For My Grandfather, Wilson C. Skeet

For My Grandfather Wilson C. Skeet

It has been one year since the passing of Wilson C. Skeet, and everyday since I have celebrated his life. It is hard to lose an elder, like watching a library fall to pieces. It has also been the first year that I have not been able to consult him on numerous papers and projects regarding the past, present, and future of the Navajo Nation. The year has passed without consultation, and having to construct possibilities of the future while maintaining a personal reflection of the past. At first I would think at how terrible a loss it was, and how there were bits of history I wish I knew, or I wish I had asked about, but then I remembered that our lives are not stagnant. Our tradition and our culture is alive, and rooted in us, and we will be able to progress as a Nation while maintaining those ties. Wilson Skeet propelled the Navajo Nation forward in economic, educational, and environmental development during a time where tribes were struggling to maintain sovereignty. Those times were not stagnant.
Even though I cannot talk with him, I know that his legacy still lives within me, and within all of us. We can see it in ourselves when we make decisions that are good for the Nation and that will improve the quality of life for everybody. When we make strides towards economic independence and when we take action to protect the land that the Holy People placed us on. I always loved and respected my grandfather, and he always respected me, despite my age. There are plenty of young Diné leaders and we are blessed to have many students going off to college and receiving an education. He had faith in the younger generation and he trusted us. He knew that one day we would change the Navajo Nation.
This last year has taught how to be a better leader, to make better decisions, and to remember the legacy of leaders before us. There are many moments when I wonder what decisions Narbona, or Manuelito would have made. Or what they would have wanted me to do to serve my people. It is very easy to be caught up in politics, or in feuds, or in arguments. It is very easy to fall into phases of distrust because of age, of money, of jobs, or of family relations. But I have faith, as we all should. He taught me that faith is hard, that hope is hard, but that we can move on as a Nation. I will always be thankful for that strength and that knowledge that can transcend lifetimes. Ahe'hee shi chei.


Stefanie Tsosie
Granddaughter of Wilson C. Skeet
Baahaali, New Mexico

Tales of his love...

Sit by me, my little one
So I can tell you a story about love
Because sometimes we don’t know where it lurks
Or when it follows us like shadows
Waiting for us to turn and speak its name
Standing next to us and breathing on our neck
Making our hair stand on end
And forcing us to breathe a little deeper
We will all learn to recognize one day
And call forth the shape that defines love

Hearts beating on the same wavelength
Resonating worlds apart from each other
Yet dreams hold them closely wrapped
In a blanket lasting generations
With threads woven before memories were formed
Keeping molecules linked through time
So when they connect it will be as if they never left
Filling tiny voids they left on each other
When they were in the belly of the earth
His love is indelible

He worshipped the idea of her when she walked by
She let him buy into her illusion
Only one of the many fun house mirrors
And then the smoke disappears as the winds change
Particles realign as they spit out breath
Ejecting ideals and memories and feelings
Dripping and oozing until they finally realize
That they’re not on the same level at all
For her it was fun while it lasted
His love is tormented

His hair was long enough to fall
Massive entanglements of strands and limbs
She wondered if this is what it was like
Hundreds of years ago when their minds met
Making love not just for themselves
But for the land and the people
Knowing that they breed strength and beauty
Being a part of an incommunicable connection
That nations have, and always will stand on
His love is ancient

He wanted to keep her in the most logical way
So for a future they kept adding and subtracting
Time to words and then from actions
Multiplying feelings and dividing rationale
Until they finally integrated into infinity
Finding a loophole in objectivity
Unfortunately no such formula exists
So now they run the track hitting limits
In a dysfunctional plane
His love is broken

He glanced once and knew she was beautiful
Watching her smile ignite flames around her
He looked twice and knew she would fill him
With something too subtle to flaunt
But much too powerful to ignore
He never knew if she would want him
But will let every moment count anyway
Until she fades into a memory
He already knows that she’ll leave him hollow
His love is saturating

He knows that moments are fluid
And refreshing like the water that heeds the moon
So he dives when the tide calls his name
Knowing the ocean will bring him good fortune
She drifts to his side for a wave or two
That retreats as quickly as it came
Leaving her to sit on the sand to watch
The suns rise and set and the moon change
For another night when the water will call his name
His love is evasive

Some women will follow you
Thinking that one day you’ll look back
And see footprints besides yours
Until they stray and fade in the wind
Others will taunt you
Hoping that you will escort their scent
Into lairs of lust and sensation
Then releasing you on your own
But remember that when you look back
Only you will see the shadow of your love

There is nothing to fear in this world
Shapes will be around us wherever we go
And we must remember to see outlines
Between wants and needs and dreams
Because sometimes they get confusing
And I wish I had waited out shapeshifters
To find the entity that makes us stronger
I am wishing for a moment
Where his love is pure
Where my love is pure

Tales of her love...

Come, child, sit by me
So I can tell you a story about love
Because you will always be old enough for temptation
It may be late, but this is the hour
The time every woman learns to spell desire
On the intricacies of flesh
You are too beautiful to not understand
We all eventually learn the tales of Eros
By feeling the warmth of another
Taking their breath and defining love

Flirting with loveless wanting
He wrapped his arms around her pillar
Holding her close enough to remember
Her smell the next morning
And she will remember his touch
Memories tracing lines of forgettable lust
She stood there with her hip cocked to one side,
While he occupied his hands with her curves
She still kissed the end of her cigarette
As he electrified the back of her neck
Her love is power

Stealing moments of love together
Seconds that others only pray for
Their eyes ignited revolutions when they danced
And their caresses sent shockwaves through blood
Finally their hearts could beat together
Her hair kept falling in her face
He pushed back her veil to rest behind her ear
Every second renewing his vows
Their souls were married yet their hands belonged to others
They never kissed through layers of perfection
Her love is harmony

Laying together swirling in sheets of laughter
Soaking the blanket with words of mental seduction
And when they were finally exhausted
They painted words of passion
Cursive is perfect if you only use the fingertips
Sending sensations along bones and muscles
Naming each molecule with a small breath from the lips
Calling forth stories they have yet to dream
Words that they have yet to weave
Into tales and visions of temporal bliss
Her love is art

They were in love with shadows
Visions that danced in hallucinations
Figments of the imagination sent from heaven
Or was it hell? They were never good at deciphering
Even in the brightest moments of day
And the darkest folds of the night
Sloppily fixating on a tunnel vision future
Kaleidoscope love that disappears with the light
They don’t know if they were in love with each other
Or with just the idea of entangled arms
Her love is broken

He never decided if he was going to kiss her
Or if he was going to envelope her body in his arms
Perhaps his heart was beating too fast
To hear their own thoughts of impulse
Physical collisions were almost accidental
Lips clumsily connecting
And eyes occasionally meeting to reaffirm
That for one night it was okay to keep each other
To keep each other warm and safe and complete
Her love is tender

He whispered in her ear and it tickled her brain
They spoke to each other in different languages
Of the mind, of the soul, and of the land
But they were fluent in the tongue of the body
Holding hands every time
Even when they couldn’t get any closer
Ensuring that they were together inside and out
She never felt better to take a man on her chest
And whisper back into his spirit
Her love is connection

Some men will call you names
Titles invented to harness your body
And your warmth that they long for
Others will seek your spirit
And look deep into your eyes
Searching for a chance into your dreams
But remember child, that no matter how they elevate you
Whether they bring your body closer to heaven
Or give sensation to your thoughts
That only you will be able to define love

Please, child, don’t be frightened
I don’t tell you this tale of women to bring sadness
Or to spark fantasies of encounters
No, child, I tell you this so that one day
I can say that her love is whole
I have found fragments throughout life
But I am waiting, I am lusting, I am brooding
And I am dreaming for the one moment
Where her love is whole
Where my love is whole

Strength

I come from a family, and a place with strong medicine. We have strength in our blood. But that medicine is hard to remember through pain and tears and confusion. I am on this journey for a reason. I am cold, tired, hungry, scared, nervous, anxious, and willing. I don’t know if my heart is ready but I do know that the sicknesses in this world sometimes seem too great to overcome, as if there is no immunization because it lies in the hands of the powerful, buried behind lines of money and tears, struggle and fear, behind a stench of sadness as the lines of sweat that drip down the faces of the faithful yield no crops. they yield no crop not because there is drought, but because the tears are too salty and too numerous and a mother cannot bear to see her children crying. but what choice do we have when we have to battle with fish and wildlife for funding? i guess they took it too literally when we said we walk in harmony with the earth. but who do we walk with? each bash against each other leave us limp and our tracks look lame, bruised, and faded. we've forgotten to carry each other. walks around one people, that clan was meant to be a protector, to surround the house and keep all safe, to keep each other safe. But in this time, when the world is crying, I need to remember that I come from strong medicine. I remember running during the four days of my transition to womanhood. I ran to be strong for my family and my future. I ran across a land that sustained my family and my ancestors. That land is in me. I remember its touch, its smell, and the comfort it gives me as I walk across it. It’s strong medicine. Thank God I finally came home, because then each step on my land was like a prayer, asking for forgiveness, and for harmony, and for the earth not to cry any more because there are doctors on their way. there are people who are here to heal but they're stuck, they're filtered, they're bashed, they're arrested, they're muzzled, they're tired, and i consider myself lucky to be alive. looking so high at the people who pull chain gangs along pitiful railroads of destruction, who push money into pockets that are already busting at the seams, who pull up the undeserving, who push broken backs beyond their limits, who push and pull, push and pull, little do they know that someday it will break. but looking up at them, looking back and forth so as not to get runned over or tangled or strangled or lynched, it's easy to get tired and let your head hang, looking down and wishing that your feet weren't solidified in cement and praying that something doesn't push you over the edge. I have a healing hand because I need to heal and every time I look down its there, thank god. The sun melts away sadness in the morning and lifts prayers up high, it's a good thing too so I can walk again and let each footstep be a prayer as I walk along wrapped in the warmth of love and faith. I let the earth lick my wounds and remind me that I am a child of Changing Woman and of warriors and of survivors, and of my grandfather, and of my family. I rest my mind between the four sacred mountains and let my homeland cradle me in its love and its history. It needs to bathe its child in sweet, strong medicine and make me whole once again. even though the sicknesses in this world seem to great to overcome, there are those of us that are walking and keep hope alive. I am from strong medicine.

Breathless

Sometimes I think about moments that could’ve taken our breath away, if only we’d had the chance to breathe. I keep thinking of trading stories and hearts and souls. Watching them build upon each other, carrying us upwards, spiraling towards something greater than ourselves. Looking down as we build steps of feelings strong enough to carry our happiness as well as our tears, and watching the world fade away. I wonder about walking through tunnels of time, knowing I have you by my side and listening to echoes of laughter. Soon they would have followed us, and preceded us, surrounding us, enveloping us as we walked tangled in each other. Even these thoughts leave me suffocated since the recipient of good intentions has only left me with footprints - markings that will fade with time. Or will they? Or will they fossilize, and imprint a moment on the path we once shared, looking back at us like an artifact in the past begging to be researched. Or will it be a shallow grave, where we can now put our misplaced feelings, our confused thoughts, our selfish arguments, and our sleepless nights. I’m out of breath again, stumbling over thoughts that are too thick to ignore. A fog you can feel on your face, kissing cheeks with microscopic drops of water and fading as quickly as they appear. You feel soaked, but wetness eludes the skin. Instead, just leaving you chilled to the bone and in search of shelter while drowning and gasping. Waiting for somebody to see your arms flinging. The staircase collapsed in an earthquake. And the tunnel caved in during a storm. I can barely whisper your name, for fear that I’ll need that breath for survival, trapped in a disaster. Love is too asthmatic for daily living. How would we be able to catch up with the rest of life? I stumble without you to catch my fall. Or are you out there waiting for me, waiting until I hit the bottom? I’m breathless once again, without even having a chance to breathe…

Resolutions

I am done selling myself short
I am not your cohort
Your sellout
Your fake friend or copout
I am done being tried
I am done being defied
For standing up for you
For being there
For You
I am done crying
I am done lying
I am done trying
To be there for you
I am done frustrating
And cooperating
To be there for you
Where is my helping hand?
Can you take a stand?
For yourself?
I am done being abused
I am done being used
I am done being accused
Of understanding perfectly
Because I don't understand if you call when it's convenient
And I don't really get why you think I'm so lenient
Or why I'm so expedient
In my care for you
I need some care too
I need some support
I am done selling myself short
That is my new years resolution
To create an institution
That lets you stand on your two feet
I have been let down enough
Standing up for love
And unless you can be there for me
You can be the epitome
Of love
Of understanding
Of caring
Then leave me be
Because I can't be your hero all the time

Missing You....

I once had a man tell me that he would do anything to bring the moon and the stars to me to show me how beautiful I was to him. I had only met him once. Sometimes I wish that man weren't just in my dreams. I told him that I wanted to be the girl that guys sing about in country songs. "Why?" "Because they always sound so in love with them, like they care about them and notice everything about them. I want to be that girl for somebody." "One day baby girl you'll find a guy that treats you the way you need to be treated." One day. One day I'll meet you. One day I might hold out my hands to the sky and bask in the sunlight of life and I'll meet you because you'll be basking in the same light. One day I might find you swimming, treading water to keep from drowning because we both jumped in at the same time and the current keeps changing. One day I might meet you. It's surprising the connections that you can make with people, or the connections that you can break. There have been many people in my life that have slipped through my fingers and that I wish I had held on to. Maybe I was too clumsy to catch them, or too selfish to notice that they were falling. I can't help but feel like I've missed something. I've missed you. I've missed moments and laughs that echo in friendship. Yet, like the sunrise and sunset, we cannot hold onto these moments forever. If he had moved the moon and the stars to bring a glow to my face, they would need to go back to their place, but their warmth would be forever on my heart. I've always liked hugging old trees because you can feel the warmth of their soul on your cheeks. You can feel their oldness coat your arms as you breath deeply together with the wind. I fear that's what I've missed in people, breathing together wrapped in smiles. Or maybe that's what people have missed in me. Maybe we've missed each other, aiming for a future that changes as the seasons change, but will always return. Maybe we missed each other by a falling leaf, or a breath, or a glance of the sunset. Maybe we missed each other by a cloud covering the moon, or a meteor tail, or a drip of water. Or maybe we haven't missed each other at all, at least not yet. Standing like trees in a grove, always together, but too rooted to move, watching people climb in our branches and carving names into our skin. Maybe I haven't missed you yet.

dedication

burning the candle at both ends, they say?
lighing my room with my flame
if only i could harvest the energry
of my past so my present won't combust
exhausted we lie side by side by side
the sweat of our skin tastes like frustration
like struggle
like waiting
like wanting...
my tomorrow i give to you
the hours drip by as i hold you
try and make you grow into the beautiful mother you are
we nurse our wounds together
painted into the corner of human history
you are painted old
there are cracks in your plaster
bleeding like a virgin who was torn
torn like treaties
and you still cry
people come from miles around
to harvest your tears
no trespassing
exhausted we lie side by side by side
starting at your art and tracing
the life line on the palm of your hand
it feels rought
like skin
like love
like wanting
lighting your face with my flame
as the wax seals my footsteps touching yours

sickness

the sicknesses in this world sometimes seem too great to overcome, as if there is no immunization because it lies in the hands of the powerful, buried behind lines of money and tears, struggle and fear, behind a stench of sadness as the lines of sweat that drip down the faces of the faithful yield no crops. they yield no crop not because there is drought, but because the tears are too salty and too numerous and a mother cannot bear to see her children crying. but what choice do we have when we have to battle with fish and wildlife for funding? i guess they took it too literally when we said we walk in harmony with the earth. but who do we walk with? each bash against each other leave us limp and our tracks look lame, bruised, and faded. we've forgotten to carry each other. walks around one people, that clan was meant to be a protector, to surround the house and keep all safe, to keep each other safe. thank god i finally came home, because then each step on my land was like a prayer, asking for forgiveness, and for harmony, and for the earth not to cry any more because there are doctors on their way. there are people who are here to heal but they're stuck, they're filtered, they're bashed, they're arrested, they're muzzled, they're tired, and i consider myself lucky to be alive. looking so high at the the people who pull chain gangs along pitiful railroads of destruction, who push money into pockets that are already busting at the seams, who pull up the undeserving, who push broken backs beyond their limits, who push and pull, push and pull, little do they know that someday it will break. but looking up at them, looking back and forth so as not to get runned over or tangled or strangled or lynched, it's easy to get tired and let your head hang, looking down and wishing that your feet weren't solidified in cement and praying that something doesn't push you over the edge. i have a healing hand because i need to heal and every time i look down its there, thank god. the sun melts away sadness in the morning and lifts prayers up high, it's a good thing too so i can walk again and let each footstep be a prayer as i walk along wrapped in the warmth of love and faith. even though the sicknesses in this world seem to great to overcome, there are those of us that are walking and keep hope alive

A Letter for My Grandfather

I heard while I was in a city that my grandfather had great influence. I was in a city of unfamiliarity and covered in concrete but it was crawling with power. Washington DC is a place where worldly decisions are made. Decisions to help or destroy one another; decisions that control our future as a nation, and as individuals. I had never been there before, but my grandfather had many times. My sister was born while he was attending the Presidential Inauguration of Jimmy Carter.
I considered my grandfather more than a grandfather, he was a great man, a great leader, a Code Talker, a nation builder, a Navajo Nation council delegate, a Vice Chairman, a rancher, a farmer, and a founding father of the Navajo Nation. I went to him for advice on everything. That morning I had intended on visitng the Library of Congress, one of the largest book collections in the world, and supposedly one of the most beautiful. I never made it. I had also wanted to see the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. I never made it. I came home and while waiting at the airport I saw a few Indians of different tribes waiting for flights. They were coming from meetings and hearings and panels that protected Indian Country, just as my grandfather had done. While I was sitting there a friend sent me a message saying "Chei's in a better place. Home. It's like libraries burning when elers pass." That struck me as powerful and I imagined the Library of Congress on fire and watching the whole nation's history sink to ashes because that's how I felt. But then I remembered watching the sun rise from the metro ride to the airport. I could see the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument, the tips of the towers of an Empire. Then I could see the slums, the dirty buildings, and the litter while going over a polluted river. I realized that the sun rises over everybody, not just those in power, or those in need, but everybody. The sun is our father, and he lights up everybody. He helps all of us grow.
My grandfather worked for all of his people and all of his family in hopes that one day the nation wouldn't be so divided. With his life, my grandfather had taught me more than any library could ever hold. Even though he couldn't leave every single one of us with all of his stories, his knowledge, his experiences, and his wisdom, he left us bits and pieces in every one of us. He gave us an opportunity to come together to share in his love and his memory. He built a nation with all of us. I don't think it was a coincidence that I was in Washington DC when I heard, he knew I was there. He knew where we all were. He emphasized educaiton, exploration, and the importance of bringing all of that back home. I wanted to share this sorty to continue that legacy, and to continue our stories. By the time I landed in Albuquerque I had learned a lot from my reflections of his experiences, and I hope that we all can give thought to and celebrate his life. Ahe'hee shi Chei, ayoo anishni. (accents needed)

Stefanie Tsosie
Granddaughter of Wilson Chee Skeet
Daughter of Rena Skeet
Baa haa lii, New Mexico (accents needed)

A Story For the Trees

She sat outside staring at the light until he finally joined her, dreaming of stories for the trees. Maybe their love was as ancient and twisted as the branches casting shadows of worn sadness. She sat on the step with tears in her eyes dripping definitions of the word ‘struggle’ onto the painted concrete. He stepped outside and saw the streetlamp glistening on her cheeks and wrapped in muggy cold. He simply sat down and put his arm around her. “It’s stuffy inside,” she muttered, but she meant to say “My heart hurts.” They often held conversations in thoughts and words and actions and hearts and tears and they always got lost in translation and lost in each other. Lost in longing, lost in distance, lost in a love full of distractions. He hated the place, but she loved it because every inch of this land is something to be fought for. There have been generations of warriors born to fight for their land. There have been years and years of longing to keep your heart where your stories are born. She had always wondered what the stories were for the land she walked on. Who had moved to let the trees sit still in sorrow? What were their prayers like and could God still hear them as they were cut off from the umbilical cord that gave them life? Her heart hurt looking at the trees and thinking of the lines of people that had fought for them once upon a time, and the ones that are still fighting for them. Her heart hurt because they were fighting. They were fighting for a place - for a time. Fighting for togetherness. Her heart hurt because they never knew when they would see each other next. Wondering when his arm would drape her shoulder and pull her deeply into his chest as they breathed in and sighed together. All he could say was ‘Yeah it is’. Maybe he meant ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I want to take you away with me and keep you for the rest of time’. Maybe he meant ‘I don’t know what to do’ or ‘you’re the best girl I’ve met’ or ‘How much longer can we do this?’ No matter the translation, they both wanted nothing more than to have more nights to sit together on the front step. The house across the street was still abandoned from the days when everybody had to leave to survive, and now they fight to come back. The lawn was overgrown and the window still dirty from storm water, but the house looked feisty under these sad trees. A fresh ‘no trespassing’ sign sat out front and the street lamp gave its face some shadow to keep watch in the thick air. The house was fighting for itself, waiting for its owner to come back and lick its wounds. It had good teachers, since it all the trees sat around it, teaching it a toughness that can only come from losing love, and loving loss, since it reminds you that the soul is not shallow. They sat and misinterpreted each other fluently, but still commuting feelings, like their own language made up from too many nights apart. Yet through the translations, they still had some words that were solid, as they are in any language. ‘I love you very much’ he said to her. They knew love, but the also knew distance. They know the word ‘far’ could be measured in the difference in the circumference of your arms around a pillow instead of a person. It was everything else that was hard to understand. She spoke in words of ‘when’ and he spoke in the language of ‘soon’. You’d be surprised how often those words don’t match up. Maybe with enough time together they can draft their own language of hugs and smiles at breakfast that come from the happiness of taking care of each other. Maybe one day their language will be as old as those of the trees. ‘I want to write a story for the trees’ she said. She wanted to write a story about struggle and time and age and roots and fighting and warriors and longing and homeland and love and connectedness and faith and tears and happiness. She wanted to write a story in tears on the concrete so the trees could look down and remember the girl that cried for them, that longed for something as rooted as them, that wanted a renewal with them as the seasons changed. She wanted to write a story about a sad happiness she couldn’t understand, except maybe in time after their fighting for a place had ceased. But maybe she misinterpreted. Maybe she meant to write a story about them. They stood up and walked inside.