My friends and I have been out of college over twenty years, and many of us have developed interesting careers. One friend served as a vice president for a large telecom company until forced out when she refused to doctor the numbers for the upper echelon. She now teaches business ethics to the next generation of Horatio Algers. As a state appellate court judge, another friend makes rulings on other's judgments, or lack thereof. Todd experienced the upside down world of Hollywood before moving his family to a more normal lifestyle in Texas. One of my oldest friends works for Intel in the Pacific Northwest. I do not know exactly what she does; if she tells me, she will have to kill me.
While the circumstances of my current career do not require a security clearance, most of my friends remain in the dark when it comes to my career. In social situations where they are required to introduce me, my mischievous streak prevents me from helping them when explaining what it is I do for a living. Indian Trader is not a selection offered on bank forms and other business applications, so I must settle for checking the Sales box. The fact that I sell art increases my friends' consternation. For Pete's sake, who in their right mind can make a living selling art? And worse, Indian Trader? Do I trade Indians? With political correctness flying around these days like the evening bats out of Carlsbad Caverns, perhaps the more appropriate term is Native American Trader or American Indian Trader. Perhaps I should be more specific. When I sell a particular piece of jewelry, I am a Zuni Bracelet Trader, but selling a carving labels me as a Navajo Folk Art Trader, or should I say, Diné Folk Art Trader. At one time, my business was called Nighthorse Traders, a catchy name I thought, until one particular client kept writing checks out to me as Nighthorse Traitors. I thought she was kidding, but after the third or fourth time, I realized a new business name was in order.
Which brings me to the worst dilemma of all, the whispering-behind-the-back kind of problem which goes as follows, "She's not a real Indian Trader. She doesn't have a real trading post. She doesn't trade pots and pans; ropes and cans; sheep and Spam (although I have traded a truck for a stucco job, jewelry for engine repair, and Pendleton blankets for day labor). She's a woman, no less! Women definitely cannot be traders!"
The definition of Twenty-First Century Indian Trader has changed considerably from Twentieth Century Indian Trader. One hundred and one years ago, my Grandfather Kennedy left a Missouri farm to answer the call of the West. Like many other young traders, he started working for a large mercantile company out of Gallup, New Mexico. He managed stores in remote outposts, gaining an understanding of his customers and merchandise. Four years later, the wholesale house staked him for building a trading post on the Navajo Reservation. He travelled west of Chinle to Salina Springs, a site nestled against Black Mountain and the white sandstone Seven Sisters. A water source was close by, as were a number of potential Navajo customers.
Immediate success would be a great story, but not a true one. A local leader, Left Hand Manygoats, resented his intrusion and sent a message to the young trader which I paraphrase as, "Leave or perish". Fortunately, Granddad was not easily intimidated. His return message in effect said, "Today is a good day to die!" Our trading story may have ended in its fourth year. Instead, Granddad and Left Hand found a way to move forward together.
Three boys arrived in the ensuing years. My father, John, is the middle son. Sickly as a child, he struggled to keep up with his more robust brothers, George and Fred. Grandma Kennedy, an orphan girl from Arkansas, worked hard to raise three rambunctious boys in a difficult environment. The educational needs of the boys precipitated moves into Chinle, Gallup and finally ten miles north of Gallup to a trading post known as Rock Springs. Growing up in the various posts allowed Dad to learn the trading business from the inside out. When travelers arrived, the boys gave up their beds and slept on store counters. Rock Springs was the last dipping station before sheep were loaded on trains in Gallup. It was not unusual to have 20,000 sheep grazing on the surrounding land awaiting their final drive and transport to distant lands. The boys learned to hunt and trap, selling the pelts to the mercantile company. One of my dad's best story beginnings starts out, "Bear attacked me over there." It begs for elaboration.
Jana's Dad
Heartbreak and tragedy are as interwoven in trading as wool, bullpens and saltines. During the flu epidemic of the late nineteen-teens, Granddad buried many Navajo people in Arbuckle coffee boxes. Five thousand dollars was the insurmountable difference between keeping or losing Rock Springs and the 50 surrounding sections of land during the Great Depression. With no money left for their home or business, and funds depleted from trapping earnings, Dad's college experience ended in 1930. That summer, he delivered blocks of ice, which had the dual advantage of bulking up his skinny frame and providing an opening for employment within the mercantile company. During those difficult years, he learned to mold himself into an asset for the company while gaining the skills which led to his career in Indian Trading.
Elephant Hill is the steepest hill in Gallup, yet somehow my father happened to "just be passing by" a beautiful, English/Italian brunette's house every day. Marriage, a burgeoning family and Dad's humble beginnings fostered dreams for bigger things. Realizing a business of his own provided the path to a better future, Dad started his trading career in the village of Zuni. After ten more years and various partnerships, he formed the Gallup Indian Trading Company. By the 1950's, Indian Trading had begun to take on a different face. Posts like my grandfather's were still prevalent throughout the reservation while town stores were gaining sophistication in marketing Indian art. Catering to the burgeoning tourist business, stores competed in offering the best in local weavings, carvings and smithing. Dad innovated the road salesmen; typically husband and wife teams who crossed the nation offering fine Indian handmade items to retail outlets, national park gift stores and museum shops. Millions of dollars worth of Indian artwork were flowing into Gallup and back out around the world.
Steve and I live above the store and our children have been in the trading post almost every day of their young lives. My time in the business started much like my own children's. Saturdays were the best days to sit next to the store's Navajo weaving demonstrator and watch her pluck and move the warp threads of the loom like a virtuoso harpist. I would then venture into the silversmith area to await the flash of torches and listen to the grinding of buffers and clanking of die stamps against silver. My brother, Robert, and I enjoyed Dad's reservation trips to gather rugs and baskets. To this day, two of my favorite smells are lanolin and sumac.
In the 1970's, Dad owned Winnebagos. The roads used to have a lot more dips. Pre-buckle-up-it's-the-law days, we loved to climb on top of the rug piles in the back of the RV and break into fits of giggles when bounced off at the nadir of the rut. When I went off to college and later into a career with Procter and Gamble, upon returning home, I always gave Dad a look and said, "Let's hit the Rez!" which he was always willing to oblige. While apoplectic when 15 years ago I announced I was leaving my cushy career for the romanticism of Indian Trading, deep down my father understood my pull to the Four Corners.
My grandfather died when I was a year old, and I often think, "What would Granddad think about a granddaughter involved in the trading business so many years later." Today the face of trading looks very different, yet the underlying principles remain the same. Honesty. Empathy. Consistency. Hard Work. Today, computers and the Internet drive our businesses, while personal relationships maintain the soul of trading. At 92 years old, Dad is still going strong, letting others drive him to the Reservation for a few days of trading while he spins the yarns which ensnared me so many years ago. Am I an Indian Trader? You bet! It is in my genes.
With Warm Regards,
Georgiana Kennedy Simpson
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