat this?” He gave a brief explanation that any and all of the methods she had been considering would probably be OK.

Next was beginning school. My father took me to my new 4^th grade class at Navajo Elementary. There were more white people in the room than there had probably been all year: my father, my teacher, and myself. I fully embraced the idea of meeting all the new kids, and wasn't phased by the color of anyone's face. I had known that I was moving to an “Indian” reservation, after all.

It wasn't until many years later, as a middle aged adult, did I hear my father's account of that day. “What we were getting into hadn't fully hit me until I took you to school that day. When I looked in that classroom, I saw only black hair, brown eyes, and brown faces. And yours was the only one that wasn't like the others. I knew I had to leave you alone there, and I got a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.”

I had no such sense. I had no clue that he was afraid...or that I was supposed to be. I hadn't yet learned to be afraid of the unknown. I had no adult's vision of how much I truly stood out in that crowd. I had no idea that people might hate me simply because of the color of my skin. I had no concept of the culture shock, complete with physical symptoms, that I was to experience in the next year and a half. On December 9^th, 1976, all that I saw was a room full of new friends.

The class was in the middle of some unit or project or something, so the teacher, Mr. Andreis, gave me a short story to read. It was a creation story from the lore of some tribe still unknown to me. According to the story, God had created the first man out of clay and then baked him in an oven. The first man was overcooked a bit, so God had to try again. The second man was not cooked long enough. It was only on the third attempt that God got it right, baking a perfectly light brown man. According to the story, he was to become the “Indian,” while overcooked man was to become the “black” man, and under-cooked man became the “white” man.

I think I might have been a bit too young and fresh out of Texas to catch the teacher's attempt to introduce me to some cultural relativism. Instead, I just thought the story was kind of racist. I also could not figure out for the life of me why God wouldn't just put the light one back in the oven for a little while.

That day introduced me to more Native American culture than I had previously experienced in my whole life. That day was the first inkling I had that my version of the world was not the only one. That day, I became the unwanted immigrant, the odd outsider, the hated invader, in a land that I had been previously told was mine. That day was the beginning of a perilous adventure in self exploration, culture, and an experience of the “other” that continues even now.

And looking back, I am deeply and eternally grateful for that day.