Finding My Sacred

Bumps In The Road

Being raised by an emotionally strong and independent woman was for me both a blessing and a curse. My mother was forced as a child to attend a boarding school miles away from her family. As a means of survival, she had to be responsible. She told me about the school she attended on the reservation and the expectations it had of it's students. She described the horrors of kids being slapped for talking in Navajo and how she told herself, "I'll run away if they do that to me." On one occasion, the teacher gave my mom a sponge and bucket – she was ten years old –  and was told to scrub the toilets and bathroom floors. The toilet she was told to scrub had feces on it. She refused to do it and sent a message for her dad to come to the boarding school. My grandfather rode his horse to the school and demanded to talk to the person in charge. He pulled his daughter from the school, then threatened to take the administration in front of the tribal council. He told the director that if he heard that they were still mistreating their students, he would find a way to shut them down.
As an adolescent, my mother ended up attending a school in Brigham City, Utah. Her expectations of herself were high. She would volunteer for school functions and was in charge of many school projects all while working. Later, when she had her own family, she dressed us all nicely for church, and we drove across town to a large Presbyterian church on Sundays. She always wore lipstick and heels and her purses always matched her shoes, pure elegance. There are two things people immediately see when they look at you, she would tell me: "You're teeth and your shoes." Keep your shoes and teeth clean at all times she would lecture. She's the one who volunteered for the P.T.A. at school, the one who became the treasurer in bowling, someone true to their word, a meticulous Virgo. She surrounded herself with similar people, through bowling, church and within the neighborhood.
    As a young child, I didn't like dresses, I wanted cowgirl boots and a cowgirl hat. I wanted to ride horses, climb trees and play with dump trucks. I would get ready fast and seize the day, tying my long black hair up sloppily and run outside. In the summer, I was brown; in the winter,  a pale brown. I loved my skin color, I loved my white teeth, and I loved my oversized cheeks. Even though Tom Diggins in the fifth grade told the other boys, "She's average looking; if she put on makeup, she would be cute."
I looked at him and said, "You're average looking, too, but you can't do anything about it, can you?"
The other kids laughed. Kids liked me, when I was funny. Being the class clown, everyone liked me, except for the teacher.  I tried that out for a year and then became a serious student.
My mom would put me in dresses and braid my hair every morning for school. It never failed, I would come home with holes in my tights, and she would tell me to act like a lady. Finally, I won out, and she quit putting me in dresses. Dad gave in and bought me dump trucks, a Big Wheel, a glove, and a bat.
She put me in ice skating and piano lessons; I hated going. I did learn to ice skate, and I learned a little on the piano. I carried a Rubik's cube around with me; I could solve all but the top layer. After much persuasion, my mom let me play on a softball team. I ended up quitting when the coach was clearly treating me differently. I was late one day, and she refused to let me play, yet the week before, another girl was late and she played; that girl happened to be Caucasian. My mom gave her a piece of her mind and told the lady she better refund our money or she would have something coming, and the lady refunded our money. On the car ride home, my mom told me to never let anyone treat me with disrespect. She told me because I was Navajo, some people may not like my skin color or might think I'm uneducated, she said, always prove them wrong. I was a goalie in soccer from the fourth to sixth grade, a midfielder in junior high and a center forward during my high school years. I loved playing basketball; I was on the team in junior high and was disappointed when I didn't make my high school team. I went straight to the coach after missing the tryouts.
"You scored, your shot is accurate, you're a horrible passer when you decide to pass the ball, try again next year," he said.
That put a chip on my shoulder for the whole year but I kept playing anytime I could with the guys. My specialty was shooting free throws. I'd be in the backyard and shoot free throws until the sun went down; it helped clear my mind. Basketball was replaced by soccer, my dream position was acquired as a starting center forward.
My mom did everything in her mind that she thought was right. Even pushing me academically. I would win contests and come in third or fourth and she would tell me, now if you work harder, you can be first. In my mind, I heard, You're not good enough.
I get why she was like that. When she was 14 years old, she was a whole state away in boarding school. If she happened to leave her coat somewhere on an outing, she wasn't going to get a replacement right away. Her mom wasn't going to show up with a replacement coat. She had to be responsible and think on her toes because she was literally on her own, and she expected me to mirror her. There were numerous times, if I wasn't ready she would leave me. I would be late getting ready, and she would be gone. If I missed the bus in my freshman year in high school, she would tell me to have fun walking. I hated her at times for being cold. Yet, it instilled within me the need to be on time. Sometimes she would slap my face or hit my hand, secretly in my little mind. I wondered if I was her biological child, if she would have hit me?
Her punishments were extreme, they pushed me to master the art of deception. At the age of 16, my first boyfriend Jason and I were doing improper things at the park. I waltzed in the house at 1 a.m., an hour past my curfew. There was a pile of clothing waiting to be ironed. I was told I could only go to bed once everything was ironed and hung up. Three hours later, I was down to her blouse. I was so tired, I left the iron on too long, and it burned a hole through her favorite top! Luckily, I didn't burn the ironing board. The next day, I went to three different department stores with her blouse, asking every sales lady, where I could find this frilly thing? Luckily, the Sears department store had the same blouse, I bought it, took the tags off and hung it in her closet like a precision military operation. She never knew!
     I was anything but a little lady, more like a little daredevil. I begged them to let me ride with my uncle on his motorcycle. I would sit in it and slide down the driveway, skinning my knees on the asphalt. I remember my mom telling me to be quiet. When I misbehaved, she would just slap me out of nowhere. She didn't do it in malice; it was what she was shown and what was expected of her generation. To obey and be silent. I developed the skill of listening, however getting into a group discussion in junior high school was intimidating. My silent, observant demeanor followed me throughout young adulthood. I discovered the world will knock you down and that there is no place these days for a silent voice. I think if I was given a voice earlier, I would have thrived in the workplace. Instead, I thrived intuitively. I was able to feel, to think, to decipher body language, and feel energies. I could now walk into a room and walk right up to a person in emotional or physical pain. Start small talk with them, even if it was a stranger. I found myself wanting to heal others, free them from their pain. Silence brought me these gifts.