matron would strike. They watched, their dark cold eyes waiting for us to make a mistake, to do something wrong. I was always afraid.
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Snow fell softly outside the dormitory windows. Loud whispering came from two beds away. Navajo. Iâd been caught speaking Navajo three days before. The Pima matron brushed my teeth with brown Fels-Naptha soap. I still couldnât taste food, only the acrid, bitter taste of the lye soap.
Teachers at the school were encouraged to be strict, and the smaller children were frequently targeted by slaps or kicks. But the lingering taste of the soap was worse than either of those punishments.
âWhy do you think the matrons are so mean?â the small, high voice, speaking in Navajo, asked from a bed to my right.
âThe teachers are mean, too,â said someone on my other side. âAnd weâll be sent home if we complain.â
âIâd like to go home,â another voice said.
âIt isnât right, though. Theyâre really mean,â said a fourth voice in the dark.
I thought about how well Iâd been treated at home by my father and grandparents. They never hit me when I was bad. They explained to me that what I was doing was wrong, and said that I should stop. It didnât seem right that the matronsâIndians themselves, although not Navajosâmistreated us, their fellow Indians.
With the snow growing deeper outside, I remembered the âstring game,â played with my aunties and brothers. The string game honored Spider Woman, who taught the Diné to weave. Complex patterns formed when string was âwovenâ back and forth between our fingers. As the string was carefully passed from one participant to another, the patterns grew more elaborate. The game was played only in winter, just as hunting stories were told only in winter.
I wrapped up in my blanket. I thought about autumn in Chichiltah, a golden time, my favorite, when corn was harvested. At the end of a long day, Father often made a kind of basket of barbed wire, filled it with corn, and roasted it over the fire. Lying on that cot at Fort Defiance, I almost tasted the sweetness of the yellow kernels.
When I concentrated, I heard the soft chime of sheep bells. After the long winter, in early spring, they returned the sheep to Grandmaâs shelter and corralled them to be sheared. It was then that their wool was the fullest, and as the weather warmed, the sheep wouldnât need a thick coat.
We tied the sheep so they wouldnât move and get cut, then used manual shears, starting at the shoulders, and tried to get the wool off all in one piece. Grandma and my aunties then pulled any twigs and debris from the wool and sprinkled it with white clay sand. They let it dry for at least a week, because it contained oils that would make it difficult to work with. Next they carded the wool, using two flat paddles with metal spikes. These were worked against each other, kind of like combs, and the wool was pulled so the fibers all ran in one direction. That was hard physical labor. Next the carded wool was spun into yarn using a spindle, which is a wooden stick with a flat disk near the bottom. The spindle was twirled in one hand, and the carded wool was fed onto the spindle with the other hand. The fibers stuck together, making yarn. The disk at the bottom kept the winding wool from falling off the spindle.
Washing with yucca suds came next, then drying, then dyeing. With dyes made from plants, the wool had to be dipped many times to get a good color. With commercial colors, which were available from the trading post, one application was enough. Some wool was dyed red, some black, some brown. Combining those colors with undyed white wool, the women designed and wove rugs with wonderful patterns.
The looms were made from four sticks, two vertical and two horizontal. The coarsest wool was used to make the vertical strands for the rug or blanket, and finer wool was
Â
Â
Snow fell softly outside the dormitory windows. Loud whispering came from two beds away. Navajo. Iâd been caught speaking Navajo three days before. The Pima matron brushed my teeth with brown Fels-Naptha soap. I still couldnât taste food, only the acrid, bitter taste of the lye soap.
Teachers at the school were encouraged to be strict, and the smaller children were frequently targeted by slaps or kicks. But the lingering taste of the soap was worse than either of those punishments.
âWhy do you think the matrons are so mean?â the small, high voice, speaking in Navajo, asked from a bed to my right.
âThe teachers are mean, too,â said someone on my other side. âAnd weâll be sent home if we complain.â
âIâd like to go home,â another voice said.
âIt isnât right, though. Theyâre really mean,â said a fourth voice in the dark.
I thought about how well Iâd been treated at home by my father and grandparents. They never hit me when I was bad. They explained to me that what I was doing was wrong, and said that I should stop. It didnât seem right that the matronsâIndians themselves, although not Navajosâmistreated us, their fellow Indians.
With the snow growing deeper outside, I remembered the âstring game,â played with my aunties and brothers. The string game honored Spider Woman, who taught the Diné to weave. Complex patterns formed when string was âwovenâ back and forth between our fingers. As the string was carefully passed from one participant to another, the patterns grew more elaborate. The game was played only in winter, just as hunting stories were told only in winter.
I wrapped up in my blanket. I thought about autumn in Chichiltah, a golden time, my favorite, when corn was harvested. At the end of a long day, Father often made a kind of basket of barbed wire, filled it with corn, and roasted it over the fire. Lying on that cot at Fort Defiance, I almost tasted the sweetness of the yellow kernels.
When I concentrated, I heard the soft chime of sheep bells. After the long winter, in early spring, they returned the sheep to Grandmaâs shelter and corralled them to be sheared. It was then that their wool was the fullest, and as the weather warmed, the sheep wouldnât need a thick coat.
We tied the sheep so they wouldnât move and get cut, then used manual shears, starting at the shoulders, and tried to get the wool off all in one piece. Grandma and my aunties then pulled any twigs and debris from the wool and sprinkled it with white clay sand. They let it dry for at least a week, because it contained oils that would make it difficult to work with. Next they carded the wool, using two flat paddles with metal spikes. These were worked against each other, kind of like combs, and the wool was pulled so the fibers all ran in one direction. That was hard physical labor. Next the carded wool was spun into yarn using a spindle, which is a wooden stick with a flat disk near the bottom. The spindle was twirled in one hand, and the carded wool was fed onto the spindle with the other hand. The fibers stuck together, making yarn. The disk at the bottom kept the winding wool from falling off the spindle.
Washing with yucca suds came next, then drying, then dyeing. With dyes made from plants, the wool had to be dipped many times to get a good color. With commercial colors, which were available from the trading post, one application was enough. Some wool was dyed red, some black, some brown. Combining those colors with undyed white wool, the women designed and wove rugs with wonderful patterns.
The looms were made from four sticks, two vertical and two horizontal. The coarsest wool was used to make the vertical strands for the rug or blanket, and finer wool was
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