Journey of a Navajo woman.

[myazzie]

My mother Rose was born in the heart land of Monument Valley, near the borders of Northern Arizona and Southern Utah, during the time when there was no need for any sophisticated western materials. A cozy Hogan (a Navajo mud caked home), a gentle horse, a nearby natural spring and a herd of sheep/goats was all a Navajo family would need to sustain the simple life of years to come. Generations before, Tse'Bii'Ndzisgaii (the valley within the rocks) was home to people that have existed before the 1300’s. Before that, the valley was hidden under its vast blue seas that now hug North America. In 1958, the unique location of countless western movies was found and recognized to bea great wonder among places to visit. Thus, became Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. This was the one place that was untouched by western civilization, let alone being searched for any valuable ore like gold or silver to manifest any culture in the 1800’s. U.S. Troops had gathered almost ten thousand Navajo people and relocated them some three hundred miles away, like many native tribes throughout the west. Monument Valley was one of the few places that kept a few families hidden because of its hidden caves and canyons. The Dine’ (people of the Earth), which we call ourselves, are one of the few fortunate tribes who returned to their original homeland.

Rose was a teen when she heard her father talking that there might be a possibility that her family might be chased out of the valley because someone else wanted it. Confused and misunderstanding the concept, Rose would quietly let the sheep out of the sheep corral at dawn and follow them until she finds a quiet hill to rest while the sheep grazed. Then she would pray and begged the Holy People not to displace her family and her home, for she had no other place she loved but the valley. At sixteen, Rose was the only daughter besides her brother. Tradition and value was heavily instilled in her mind, as well as in the minds of many isolated families who had daughters. The Dine’ culture is a matriarchal society, where everything was handed down through the women. Her friends from neighboring families would protest, dreamt about going to school, wear pants, read, and wanted to be involved with the new western world. The men were allowed to come and go if they chose to and it made Rose envy her brother when he had gone to school. During summer, her brother would read her stories of Peter Cotton Tail, Little Red Riding Hood and taught her about numbers. Except for these small pleasures of learning, Rose had no desire to learn English or the white man‘s way, that was how her mother had put it with a scuffled face after she had questioned her mother about school one day. Rose loved her sheep, the gentle mare and the moments of feeling the presence of her mother while she multitasked between making biscuits and cooking potatoes. Rose loved her horse, who she named Rosie; the gentle mare was a soft creamy brown color with blonde locks. When her mother called her with the limited English pronunciation she had, “Loaz!” Rosie’s ear would perk up just as Rose turned her head and it was always Rosie who immediately walked up her mother with obedience.

Politics were never mentioned among children, it only confused their innocent mind. When the Tribal Park was established, one of the main focal points of the park’s mission statement was to preserve the parks natural habitats, the unique fragile wonders of red sandstone structures and not to spoil the natural culture the people prevailed at that point in time. This meant that there would be no indication of western civilization enhancement that projected modern structures like electricity, waterline pipes, modern homes, road improvements and good scenic parking structures that made sure visitors were safe. 

Fifty years later, 2008, the park held celebrations through the year celebrating its 50^th anniversary. The Navajo Nation Parks and Recreation Department stationed in Window Rock, Arizona invited all sorts of media attention and promotion. I exclaimed to my mother that I saw her vehicle on TV one morning in Glendale, Arizona. My mother Rose and my stepfather, Jimmy, just shrugged and replied “Wi-la-hey, ah ji-eh-ya Waa-ah’ bana’el deh!?!”(We do not know what’s going on, but it looks like some kind of commotion). They had better things to tend to like hauling water with her four 50lbs barrels, buy some more lamp oil, and pay NTUA (Navajo Tribal Utility Authority) for the solar they had set up and still asked for money for the power that is provided from the Sun. Rose can not understand how that needed necessity managed to slip pass the Parks and Recreations Policy. Rose had numerously requested for home structural improvement or any improvement on the water pumps that were established in the 1960’s that now had gone broken and dry after only twenty years of use without maintenance. The chapter that oversees the local community replied that since Rose lives in the Arizona border, she must make her request to another chapter that is 30 miles away. Rose went to the chapter 30 miles away and they replied to her that she should be associated with the previous local chapter. Chapters are a replica of town council officials and they oversee issues and in return bring those issues to a higher authority. In this case, it would be the Navajo Nation Government in Window Rock, Arizona. Rose then commutes back to her local chapter, sets up a spot during their upcoming agenda. Months later, the chapter replies that their jurisdiction only covers up to the borders of the Tribal Park. This ended all hopes of a better home or any help to make life easier, especially for elders and their families that reside within the park.

Rose, unlike other women, was brought up to be strong, independent and took pride in her heritage. Value has been instilled in her that she will one day take over the family home and all the things that came with it. Through what her mother taught her about taking on things she loved to do and prosper from them, Rose learned everything she could about numbers. She learned from observations from her environment and her parents. Weaving was its own reward of counting and geometric designs. The more she observed her mother; Rose gained so many ideas for future projects. Creativity came in all shapes and colors.

Monument Valley welcomes many travelers, foreigners and movie directors from all over the world. Rose had to come out of her shell when she met my father. Having been all over the western states and falling in love with a beautiful girl that could jump on horse without effort or a saddle, my father, had taught her to be open-minded and be prepared, for the world would indeed change in the years to come. Rose learned what she could about communicating the English language and her children taught her more each day.

By the early 1960’s, tourism started to increase every summer. Rose talked her mother into inviting visitors that my father guided and escorted into the valley to her Hogan. The visitors would watch the two women weave while my father told the history of Monument Valley and its people. Income started coming in from gratuity and sales from the Navajo rugs the women completed. Soon there was money to buy a vehicle, fine materials for new skirts and larger barrels to haul water with. There was no need to ask for charity like welfare.

Rose has never known welfare services like food stamp, cash assistance and was never drawn to ask for charity. When she was given a gift, she would always give something back in return, an honor that was beheld by any Native American for many generations.

Today, Rose is just shy of sixty seven years old come December. She has seen many dear sisters and brother fall to health complications and old age. Rose does not hold any grudges towards “Saa’” (old age). Yet, she is open-minded to modern medicine but, still prefers to use herbal healing, praying to The Holy People for guidance and well being. Rose knows the complications of Diabetes; she currently says she looks at life through a thin veil as if she is looking through a door that is slightly ajar, literally. In her heart, she sees more beautifully, so she seldom complains of her ailments. Technically, Rose has gone through cataract eye surgery, which complicated her bad eye, another is recommended but refuses to do in fear of losing her good eye. My stepfather, Jimmy, her companion of 17 years, who left his urban lifestyle of electricity and indoor plumbing, to live with my mother among the vast landscape and farm animals. Jimmy has earned his retirement from working the coal mines, yet walks with a grimaced expression due to his chronic back pain and a slow recovery from spine surgery years ago. We had built a home for them back in 1993, a make shift home from a single-wide trailer brought down one moonless night pass the constant eye of the Park management. Currently, the three bedroom house that stands two feet off the ground creak with every movement. The book selves sway with each footstep. The once Navajo-White ceilings are now a shadowy gray due to soot from the wood stove smoke.

During winter, the bedrooms that were once filled with their grandchildren’s laughter is now cold and kept closed to keep the warmth from escaping the living room.

I, being the youngest daughter, wanted to stay in Monument Valley and keep my parents company, against my mother’s wishes. The Navajo Nation along with its 250,000 tribal members is currently sitting well below 50% of the Federal Poverty Line. Rose wanted her children to keep going to school, work to help others because she knew we loved people and like her, we all wanted to see the world from a different view, a luxury she had chosen to dismiss long ago. Her only wish is to live in an octagon-shaped home big enough for two with occasional gathering of her family. She also loves the smell of pinewood for her interior. Indoor plumbing and TV programming from Phoenix would be a big plus for her. Rose had always loved western movies like “Cheyenne Autumn”. Including, Monday night Football, which was a favorite past time for Grandpa, when he used to plant himself in front of the TV after a grueling work schedule of driving the Caterpillar T282 360 ton/327 metric ton hauler for eight hours straight sometimes pulling twelve hours. Jimmy had put in twenty-five years with Peabody Western Coal Company. Some days he says that the dirt road of the valley drive seems like he is back inside that big haul truck, it rattles all the bones in his spine. He and my mother had paid for vehicles after another because no truck can last up to five years if you live in Monument Valley.

These days, this beautiful couple prefer to stay at home. Each day, both watch the sheep graze along the dry creek beds atop a hill listening to KTNN, a Navajo radio station. A drive up to a nearby grocery store every Thursday for gas, food, supplies and to buy a copy of The Navajo Times, a weekly newspaper. Maybe a phone call to us to see when we can come home for a festive feast of fresh mutton.

This is my mothers story and she touches so many hearts with her smile and patient wisdom. I have nominated her to the ABC Extreme Home Makeover, for a chance to live in comfort, without constant walks outside to use the bathroom, bring in wood and coal to be warm. I came to Phoenix to learn what I can do to help the families of Monument Valley and provide hope for them that they will not be ignored anymore.