Division

Division is defined as, “The act or process of dividing; the state of being divided,” which most of us associate with mathematics. On many levels, this topic has perplexed me throughout childhood and into my adult life. For example, when Kira and Grange were in grammar school, I had to cede jurisdiction over their math education to Jana. Once they got past basic addition and subtraction, I was wholly and irretrievably useless. Geometry, trigonometry, and calculus are Greek to me, so when Kira decided on astrophysics and Grange biomedical engineering, I blessed them with all the power I had at my disposal, which was not much, and sent them on their way. Like trout in a mountain stream, once released into the intellectual current they skittered away, never to return for assistance or advice. I concluded they inherited the math gene from their mother or some distant and unidentified relative. Surely, it did not come from my side of the family.

One might rightly ask how someone gets to my station in life with only the most rudimentary skills. In answer, all I can say is, “That is a very good question.” My solution has been to surround myself with smart people, and finding more intelligent people has for some reason not been challenging. Despite their superior math skills, one thing Grange, Kira, and Jana do have in common with me is that none of us is good at division, of the racial, political, or religious type. I was recently reminded of this situation as I sat in an airliner on my way to Philadelphia. Grange and Jana had gone to Vail, Colorado, so Grange could run his first half-marathon. The plan was they would fly from Denver after the race, and we would all converge at Kira’s college dorm. Once together, we intended to move Kira’s meager belongings into storage and send her off on her Chilean semester abroad. I was therefore left on my own to navigate airport gates and the TSA between Durango, Colorado; Dallas-Fort Worth; and Philly. To ensure nothing went too far wrong, Jana put a tag around my neck and a note inside my shirt pocket which read, “If lost, please return to Twin Rocks Trading Post, Bluff, Utah, USA." Apparently, she wanted to cover all the bases, possibly worrying I might even go so far wrong that I found myself in a foreign country.

Having successfully navigated the small regional airport, I stowed my carry-on in the overhead compartment and settled in for the first leg of the day-long journey. I sat in the coach section, sandwiched between two other tightly packed travelers who munched pretzels and sipped soda. Once the aircraft lifted off, I noticed the flight attendant extend a mesh curtain between our cattle compartment and first class. While it seemed a thin barrier between the huddled masses and the elite, throughout the flight it proved effective and no revolution or conflict ensued. Not a single commoner breached the barrier to use their bathroom facilities or to trouble those of the privileged class. That started me thinking about my experience in Bluff generally and the trading post specifically, something I often do.

While many border towns draw distinct racial divisions, Bluff has always been more commingled, less fractious, more open. Here people of different races work together in “hozho,” which is the Navajo term for balance and harmony. When Kira and Grange attended Bluff Elementary School, my own alma mater, they participated in Navajo Song and Dance, a program intended to introduce children, both Native and non-Native, to indigenous culture. The class taught pupils Navajo language skills and showed them a variety of ancient traditions. Every year Kira, Grange, and their classmates participated in competitions to illustrate what they had learned. Seeing my red-headed, fair-skinned children performing on small stages like that of Rock Point Demonstration School in full Navajo costume, including turquoise and silver, always made me swell with pride. I am the emotional type.

Kira was so good she often won the competitions in her category. As a result, her friends at times inquired whether Kira was actually Navajo. Jana assured them our kids were from the Pasta, Potato, and Spicy Portuguese Sausage Clans, and not the Frybread and Mutton Stew group. They seemed unconvinced. The Yei-be-chei, an age-old healing and initiation rite, was Grange’s specialty. In their headbands, moccasins, medicine pouches, and velvet shirts, he and his buddies chanted, rattled, and pranced through the ceremony as though they were experts. They performed at many venues and events, including Ms. Broken Trail, where they mingled with prospective princesses from across the Navajo Nation.

As a result, Kira and Grange grew up drawing no distinction between themselves and their Navajo associates. Priscilla, our trusty sidekick, also taught us a lot about being inclusive rather than divisive. During one recent conversation about living and dying, Priscilla noted the Navajo perspective is that nobody owns anything, and there is, therefore, no reason to divide things up, be selfish, or act as though you are the exclusive possessor. Everything, she cautioned, is temporary, and possession illusory. She indicated that only when you pass on and your shell goes back to the earth is there ownership of any type, and at that point, it is you who are possessed by Mother Earth, mixed back together with all the others who have shared this world; red, yellow, black, and white; tall, skinny, fat, and short; intelligent and otherwise. “You fall into the ‘otherwise’ category, but that’s okay,” she said.

So, having fretted about addition, multiplication, subtraction, and division all those years, it turns out my shortcoming is not such a great handicap after all. I just wish I could convince my accountant of that when she calls with questions about my monthly reports.