REFLECTION ON SIMPLE DAYS

Grandparents have always been a source of comfort and wisdom in Navajo families, always revered as matriarchs or patriarchs. A child no matter their age knows that what Grandma and Grandpa say supersedes everyone. Children also know their grandparents have great pride in their laahs and nalis. Not only because of achievements in school, but also because grandparents know their namesake and clans will be carried on proudly once they have passed. As my paternal grandparents spoke to me in their way, I took their coded stories and translated them into the memories that follow. Seemingly ordinary days that have made a lasting impression.  

In the wake of World War II, the isolated people of the Navajo Nation had an opportunity to earn a wage and serve their country in ways never experienced. My nali man Andy answered the call to service as a Navajo Code Talker, then continued to live a life that Navajo men before him could never think possible. Expected to be a sheepherding farmer, my grandfather accepted every challenge put in front of him and defied the odds by successfully returning to his family a healthy man. Whether it was being shipped off to a government boarding school, fighting Japanese soldiers in a far-off land, working with different races on the railroad, or being married off to a teenage girl he had never met, he survived. Words such as high school, graduation, college, Army, Navy, boot camp, war, entered the family vocabulary with him. Unfortunately, this also meant future generations did not grow up speaking Navajo and did not know a lot about Navajo culture and practices. This included me, his oldest granddaughter. 

When I entered my second year of graduate school it became a bimonthly occurrence that my mom would call me about a night spent at the hospital with my nali man and lady. “He’s fainted, had a horrible upset stomach, and complained of chest pains.” She always told the stories in a tone of great concern. Many times, my uncle or nali lady would find him lying outside of the house or even in the doorway and have to carry him into the house to revive him.  

With each horrifying episode my nali lady would become scared and get my uncle to call my parents. I can only imagine what it must have taken for him to reach a telephone, miles away depending on which trading post he reached. I envisioned him walking the road hoping a passing vehicle would share his concern. Once he hitchhiked to the phone they would wait for my parents to drive an hour and a half to pick them up and take them forty miles to the nearest emergency room. Many times, my nali man would be admitted overnight, even if just for observation. 

The summer after graduate school, my dad asked for a favor involving my nali man and lady. This experience made me feel so close to my grandparents. Yet also so nervous. I was asked to take them to the hospital for an appointment. As we exited the car in the hospital parking lot, my nali man began speaking to me (in Navajo as always) for the first time that morning. He was preparing me for how long it would take to be seen by a doctor. Even if we arrived early in the morning we wouldn’t be leaving until well past noon. I was prepared for a wait but hoped it wouldn’t be for hours. 

As we entered the building, I felt a paper being slipped into my hand by my nali lady. “Dii bikah,” she said (also in Navajo as always), This is the paper you need. I waited for them to go in the right direction as they had been in that hospital many times. After the window, we were taken to an exam room full of colorful posters and baby-blue boxes of sterile gauze and tongue depressors. The nurse asked questions I had no idea about. I was supposed to know his allergies and any medications he’s on? At one point I answered “I don’t know,” and he wanted me to ask my nali lady, since she knows him better. But I couldn’t think of the words in Navajo. I felt completely helpless. So, I told him that my nali man wasn’t allergic to anything, and he wasn’t on any medications, secretly hoping that it was true. As the questions continued, I racked my brain for any memories or visuals of prescription bottles that might have been lying around the house. I looked at my nali lady again when the word medicine popped into my mind! I turned to her and made sure I said, “azee ish?” medicines? in the tone of a question. She said no, and I confirmed the answer with the nurse. Relief. 

After that we went for vitals. I was able to tell my grandparents where we were going and for my nali man to get on the scale. But as we entered the health monitor room, I knew I would be useless with my translating ability so I asked for a nurse who could translate, since the one we had wasn’t listening to my requests. I told him if he speaks really loudly into my nali man’s ear he’ll be able to understand English, and a translator wasn’t necessary. But this nurse would only raise his voice one octave, so I needed another. 

She came and the monitoring device was put directly to his skin. As he was being cleaned and prepped my nali man got past any embarrassment in being topless by telling me about his past experiences at the hospital. He even told about the color and consistency of his phlegm. I was shocked at his candidness and mildly grossed out by such detail. He then began describing how weak and wiped out his sickness made him, even to the point of being dizzy when he attempted to stand. Then my nali lady chimed in and talked about how my parents had been there before as well and how familiar they had become to the place. As uncomfortable as I might have been at this point, the realization that I was now a member of the “taking care of grandpa” club made me feel more relaxed. 

As he was telling me his story, the nurse who was translating looked at me curiously and asked if I understood everything they said to me. “Yes, I understand Navajo,” I said, “but when it comes to speaking back I can only answer like a child.” She accepted my answer and proceeded to translate the rules for the device and how to care for it, including what to avoid. I told the translating nurse that he can understand English if she talks really loud into his ear, but this caused her to want to leave since the other nurse spoke English. I asked her to stay for the sake of my nali lady because then she was also able to listen and understand, so if my nali man were to forget anything I knew she wouldn’t. When it was time to leave, the nurse said to me, “It’s good you asked me to stay. So your grandma understands everything.” 

We left the hospital with orders to return the next day, to have the device removed and the data read. I asked my nali lady if we needed to go anywhere else, and she said the grocery store. As I drove down the street, I began preparing myself by quickly flashing pictures in my mind of various foods in case I was asked a question. Once we parked, I was nervous again. 

My nali lady tried with all her might to tell my nali man to stay in the car since the store has a deli that uses microwaves, a device he was told to avoid. But he came anyway. My nali lady stopped to look at a table of pies. I knew I would have to translate. As I began to slowly think of the word for apple and peach, my nali man came over and did it in rapid procession. He simply pointed at the pie type, apple for example, yet would say the Navajo word for it. He went through all five types on the table, and my nali lady chose the apple pie.  

Afterward, my nali man began wandering off in his own direction while my nali lady made sure I was right next to her, picking the exact vegetables to which she pointed. She wanted to make a stew for dinner. 

In the meat section I was asked to read prices. In addition to not being able to read English, my nali lady was unable to read numbers. She understands them when told, and that’s how she was able to get the lowest priced pork chops and mutton slab, because I was telling her the costs. As I was turning the cart around my nali lady saw a lady she knew and began a cordial conversation. I was eventually waived over to meet the lady who I found out was my grandparents’ neighbor. They lived five miles apart. The woman and I shook hands as I was introduced as the eldest granddaughter. The two of them smiled and told me I was a good granddaughter for helping my grandparents out at the grocery store. I smiled and nodded my head, feeling proud of myself. After they chitchatted for a bit longer we went in search of my nali man. He was in the frozen food section peering through the glass doors and occasionally opening them. Then as we walked along the aisle my nali man said that he needed ice cream and began looking at the snack packs since they would be the only type that could be eaten with minimal melting on the trip home. The frozen food section wasn’t close to the deli, but my nali man wanted some milk. Then in the flash of an eye, my nali lady appeared with his milk, never letting him get anywhere near the microwave.  

I was asked to get two bags of ice and meet them at the checkout stand. After the items were rung up, the cashier said the amount in English. She looked at me, and I asked her if what I was about to say in Navajo was correct. She said it was, and we had to double check before I asked her to tell them again in a louder voice. She did, and they paid. I wasn’t the only one who had trouble with Navajo. Walking out of the store, I was relieved and exhausted.  

We packed the groceries and began the journey back. My nali man opened the apples and cut us all pieces to snack on. The road goes through a canyon and as we entered it my nali man told me, “There’s Navajo tea here in full bloom. Pull over.” I pulled over as best I could, and for the next half hour we were all bent at the waist pulling Navajo tea plants and their yellow tops from the ground. I was surprised I remembered which plant to pull, and my nali lady noted the same. As we had not planned for this collection, we had no extra bags and piled the tea next to the groceries. Back at their house we unloaded groceries and tea, then my nali lady told me, “Take some of the tea for your parents. You should go now before the sun sets. There are drunks on the road at night.” My nali lady’s warning of drunks on the road is one I always remember from childhood. “Don’t play on the road, there are drunks. Don’t drive at night, there are drunks. Don’t cross the road alone, there are drunks.” My nali lady gave me a big hug. I shook my nali man’s hand and left them making dinner.   

I had my Grandparents all to myself that day. Something that never happened again. Even though I was a nervous wreck, full of worry about the language barrier,,  I managed and was even complimented for my presence. Our day didn’t sound exciting, yet in hindsight I felt their love all throughout it. 

I was in my late 20s when my nali man passed. I always keep one simple word in the back of my mind when I think about my nali man, survivor. I’ve never met anyone that has survived such amazing circumstances with extraordinary results. From a very young age he was forced to learn survival skills that he passed on to his descendants. His sons and daughters were not afraid to go off to boarding school as he did, then the military as he did. His wife was not afraid to be left alone once he got out-of-state jobs. His grandchildren all respect him. I personally fed off of his strong, silent personality when I was put in a new situation that required me to prove myself. He always commanded respect amongst his family members. I’ve seen children who might be rude to others talk to him in such a respectful tone, and grouchy adults calm down after speaking with him. Everyone that loved my nali man knew he would say he was a simple man. But he wasn’t.