“Hmmm, I would say a definite ‘check,’” I reasoned. “You were taught by the best. So what else?”
“Being Navajo is about preserving the tribal lands.”
“Hmmm. You’ll have to explain that one.” My brow furrowed in concentration.
“You may not have to live on the reservation to be a Navajo, but can you imagine not having a land to go back to?”
“Well, doesn’t America belong to all Americans, Levanites and Navajo alike?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“That’s why they call America a melting pot. The idea is that different people from different places come to America, and they become one people. This is a good thing. The difference for the Navajo is that the land from which they originate is the American continent itself. There is no Navajo nation across the water that, simply by its existence, helps preserve the culture of the original people, like an Italy or an Africa or an Ireland. When people from Ireland migrate to America, Ireland still exists, full of Irish people. Where are your ancestors from?”
I knew Denmark had a role in this somewhere, and I answered him, engrossed in his grasp of the issue.
“Okay, so imagine some bigger neighboring country comes along and takes Denmark and makes it into a National Park and says to the Danes, “Take your wooden shoes and get out. You are welcome to move into our country. After all, we are all Scandinavians, and you can live in our country just as easily as you can live here.””
“I don’t think it was the Danes that wore wooden shoes,” I chortled.
“You get my point though, right? If the Danish people don’t have a Denmark, they cease to be Danish eventually. They just become Scandinavian, or whatever. If you take away the land from the people, the people cease to be a people. If you take away the tribal lands, the Navajo people will eventually cease to exist.”
It was my turn to stare at Samuel in awe. “You are one smart Navajo, Samuel. I hereby give you an enormous checkmark.”
Samuel rolled his eyes. But there was a peace that hadn’t been there before. He sighed and reached for my headphones.
“What are we listening to anyway?” He said companionably, and ‘hozho’ was restored on our hard green seat on the rickety yellow school bus.
9. Coda
I had given Samuel all the tapes I made for him when he returned from the reservation in March. I had lined them up neatly in a shoe box and written down each song title along with its composer, making a reference card to fit into each cassette. He said he listened to a different one every night before he went to sleep. I did the same, and I often looked out my window and down the street, to where I could see his grandparent’s house, wondering what composer was keeping Samuel company that night. He would be leaving soon, and I wanted to give him a graduation present – something to remember me by.
Sonja was the one who actual ended up giving me the idea. She was recording my lessons and playing them back to me so I could critique myself, my finger speed, my musical phrasing, my timing. I suddenly knew what Samuel would like better than anything else I could give to him.
For the next week I perfected the piece I had written for him, making sure it was exactly right. The night before school got out, I asked Sonja if I could have a brand new tape. She acquiesced, and I told her that I wanted to record my composition. She was eager to comply and lifted the lid on the grand piano to its greatest height and held her little microphone in its gaping mouth to record my effort. I played with all the feeling I could muster, our imminent parting accentuating my emotions.
When I was done, Sonja was staring at me oddly. She turned to push stop on the recording before she spoke.
“My dear, if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d fallen in love.” There was amusement in her tone, but also a hint of apprehension. Her back was to me, and I was grateful for it, as I felt a flush crawl hotly up my neck. She rewound the cassette and slid it into the case.
“I made myself a copy as well, if you don’t mind.” Sonja changed the subject smoothly and we didn’t end up discussing falling in love for several more years. Regrettably, I never told Sonja about Samuel. He remained a very closely guarded secret until it was too late to tell her, until she no longer had the capacity to care.
Samuel didn’t want to go his graduation ceremony - he said he had earned the diploma whether they handed it to him or not, but Nettie and Don insisted that he go. Johnny was graduating as well, so my family went to the ceremony. It was pretty boring, full of all the trite platitudes about success and making a difference. There were a few lame musical numbers, and the graduating class sang the school song, which frankly could have used a little zip. The Nephi school colors are crimson and gold. The guys get to wear the crimson gowns, and the girls wear the gold. The gold was a little bit mustard in color, and the girls looked mostly washed out.
Samuel was on the back row due to his height and the alphabetical placement of his last name. The crimson looked vibrant next to his warm skin, and I watched him surreptitiously throughout. He showed little emotion when his name was called, and he took his diploma and shook hands with Principal Bracken. Samuel’s big moment had come in the school awards ceremony earlier that week, when Ms. Whitmer had named him her 12th grade English ‘Student of the Year.’ She said he’d shown such marked improvement and desire to learn over the course of the year that he had truly earned the award. The student body probably didn’t care, but Samuel was quietly proud when he told me about it after school.