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…