Blackhorse

A young man, barely out of his teens, penned a first-of-its-kind story in the early 1960s that profoundly impacted Navajo literature. Eventually, it rippled through all Native American literature to come. The name that was eventually on his book cover, published in 1967 by the University of Oklahoma Press, was not the name I knew. To me, he was Barney, and our friendship began in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Besides writing, he was a performer. He played the piano and sang rock and roll from the 1950s and early 60s. To watch the contrast as he went from the quiet young man to musical performances, capable of setting a piano on fire and belting out an impressive version of Mathilda (released by Cookie and Cupcakes in 1958 or 1959), and to hear his audience jump to life, was truly unexpected and memorable. After such an explosion of energy, he quietly stepped away from the piano bench and audience to slip back into a much more sedate pose. Later in his heyday, he sang songs and did amusing commentary entirely in Navajo for those audiences. On the most serious side, he was a chanter of traditional Navajo ceremonial rituals, reflecting a totally different presence.

Through the years, he called me “Sis.” The last time I visited his home, he pulled me in front of his piano, positioned me just so, and gave a short concert of 1950’s hits for his audience of one, while my husband sat off to the side. The piano chords and his voice, aimed directly at me, erased seasons and years. He was young again; the 80+ year-old disappeared. It was magic and enormous fun.

The occasion of that visit was the conclusion of a two-day ceremony he and his apprentice did for my husband. As we left his home, he said, “Sis, take this. Take your time with it, and when you are done, you can bring it back.” He handed me a tote bag and walked us to the door, “Come back. Come back. I have lots more to tell you.”

Inside the tote was priceless treasure, old writing samples, and a screenplay he had written based on the book published sixty years before. There were small revisions in the basic story and a variation of the main character’s name. I read everything. None of it was brand new to me; I knew the backstories to what was there: the challenge of learning to read and write English, and his overwhelming desire to do it; the struggle of telling his own story in his unique mixed, two-language way against a backlash of, “Don’t do it like that. Follow the rules.”

He remained independent and didn’t buckle. He stood his ground. Later, he was very straightforward about the whole experience. He had gone up against a restricting language system alone, barely out of his teens. No one really understood the extent of what he had to do to tell his story, not even other native writers, young and old, who commanded high speaking and reading fees in the years to follow, but didn’t know of his long-ago work, or the walls he had climbed, or the doors he opened. Oh, the irony.

But all of it made him realistic, more solid, and he went forward with subtle humor. He was never pretentious. Once, after we accidentally met in the aisle of a grocery store, we acknowledged where our days were leading. “I’m getting old,” he said without any sadness. “You don’t look it,” I replied. Always slim and agile, he answered, “But I cheat,” and he patted his black hair and smiled.

When I returned to his home to return the tote bag, he was gone forever. I left the bag with a family member. My husband and I sat quietly in the car outside his home, a bit numb from surprise, staring in the direction of Miracle Hill, such a turning point, a game changer, in Native American literature.