noowiwituuniíwat. Then he told about himself. Using the alphabet they established on the Fort Berthold Reservation for language instruction. 1975. paatúh kananuuninó, Not Afraid of the Enemy. Telling about it, this way, what the reason is. I am telling.
Creating a fluent speaker. Our problems are our tools. Use them to get what you want: a new fluent speaker. One person who can communicate from their soul, the things they feel, she said, Mrs. Nancy Richardson Steele. This is her definition of fluent. Make yourself understood leaving English behind you. Behind you, leave it. Focus on learning. You understand first. If you have living speakers, create your own immersion. Doing. Speaking. Listening. If you don't want to starve you will learn how to ask. What's for food? I am hungry. One to one, living your daily life, together in language. Immersion. Leaving English behind. For today, leave it.
This is a process.
Traditional activities lead to language, especially things with a sequence.
Miss Navajo Nation, the girls check in. They sleep. Day one begins: Traditional Skills Competition, Butchering. They meet at a circle of ground under the awning in the Hazzel Yazzie Pavilion at the Fair Grounds in Window Rock. The women are dressed. They dress themselves: tl’aakal, deiji’éé’ dishooígíí, ké nitsaaí, and sis lichí’í for good posture. The wear an apron to cover their dress and plastic coverings over their moccasins. They tie their hair and are recognized by each other, and by the gods.
In teams of two they work. Together, strength is required. Hold the dibé. One girl has the sheep hugged tight to her breast. She keeps it still, as well as she can. The other takes a sharp bladed knife and slits the throat, quickly, with accuracy and care. Death is intimate. Together they act: two girls, one dibé. They pour the blood into a bowl. Their speech at a barely audible volume. One severs the head clean from the body. The animal bleeds out. Sheep is life. They lift it and tie its hind quarters with rope. The body hangs in the arena and they butcher, first this sheep, then another.
Two girls form one team, one sheep per team. Their voices a barely inaudible hush. Their bodies moving as one, two heads, four hands. They lift the second dibé by its rear and tie it to the post. It finally bleeds out. One cuts at the base of skin while the other pulls, exposing the muscle of meat. Then she, the one with the knife starts to disembowel the dibé. One slice long down the body, two hands reach in. Intestines, they will use them, later for ach'ii, they must be cleaned. What one cuts clean the other removes. Each piece piled neat, grace is required of the human soul. Sheep is life. They give it to us. They work until they are done. They each select the pieces they've chosen to prepare.
Each part they know. It's their responsibility to know, for a feast of return, for a traveling child, for a puberty ceremony or for a soldier going to war. Sheep are life, they give it to us. We kill our own. There are many reasons. Today, there is one, demonstrating the abilities that carry us on, uniquely as who we are. Each death has meaning. The manner of killing shapes the soul.
Fire must be made. Even now, at this time. They face their pit and set their fuel to flame. They prepare their bowls with flour, fat, salt and water. Proportions—they are on their own with only their practice for company. The two who work together so well each make a good fire. Their tortillas are different. One has a bowl of sticky dough she is adding flour to. Eventually she has a slightly dry ball. She pulls small lumps off and shapes them one by one, pushing and pulling them into shape. Sometimes poking a hole, then patching it up. Before placing it on the hot grate. Turning a few times before moving them to a plate.
The other girl barely handles her dough. Proportions—from years of helping at home. Second nature to her, she stands and slaps the balls from her left palm to her right. She knows where everything is: meat nearly done. One flip per tortilla. The pile quietly grows and off to the side the other two contestants struggle along, still butchering their sheep. It should go fast. Death an intimacy that requires the strength to maintain your momentum.
The girl on the left is looking ill. She is shaken from the heat, the pressure, the blood pouring out. Balance, she has lost it. The people step in and move her aside. Rest, water, comfort she needs. The medical team will check her over. She was trembling to faint, they caught her first, before hitting ground. Her partner must go on alone. She struggles to lift the back of the lamb, so she can continue her task. A woman must move into the space that opens itself up. She reaches inside and finds what she needs, a woman, there is one. Things need to be done. The animal hangs. She must respect what it has given. She skins alone. She cuts alone and finally she makes it to her place and prepares her pit. Fire. Flour. Salt. Water. Fat. She is tired and the tortillas shape themselves. What effort she gives something unseen gives back and the judges taste her food last. It does not taste best, and it does not taste bad.
She shows the signs of a good day's work. They all do. Clothes dusted, their hair sticking out. The meal they share they prepared themselves. Water. They drink it. The judges make notes. They keep to themselves.
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On the third day they share their talents. Most of them sing in Navajo, even if they cannot speak. They memorize their clans but can't answer questions. Sing, they can sing. Words are birds flying out of Bat Woman's basket, scattering in directions too numerous to track. Taking on their own life, their own character and appearance. The number of speakers, fluent and not, scatters too.
wetatuhneesuuníkUt. I have caught the gut.
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