Remember, celebrate a people once forgotten

Remember, celebrate a people once forgotten

There is a place in northern New Mexico, not far from the
Arizona border, where small, proud tribes waged countless battles
and the blood of countless sons spilled to the ground and was
swallowed up by the thirsty sand. This sand was once part of the
towering mountains that line the canyon and protect it from true
desert wind that threatens to sweep everything in its path.

The sand knows this and is proud. The sand knows so much, oh so
much, and has learned to feel and ache and sometimes to cry. It
spills down the cliffs in a shower of sandy tears. If you went to
this place you would hear it weeping. But you would also see why it
persists, you could walk along the edge of the canyon and speak to
the great cloud beings. The warmth alone, the love that floats up
from the sand, would wrap you in a comforting blanket and you would
never want to leave.

As a child, my mother loved this valley. Sis’Na’Jin,’ one of the
great mountains, is located here. As you run and play, the sand
makes you strong. It puts callouses on your feet and teaches you to
feel, to see with your eyes closed. She had only these feet and
then a horse, which melted into an old, dented auto with different
colored doors and a cracked windshield where a rock had flown up
and hit it.

It was summer and far too hot for school, sitting in classrooms,
forced into clothes and shoes. After donning a tank top and shorts,
with water sitting in a vacuum jug on the torn backseat, they would
leave. There had been shows lately, it had been said. The elders
were distrustful of these shows, but elders are always distrustful,
never wanting change, never wanting excitement.

No. Shows were decidedly a good thing.

When the initial blast hit, your eyes were forced shut. When
they opened again, the sky was the color of evil in a dream. Red
and orange and scariest of all, a wall of green rose as far as you
could see, only to fall and bury its skirt in the desert sand.

It blocked out the sun and then the snow came. Not the smooth,
round snow of high desert. This snow was black and had no moisture
at all. It covered the ground, the car, and landed gently on my
mother’s eyelids. It wrapped her shoulders in its black grip and is
still squeezing today.

* * *

SCENE: San Francisco, a high-rise with dripping vines, not ivy,
and a small silver title plate near the entrance. We follow a
lovely, middle-aged woman dressed in a business suit through the
door. We catch the name on the plate as we walk in: Richard
Nepolitano, M.D. She has lied to her children, the doctor asked her
to lie to her children. They think she is at an important business
meeting in the city, and she will stop on the way home and get them
each a treat.

She is frightened but tough, refusing to be scared. They put her
in a white gown, her sun-darkened elbows peeking out and slicing
the air as she walks. She can’t leave, that much is obvious to the
doctor. She will stay that night and the next and the next until
through tears she begs to be let home.

The children are worried. They are getting ice cream and
sympathy, but no one has told them why. They have never been apart
from their mother, whose business trip has extended to a week-long
venture. They eat the ice cream, which somehow doesn’t taste as
sweet as they remember.

Then one day they come home from school and she is there. She is
there ­ bandaged, bruised, stapled, whimpering when they see
her. They can’t touch her.

The oldest can’t be near her. The smell of used gauze and
ointment makes her sick. The baby loves her and is not afraid. She
doesn’t think mommies get taken away. She sleeps on the floor and
takes her mother’s hand when she cries out, trying hard not to cry
out herself.

It would be easy to continue with, "when she was finally better
…" but that would say nothing. Nothing of the nights on the
hardwood floor, hearing labored breathing, helping her mother bathe
and seeing the holes on her stomach packed and repacked with gauze.
It would say nothing of the pain that came from an older daughter
who stopped looking at her the day she came home.

We live in a wonderful country. We are safe here, our government
cares about us and would never intentionally harm its people.

Reservation life is difficult, breeding not only character, but
a certain toughness, a self-reliance which was ripped from my
mother’s hands. She is beautiful, she was beautiful. Women are like
the earth, round and fertile and powerful in a way that can be
terrifying. She is no longer a woman from a reservation. My mother
is beautiful and very thin with dyed blond hair and business suits.
She is beautiful in tennis shoes that protect her freshly pumiced
feet from the earth, from feeling.

While it’s true our country has a history of atomic testing, it
was only authorized in places far removed from human contact.

They explain it this way because it would be bad public
relations to come right out and say it was only tested near people
they never thought mattered.

I am lucky enough to be a member of the group which organized
the Pow-Wow this weekend on campus. Those two short days of dancing
and celebration have more meaning than most can imagine.
Unknowingly, UCLA hosted a field full of survivors. They are
courageous people who have found a way to preserve the memory of
their ancestors and pass it on to their children.

It is very easy to forget why such gatherings are necessary.
Even worse, it is easy to forget why their atmosphere is solemn and
often reverent. The inclination is to pretend they are an
interesting place to get lemonade, to walk around taking pictures
with a crowd full of "others" as you would at Disneyland. I can
only hope those of you reading will never need to know the
suffering and pain that has caused these people to need a Pow-Wow,
which serves as a reminder that they are not alone and can go on as
they always have.

Look at their jewelry on your wrists and fingers. In every piece
you should be able to feel the warm, brown hands that crafted it.
In every bright feather dancing before you, sense the courage of a
child taken before his time. In every drumbeat, hear a cry for
those no longer with us.

We must not forget those who have been lost, no matter what
color they are. We must try to honor them with our actions every
day of our lives.

Martinez is a first-year art and neuroscience student. Her
column appears on alternate Wednesdays.