I Once Was Navajo

His face is a weathered, leathery brown, and like every face it is decorated with tools: eyes to see, ears to hear, a mouth to speak, and a nose to smell. The function of these tools is universal to humankind. But when his tools see the art of God, hear the whisper of the wind, taste the vegetation, or smell the dryness of the desert, what is communicated to him carries a more significant message than what this American city boy could ever understand. He is Navajo, and I am an American boy trying to understand his way.

The air is dry, but rather chilly. Even with three layers of clothing the desert air of Arizona causes my body to shiver for warmth. My hands are throbbing with pain. Several times my knuckles scrape against the bark of the log that will aid in providing warmth, once added to the fire. I watch as Mark Charles, our Navajo leader, swiftly with ease flings the shell of bark from his log, much like a magician pulls a cloth from a heavily set table. The bark must be pulled from the log to decrease the amount of smoke released through the ceiling hole of the Hogan, or else we would find ourselves waking to a monstrous black fog.

His silhouette is framed by the entrance to the Hogan. The sun is rising. The sleep is still heavy in my eyes and the image before me seems more appropriate in a dream, but I am awake. I can feel the chill from the early morning desert breeze and the sharp pain in my lower back from lying on the hard dirt floor. The tangerine sky fills the gap between his elbow and torso and repeatedly increases and decreases as he exhales and inhales with each murmur. My ear doesn’t catch the words of the black figure, but I know they are words to our creator. This is why the Hogan faces the east - to pray.

The dog has no name or collar. In my mind he is a stray. He slowly approaches Mark. His head is bowed and each step is soft, much like a slave approaching his master. Mark acknowledges the dog’s presence, and then waves his hand with a simple flick of the wrist. The dog leaves without reaction, and without any look of rejection. He’s simply not needed at this moment.

Their eyes are deep with fear as they retreat as a clump to the furthest corner of the pen. If they had hands they would be clutching to one another. Stanley slowly enters their home. To avoid eye contact he keeps his head low and his attention focused on adjusting the lasso. With a deep breath he focuses on the task at hand. He makes eye contact with a small lamb, flings the lasso into the air with little effort. The lasso finds its landing around the neck of the meek mammal. With a quick tug the necklaces tightens to a choker. The small lamb, kicking its powder-puff legs, struggles for freedom against the oppressor. But Stanley’s demeanor and aura is far from an oppressor. He slowly and tenderly tugs the lamb into his arms only using a parity of force to the lambs restrains.

The once pure white wool is stained with the blood of its container. The silence of the observers is eternally disturbed by the subtle shearing of the wool and murmurs of the participants. It is a sacred process; slaughtering a lamb.