FCA- Fireside Chats

Hózhó náhásdlíí...’
Hózhó náhásdlíí...’

It has become beauty again.
It has become beauty again.

In his nearly 80 years of existence, Hosteen Arnold Joseph Yazzie made his morning prayer from the doorway of his hogan, which faced east towards the ruddy Lukachukai Mountains and the rising sun beyond that. He thanked God for his many years of life, for his children, and for the stars in the sky. He bid good fortune for his sister's son, Joseph Begaye, and his followers in their mission.  Hosteen Yazzie also made a habit of singing the Beauty Way once he had finished speaking to God. If there was any doubt that he was not in harmony with existence, this would help.  This cleared his mind of the events of every previous day, and allowed him to be primed for the next.

He rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers. He felt in balance, that he was walking in beauty, as Navajo put it. But he still felt uncertain. Perhaps even afraid. He hadn't felt this way since 1997, when the skies to the west glowed a sickly orange color, and black rain had stained the red soil. Dawn would come soon, and with the new day, another uncertain future.

His hogan was traditional to a fault. It was still built facing the east, still made of lumber packed with mud in the old way to keep it cool during the day and warm at night. A large post stood in the middle of the hogan, keeping the structure rigid regardless of rain or wind.  Most Navajo no longer bothered with hogans, so they had remained the homes of reclusive elders and hatalii. He had made it himself, and if the time came at home, it would be torn down with him.

Joseph Begaye sat at the table, sipping mugs of coffee with his subordinates, Warrant Officer Tsosie and Shaw, the bodyguard from California.  Tsosie and Begaye were discussing their mission, studying a road map bedazzled in tacks.  The two of them had told him well in advance of the rest of the Navajo about their "Operation Long Walk," evacuating as many Indians and bilagaana into the Mojave as they could before the Coyotes came. Long after the operation had nearly concluded, much to their consternation, he had chosen to stay, as had almost all of the other elder hatalii. This was their land, and they would bless it until their last day.

They moved outdoors to inspect an issue with their vehicle, leaving their mugs on the table. His nephew had his own mission, one that would take them well beyond the Mojave to the West Coast, where Begaye seemed confident in making a crucial alliance with someone called "Tech-Com." Hosteen Yazzie never dwelled much on these things. He left that to the warriors, and they left spiritual matters to him. It seemed like a fair trade.

Hosteen Yazzie honed in on Shaw. The heavily-scarred man was older, an Indian of some extraction and bore several grotesque scars, though Shaw never spoke of these things. Not that he spoke of much else, anyway. He was a man of few words. Life had apparently taught him a painful, cruel lesson about being too curious or talkative, and verbal communication was limited to pure utility.

"This why you're a hatalii?" Shaw asked, in his usual, curt manner.

Hosteen Yazzie was surprised to see Shaw being the first to ask a question.  Shaw was lounging in the old wooden chair, quietly studying an old photo of Hosteen Yazzie left to collect dust on the wall of the hogan.  He lifted the photo off its nail, creaking down into the remaining chair as Shaw turned to him.

Hosteen Yazzie had been drafted on his 18th birthday, and spent 2 years in Vietnam as a Navy Hospital Corpsman with the Marines, a healer in the Western sense. In the photo, "Doc Yazzie" was propped up in a jeep, olive fatigues soaked to the core after a 15-mile hike, buried under a pile of his Marines' rucksacks, smiling with exhausted relief. The photographer had died in country, as had many others before and after.

"You know all that talk about walking in beauty? Achieving personal balance? I used to have a lot of trouble with it. Felt like I was being suffocated by my elders, all the songs, all the words I had to know when everyone else just spoke English.  Felt like all the elders had it wrong and nobody knew what they were missing."

Shaw seemed perplexed, remaining silent, and Hosteen Yazzie paused as well. Navajo were accustomed to such pauses. Whereas bilagaana dreaded awkward silence, a Navajo conversation often stopped for 10 seconds for both parties to consider their next words, and to avoid asking too many questions. When he was younger, Yazzie found himself waiting 30 seconds at a time to speak to his grandmother. Eventually, Yazzie continued.

"So I left, not that I had much choice in the matter. Got on the bus in Flagstaff and headed to California. I thought maybe the Navy might bring me balance, or at least a good paycheck." He sighed. "No one in Vietnam walked in beauty, least of all myself. When I got out in '73, all the elders were gone. My mother's brother, shidá’í, he was still around, he let me stay in this hogan while I saved up some money for college in Santa Fe, then medical school after that. Guess I never really left. He passed, my GI Bill expired, and there wasn't anybody around to do Blessing Ways for kids, Enemy Ways for the guys coming home from 'Nam, so I stuck around."

Shaw finally spoke up. "Can't say I did much better," he muttered, rubbing his hands together. "When we went to Washington, I thought we'd make a difference, all us college kids sitting in the Senate hearings. Guess I saw Wounded Knee, Alcatraz and thought I could do them all one better, if only I'd figure out what it is. Now..."

He exhaled. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. How I got here. How to make up for what I've done." Shaw had told Hosteen Yazzie snippets of his past- his childhood as an activist, his slavery at the hands of the Coyotes- but Shaw knew better than to speak directly of the dead in the presence of a hatalii like Hosteen Yazzie, so much of it remained out of context. Speaking ill of the dead- or of the dead at all- encouraged the intrusion of the spirits of the dead, the chindi, into their realm of existence. Navajo often remembered their ancestors via circumspect, indirect means, even if that meant never speaking someone's name ever again. Still, Hosteen Yazzie knew that Shaw had killed many people, though not of his own volition, and was surrounded by death and misery. This realization had carved Shaw into a battered husk of a man. Hosteen Yazzie wondered if the chindi had taken some sort of pity on him, and left him to wander the earth.

Shaw looked over at him once more after a long pause, swirling his nearly-empty coffee mug in his hand.

"There are many of us still here in the land of our ancestors, Shaw.  My job here isn't finished, even if I'm too old to be blowing up railroads. The Coyotes are going to keep leading people into darkness.  Someone has to keep an eye on things. All you or I can do is make the best of what life has given us, the best that we can."

Hosteen Yazzie leaned foward to clap him on the shoulder. "You have been given a second chance that few men can ever speak of, or understand. I am sure that in the end, you'll make right by it."

There was a knock on the doorway. Begaye and Tsosie had returned, clad in khaki smocks and black ballcaps, with a four-pointed crest. The "uniform" of the Long Rifles. " "Are you ready?" Begaye asked Shaw.  His stony demeanor seemed to briefly flicker, revealing shades of doubt, perhaps even fear. But Shaw eventually nodded, either regaining his confidence, or hiding his uncertainty. He and Hosteen Yazzie rose from the table, sauntering out the door.

The old Ford pickup sat in front, loaded to the brim with supplies. This was the trio's final stop before they would leave the Colorado Plateau, bound for their new headquarters deep in the Mojave Desert.

Warrant Officer Tsosie jumped in the driver's seat, starting the engine, which rumbled and rattled to life. Begaye and Shaw stopped. "You sure you won't come with us, shidá’í?" Begaye asked, taking off his cap. "We can fit another Indian in the back."

"Ahhh, get off my lawn," Hosteen Yazzie snarked, leaning forward to hug his nephew. "You better get some good shots of Hollywood or I'm going to come after you." He let go, then turned to Shaw, offering out his hand. His expression sobered. "Look after my nephew," the old man said. As Shaw took his hand and shook it, Hosteen Yazzie added, "When this is all over, come back here. I mean it."

Shaw released, nodding. He moved around to the rear of the truck, opening up the flatbed door and crawling up. Begaye threw open the passenger door and climbed in as well. As he shut the door, Tsosie threw it gear, and began pulling away from the hogan. "Yá'át'ééh," he called after them, hand raised in the air in farewell. Begaye and Shaw raised their hands in return, and Tsosie honked the horn.

As the truck sped away into the desert horizon, Hosteen Yazzie smiled. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and began to sing.

Hózhóogo naasháa doo...
In beauty I walk...

Shitsijí’ hózhóogo naasháa doo...
With beauty before me I walk...

Shikéédéé hózhóogo naasháa doo...
With beauty behind me I walk...

Shideigi hózhóogo naasháa doo...
With beauty above me I walk...

T’áá altso shinaagóó hózhóogo naasháa doo...
With beauty around me I walk...

Hózhó náhásdlíí’...
It has become beauty again...

Hózhó náhásdlíí’...
It has become beauty again...

Hózhó náhásdlíí’...
It has become beauty again...

Hózhó náhásdlíí’...
It has become beauty again...