The monsoon season came early to the desert, and rain was falling slowly, softly, consistently. Extended rain storms are rare in Bluff, where we are accustomed to fast moving storms with violent crashes of thunder and fast, short downpours. The average annual rainfall in this small town is seven inches, and lately it has been less, much less. This particular afternoon, however, the blessed rain was falling, and I was feeling refreshed and renewed. I had even walked outside, captured some of the droplets on my hands and smeared them on my face and neck, enchanted by the cooling effect of the rain.
When she walked into the trading post I was engaged in wrapping up a small transaction, so I acknowledged her by saying hello and went about completing the sale. She is one of our best Navajo weavers, and is always in the trading post. Even though Barry and I never live by the principle, I often tell our artists that we have to make money before we spend it, so she stood patiently by, waiting for me to collect the payment and finish with the customer.
The moment she stepped into the store I felt the clouds converge. There was something wrong, very wrong, but I didn't immediately know what. It may have been the way she moved, or the way the shadows played on her face. In any case, I subconsciously knew something was amiss and that I really didn't want to know what had gone awry. Unconsciously I delayed our meeting for a few moments, trying to decide what was troubling me.
As a result of my concerns, I didn't look closely at her until the customer turned to leave. As she stepped toward me, it only took a moment to know what had happened. I need $200.00, she said as a tear began to form in her eye. Not again, I said. There was no response for what seemed like an eternity, then she responded, I just wanted to take the kids on a nice trip, and he was out of town for a while. He was not happy we went without him. Just moments earlier I had felt relaxed and refreshed, now I felt the rain, her comments and those bruises dampen my heart and fog my mind.
The week before I had given her $700.00 against a weaving she is making so she and the kids could go on a vacation before the summer ended and school started. She has been working so hard, and I thought she deserved it, so I gave her the money. She and the kids couldn't have been happier as they left to prepare for their adventure.
So, as she stood on the opposite side of the counter, I felt my heart breaking at the sight of her. Her hands, which have created so many beautiful weavings were swollen and purple; probably from trying to cover her face. It hadn't worked, her eyes and cheeks were equally discolored and puffy. To top it off, her stomach was distended; the beating had been thorough. So thorough in fact that she didn't even try to hide it with dark glasses or make up, which would have been useless in any case.
Why did you let this happen, . . . again, I asked, knowing full well it was a ridiculous question. What can I do? she replied. I wanted to say, Beat him back, maim him, dismember him, kick him, roll him out the back of the pickup, anything, just don't let this happen to you, but I knew it wouldn't help.
The week before, I had been talking with a friend who works with the Montana and Wyoming tribes. During our conversation, he told me about arriving at the scene of an automobile accident where one of the occupants of the now upside-down pickup was lying on the pavement; dead. The deceased and his friends had been drinking, and now the party was over; permanently. My friend asked the investigating officer, Was there alcohol involved? It was a rhetorical question. Just as I knew the answer to my question, my friend knew alcohol had killed once again.
Having spent a large part of my adult life at the trading post, I have learned many things about the people of Southern San Juan County, one of them is that I have to be supportive, not judgmental at times like these. That, however, is not my nature, and I have often made the mistake of thinking I can change people with my high-minded rhetoric. So, when she reappeared a few days later, looking for another hundred dollar bill, I had to restrain myself from proposing something retaliatory. Instead, I told her she didn't deserve to be treated so badly; that she is a good, conscientious mother to her children; that she is an extraordinary artist; and that she should try hard to ensure this does not happen to her again.
I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her everything will be okay, but I knew that was naive and absolutely untrue; things were not going to be all right. She told me he had promised not to do it again, and despite trying to keep the comment to myself, I said, Yes, until the next time. One of these days he is going to kill you. I have seen this situation far too many times to think anything will change, so I gave her the money and sent her on her way. As she walked away, I prayed I wouldn't be reading her obituary in the local paper; because she continued to believe he was sorry and that this really was the last time.
The Reservation can be a heartbreaking, gut wrenching place.
Copyright©2004 Twin Rocks Trading Post
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