Review
Essay: Esther G. Belin, Jeff Berglund, Connie A. Jacobs, Anthony K. Webster,
editors. The Diné Reader: An Anthology of Navajo Literature. Foreword by
Sherwin Bitsui. University of Arizona Press, 2021. 409 pp. ISBN: 9780816540990.
https://uapress.arizona.edu/book/the-dine-reader
Strands
of wool hung from my loom—
łighai,
dootł'izh,
łitsoi,
łizhiin
– like unfinished sentences
awaiting its final composition.
The
arrival of The Diné Reader in the mail caught my bluebird's song mid-chorus.
My husband handed these voices to me as I wrote another sentence in wool. I
paused to receive the words, thoughts, images, histories, and hopes of Navajo
writers, young and old, many known to me, some whose homes are still within the
Navajo Nation and others who are replanted far from our mountains, ones who
were birthed with our language on their tongue and others who dream of it. I
then placed them alongside my loom and continued to listen to Dólii's song.
Once I finished the woven crest of Dólii's head, I covered my loom with red
material, gifted to me at a sing before COVID closed our cage. I turned my
attention from my writing in wool to the print on the pages.
Jinii of
this compilation of Diné poetry, short stories, essays, and novel excerpts
preceded its arrival to our home in Tsaile. The confirming news brought me back
to my time as an Associate Instructor teaching Native American Literatures at
the University of California, Davis. In 2011, Dr. Inés Hernández ávila (Nez
Perce/Tejana), who led an eager group of Native American Studies graduate
students through their first-year experiences teaching composition at the
university level, approved my syllabus for a class on Navajo literatures. Commencing
that semester, I began introducing undergraduate students from a range of
ethnicities to the works of Diné writers like Gracey Boyne, Esther Belin, Della
Frank, Sherwin Bitsui, Luci Tapahonso, Roberta D. Joe, Berenice Levchuck, Hershman
John, Irvin Morris, and Marley Shebala. More intimately, I shared chapters
written in wool by my Nálí, Ida Mae McCabe, who taught them the
metanarratives inherent to our cultural arts. These stories told to our
weavings, pottery, baskets, leatherwork, and jewelry as they were given shape
still serve as threads holding them together.
łibá łibá
ch'ilgo
dootł'izh łibá
łibá
As I
glimpsed over the table of contents, names of those voices from my time
teaching Navajo literatures undergraduate courses returned to visit by way of
this anthology, forming what could be considered a stalk of the Diné literary
cannon. These stalk writers delve into the world of reconciling clashes of
cultures, the memories of home, boarding school, and reservation life, the
reemergence of traditional philosophies, stories, and songs, and, ultimately,
the realities of life, death, and the unseen entities that guide us through
this journey.
It is
this writing of life and death that caught my attention—not merely for
my practices and studies of Diné traditional sheep butchering nor for its clear
affront of the Diné "taboo" surrounding discussions of death amongst the
living. Rather, this anthology embraces death's integral relationship to our
cycle of life—of our corn, sheep, ways of knowing. Grey Cohoe's
(Kinłichinii) "The Promised Visit" reveals natural and supernatural levels
of death with doorways of cultural teachings, including that of sealed hogans.
"Within Dinétah the People's Spirit Remains Strong" by Laura Tohe (Tsé
Nahabiłnii) transports stories of near-death to highlight resilience in
our existence. Della Frank (Naakai Dine'é), with her imagery of a corralled
sheep ready for sale, reminds us of impending deaths of human and non-human
alike in "I Hate to See..."
The most
prominent overture of death is that of Shonto Begay (Tódich'iinii), whose artwork
also provides the cover image of this anthology. In "Darkness at Noon," he
canvases a solar eclipse experience from his youth. Akin to many of the pieces
in this collection, this story merges with my own memories, in particular that from
2017, sitting mid-day in a deafening silence, curtains closed, with my husband
and a hungry newborn. As I read, I re-live the trepidation for the life that my
husband and I had just brought into this world which was on the verge of
ending. But just as the sun comes back to Begay and to us, The Diné Reader
reminds us to embrace the day and live with prayer, gratitude, and actions that
will see us into the next world.
łitso łibá
ch'ilgo
dootł'izh łibá
łistso
A
harvesting of new voices emerges from this stalk. Notably, these new ears find
their voices budding through English and Creative Writing M.F.A., M.A., and
Ph.D. programs. This demonstration in academic achievement answers the literary
call to action made by Joy Harjo (Muscogee) and Gloria Bird (Spokane) to
reinvent the enemy's language: "Many of us at the end of the century are using
the 'enemy language' with which to tell our truths, to sing, to remember
ourselves during these troubled times...But to speak, at whatever the cost, is to
become empowered rather than victimized by destruction" (Harjo 1998, 21). The
youth included in this compilation attest to that empowerment by way of their
dismembering and remembering of the English language into a rain cloud
demanding its place in academia.
As this
new corn feasts on the rain which both encourages and challenges their growth,
I hear the echoes of Native American Studies lectures, I share in their self-realizations
of cultural gaps, and I celebrate their daring voices that contest trends in
academia. They too speak of death. Bojan Louis ('áshįįhí) sheds light
on the death and violence inherently associated with decolonization. Shinaaí, Byron
Aspaas (Táchii'nii) pushes past stagnant roles of victimization to reveal us as
our own monsters. Venaya Yazzie (Hooghanłání) calls for the death of
feminism's cling to our matriarchal way of understanding the world.
y á g o
d o o t ł ' i z h
In
addition to the archetypical literary demonstrations within the anthology
(poetry, essays, short stories, etc.), the text includes additional resources
to assist the readers with cultural references, linear timelines, and
analytical suggestions. One example is a re-printing of the "Diné Directional
Knowledge and Symbolic Associations" by Harold Carey Jr. that postulates
symbolic cultural contextualization present in many of the writings of this
anthology. The "Introduction" provides an exemplary demonstration of the literature
review academic exercise, addressing key literary productions by Diné people,
rationale for this compilation, justification for its Westernized linear
format, and statement of Sa'ah Naagháí Bik'eh Hózhóón's influence to the
editing process. Most of the selected 33 authors are introduced through
interview excerpts, allowing readers to glimpse their world(s), influences, and
words of advice for new generations of Diné writers. The Diné Reader
concludes with appendix-like "interventions" to address the systemic erasure of
nonwhite voices and experiences within national and local curriculum designs
(15). Renowned Diné historian, Jennifer Denetdale (Tł'ogi), contributes a
chronological portrait of Diné political and literary events for Diné and
non-Diné readers alike. Michael Thompson (Myskoke Creek), retired member of the
Navajo Nation Teacher Education Consortium, suggests pedagogical frameworks for
instructors and intrigued minds wishing to contemplate the philosophical
brilliance within these pages.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Thup
I placed
this tremendous exposition of Diné voices aside, removed the red material
covering my loom, picked up my baton, and carefully opened pockets of rain. It
was time to digest—not only for this book review but also for the
growth of my own creative thinking.
"How
should I evaluate this work as a Diné academic, teacher, and mother, Dólii?" I
asked my bluebird as I started the feet of a flicker with whom Dólii would soon
be at war.
"Ah, yes—time to assess. Don't you remember the first time you made me?" Dólii
responded. "Nálí hastiin told you I was beautiful, and he was so
proud of you. Nálí aszdaan agreed, smiling. And after she finished the dishes,
she sat down next to you and told you that I looked like I had eaten a lot and
I needed to go on a diet. Then she told you that you needed to learn songs to
keep working with birds to protect yourself. We are not mere blessings; we can
be dangerous."
dump dump
dump
dump
dump
"Yes, my
angry birds with chubby bellies. I remember," I giggled as I patted down a sentence
of color with my comb. "How scared I was to bring that rug to their house for that
critique! Everyone celebrated my piece, proud that I was continuing the
traditions. But I didn't want celebration for mere continuation, I wanted to
tell better stories with wool. My Nálí lady, she was a weaver—prolific.
Showing her took courage and letting her know it was okay to help me be better
made me stronger. With her critique, she provided me with cultural
re-orientation and technical skills. And now look at you, Dólii!"
"You know
what to do then. Celebrate the accomplishments of this unique compilation of
Diné voices bound together by a group of individuals who have dedicated
themselves to seeding new Diné writers. What these writers and editors did took
courage, and their own people should make the strongest critique. Consider
where they overseeded and underweeded."
"I wonder
about accusations of lateral oppression and cultural gate keeping that I may
receive... we, as Navajo writers and academics, want to create, publish, be
read, we say we want to re-learn, re-member, re-vitalize but... are we ready to
be reviewed by our own people in all its celebrations and critical feedback? It's
hard, but I learned from my Nálí that not all criticism is a micro- or
macroaggression of cultural bullying. More often than not, it is an undoing and
rethreading of a misplaced line of wool to reconnect us with our traditional
teachings."
"True...
people will tell me that I have no place on this stalk nor on this loom. That I
am from across the sea, brought here by way of a global market and through the
dictation of non-Native traders on the Diné weaving aesthetic. And they are
right—partially. But let them feel my songs early in the morning in the
winter during Yeii bi cheii. I'm more than just an acculturated style of
writing with wool; I am even more than just a model for a flour bag. You
have heard those songs, Christine. So, embrace the critical feedback you
receive and give. Is that not the purpose of the engagement of sih hasin in our
way of knowing according to Sa'ah Naagháí Bik'eh Hózhóón? If we don't honestly
self-assess, then how do we know that we have angry birds on our loom? Now be
careful, you've made my neighbor, the flicker, a bit heavy."
ppppppppppppppppppppp
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I broke
our silence by removing the batten from between the wefts.
"The
Diné Reader
presents a formidable stalk of Diné literature albeit without field. While each
contribution is testament to re-inventing the enemy's language, the overall
text lacks incorporation of Diné epistemological or methodological
encompassing. Moving beyond the kitsch, which overspins the living being of Sa'ah
Naagháí Bik'eh Hózhóón into mere stages of 'thinking,' 'planning,' 'living,'
and 'reflecting,' literary and cultural devices utilized at the presentation
level of these voices may have provided an ontological pathway through which
readers could breathe in Diné ways of knowing—like the fourfold
inhalation of pollen and air after a long morning's prayer, or of smoke from a
pipe during a blessing of our mountain bundles, or of the scent of metal and stone
after receiving a new piece of jewelry."
"The
editors declare their use of the paradigm of Sa'ah Naagháí Bik'eh Hózhóón in
their individualized processes; just because you don't see it doesn't mean it's
not there, Christine."
"Indeed,
Dólii. Perhaps I superimpose my desire for a book like this to disorientate the
reader like that of a good cleansing from a sweat. Instead, the book opts for a
Westernized presentation in both mapping and linear timeline. And I understand;
it makes the reader connected in terms of chronological influences, provides
direct access to specific Diné authors, and neatly organizes work behind writer
interviews."
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Thup
"What
about the symbolic and physical maps? I felt it was an astute way to coherently
taxonomize the imagery that readers will be exposed to in many of the
writings."
"Certainly,
they do. Predictably, The Diné Reader includes a physical map,
indicating Native nation borders, state lines, and other significant
geographical identifiers. Moreover, it embraces a symbolic map of the natural
and supernatural geographies associated with Sa'ah Naagháí Bik'eh Hózhóón.
However, the selected map, 'Diné Directional Knowledge and Symbolic
Associations,' is a north-oriented map—a Westernized preference of
presenting landscapes stemming from the Age of Exploration when 'discoverers'
relied on the magnetic pull to the north to familiarize themselves. This north-oriented
map sets a tone for accommodation (dare I say, colonization) through a
Westernized mind set—instead of welcoming the readers with a
sun-oriented map that moves, breathes, and every winter, threatens to leave
us."
"Keep
going. I think I am following you."
"For
ceremonial practicing Diné people, our 'magnetic pull' is to the sun. Carey
Jr.'s diagram, while obliging, warrants a 90-degree rotation left—or if
we are going shabikehgo—270 degrees sun-rotation-wise. This
re-centering, as I tell my students, is more than turning a page. It changes
our perspectives and opens us to the time immemorial ways of knowing that
greets the sun and penetrates our prayers. If The Diné Reader proposes
to engross readers to and by way of Diné thought through creative writing, this
would necessitate a change to their centering direction beyond the inclusion of
excluded voices."
"Bíigah.
In the same manner that baskets, pottery, or rugs are placed in our homes
opening to the sun, you hope that this book, when it opens, allows sunbeams to
enter us and that our experiences reading pull from that energy."
"Aoo'. In
this way, the readers (re)connect not just to the words on those pages but also
to our Diné ways of knowing. While the voices brought forth are remarkable and
the endeavor embarked upon by the editors is enthralling, I challenge The
Diné Reader to return to our philosophies of storytelling to engage in what
Cherokee storyteller Marilou Awiakta (1993) would refer to as a compass story
that connects the stalk and corn to the roots and pollen."
dump dump
dump
dump
dump
"You sing
of stalks, corn, and fields. Tell me more about roots and pollen?"
"Dólii,
you are paying attention! I thought you distracted by this flicker's wingspan!"
"Wah!"
"Okay,
then—the roots. While this text exemplifies re-inventing the enemy's
language, I wonder where are our stories written in wool, mud, sand, stars,
paint, leather, silver, stones? The Diné Reader's introduction
opens with the impact of poetry as a medium for release of our people's
'imprisonment of the language' following our introduction to boarding schools
(4). But our stories have always been written. Many of the 33 contributors
reference these written forms of Diné storytelling. And though many may no
longer understand how to read those stories written in wool, mud, sand, stars,
paint, leather, silver, stones, they are still very much alive, telling and
receiving stories."
"I get
it," Dólii responded. "They are the roots of this anthology."
"The
introduction also claims that they wish to unearth forgotten and unrecognized Diné
writers, but the anthology itself sets out to pollenate new Diné writers from within
English and Creative Writing disciplines. What about other disciplines; what
about those outside of academia? How do we hear their voices, which this
anthology has weeded out, and plant their corn stalks in this same field? In
this same manner, while there is a head nod to comics with Tatum Begay's (Naasht'ézhi
Tábąąhí) work at the silk of the corn, how do Diné fine artists, cultural
artists, journalists, blog writers, and script writers break soil in this field?"
"Well, Christine,
you are asking for a book that is a long as that flicker's tail!"
"I knew
you were watching! Not a long book—but a field of books, Dólii."
ppppppppppppppppppp
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
"This
field that you sing of, how many kinds of corn do you want to plant?" Dólii
asked as I pulled my baton out and prepared another sentence of color.
"Many!
Yellow, white, blue, red, and my favorite color of all, sweet corn. The "The"
in the title presents a minor hiccup to that variety as "The" Diné Reader provides
a superlative identifier which implies superiority and singularity. It is much
the same read I give to Paul Zolbrod's title: Diné Bahane': The Navajo
Creation Story (1984) as compared to Irvin Morris' (Tábaahí) title From
the Glittering World: A Navajo Story (1997). Both are creation stories—but one title demands the ultimate compilation, while the other
welcomes its individuality within the field."
"Now you are just nitpicking!"
"Am I?
Our words—spoken, written, molded, fired, woven, planted—they
have meaning. Our words are our medicine, directions, stories. The selection of
the title for this compilation has a story; we just don't know it. I hope that
the future of The Diné Reader is a field of plurality, reflection,
strength, and hope. Just like you, Dólii."
I picked up the strands hanging from my loom
łighai,
dootł'izh,
łitsoi,
łizhiin
and
finished my review with writing in wool.
Christine Ami, Diné College
Works Cited
Awiakta,
Marilou. Selu: Seeking the Corn-Mother's Wisdom. Golden, Colo.: Fulcrum
Publishers, 1994.
Harjo,
Joy, and Gloria Bird. Reinventing the Enemies Language: Contemporary Native
Women's
Writing of North
America. New
York: W.W. Norton & Co, 1998.
Morris,
Irvin. From the Glittering World: A Navajo Story. Norman: University of
Oklahoma
Press, 1997.
Zolbrod,
Paul. Diné Bahané: The Navajo Creation Story. Albuquerque: University of
New
Mexico Press, 1984.