Hózhǫ́

by Summer Bishop (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

My grandpa died. And, when it happened, I found myself making the long trip back to Huerfano, New Mexico from Houston. It’s not a place many people know exists— a tiny gathering of drab cinderblock buildings surrounded by the Navajo Reservation. Often times, people remark that it feels like a different country—somewhere that time has forgotten. Grandpa’s memorial service was at the Chapter House and none of the people crowding into the multi-purpose room looked like my family and I. The women had long dark hair that shone in the sunlight and bright turquoise jewelry that encrusted them with a muted glamour. They walked with measured strides, colorful skirts swishing around their ankles. The men were dark, their hooded eyes crackling with energy, toothpicks between their teeth and wariness on their faces. Kids ran around in clothes that were too small—bright eyes alight with interest. The rich smell of warm earth and nutty Piñon Pine followed them making them mysterious and foreign. I could feel them looking at me and wondering. I was blonde, fair, alien. I knew that, however long I lived, I would never be accepted. But, this day was special. They were here to honor a man that had somehow woven himself into their lives. He had been beloved and since I was his granddaughter I was allowed to be here. We squeezed into a large room with windows covered with plastic blinds. There were so many people that some were standing outside. I could see their faces striped by the slats. Slowly, one by one, each person rose and spoke. They told stories of my grandpa giving rides, and loaning money and buying food. They talked of a giant falling. Their voices were so low I had to strain to catch their words. I knew the people outside couldn’t hear, but they stood there anyway. When they offered their condolences I thought they were quiet because they were sad, but then I realized they were simply quiet people, quiet people with soft handshakes. Afterward, they gathered together and made a meal to honor their dead and his family. I watched as strong capable hands crafted dough into circular discs and dropped it into sizzling pans casually moving aside as hot oil exploded into the air. I loved watching the dough puff up and how fast the color would change from white to a crisp golden brown. The air was filled with spices and steam. There were big pots of beans popping on the stove and I could see the wink of metal spoons being surreptitiously dipped checking the flavor. Beans and fry bread was a meal traditionally shared with family and one of my grandpa’s favorites. They made it for both reasons. The service had been nice, but this meal was better. As these quiet people sat and ate, more stories trickled out like a lazy stream. They had loved my grandpa as much as I had. And, on that hot day with the smell of hundreds of bodies and burning grease circling around me, I felt something I never expected to feel. As I looked at these people, my hazel eyes connecting with their dark ones, I realized that they had given me peace. Grandpa’s memory wasn’t solely mine. It also belonged to these people I would probably never see again. It was nice to think he would be a part of their stories and they would tell their children of him. His legacy was going to be carried farther than just our family. As we left, I remember some of the ladies rubbing my hair for good luck even hugging me. I wrapped my arms tightly around them and felt the cool velvet of their shirts on my cheek. As strange as these people were, they had loved my grandfather and I loved them. Later as we stood around the tree being planted in his honor, each of us shoveling a scoop of the gritty earth, I sat back and listened to Navajo words blending with English until you couldn’t distinguish one from the other. We were all people and for a brief moment, we were all connected.