Last month I joined four other men from my church and traveled to the Navajo Nation in The Navajo Nation, like many Native American reservations, has been ravaged by alcoholism and drug abuse. Generations of young adults increasingly are turning away from the traditions and lifestyle of their parents, seeking instead the excitement found in modern American urban culture. In addition to the problem of addiction the Navajos are dealing with child neglect, spousal abuse, unplanned pregnancies and high crime rates.
I always have been fascinated by Native Americans and their culture. I never felt slighted as a boy when chosen by playmates to play the "Indian". Movies often had portrayed them as cruel but I sensed there was an untold story. I learned in college of their tragic history. My trip to New Mexico confirmed for me how greatly Native Americans have suffered while the rest of
Sadly, I found evidence of prejudice nearly everywhere I looked, including in myself. I had expected to sense some degree hostility in the native people. Instead, I found the Navajo to be polite, quiet and reserved. I noticed that the two peoples seemed to remain segregated. I saw groups of white people together with groups of Navajo but I seldom saw them intermingled, except in retail stores. We attended several recovery-oriented meetings while visiting the area; each was attended predominately by members of one group or the other. In one meeting I heard Navajo people share about their feelings of fear and resentment of white people. Twelve-Step meetings like Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are safe places where feelings can be expressed honestly and openly. As I listened the speakers sounded more sad than angry. I felt the same.
Every morning began with praise and worship music performed by our six new acquaintances and their teachers. They sang in the Navajo language accompanied by the drumming of a large community pow-wow drum, about five feet in diameter. It was a beautiful and moving service. We followed from printed hymnals and by the week's end we were singing along in their language. It was a very different musical experience from that found in most churches. I came away wishing my own church had a drum.
I was especially moved by one member of the group, a sixty-year old Navajo gentleman. Daniel had been raised a Christian but then strayed from God. He had been addicted to alcohol most of his adult life. Perhaps I identified closely with him because we were close to the same age. At the graduation ceremony, as Daniel sat at the pow-wow drum with the other graduates, his mother rose unexpectedly from her table, moved to the center of the gymnasium and began a slow dance around the drum. She paused at each of the four compass points and raised her hands in thanks. The other Navajo women rose to stand at their tables and dance in-place. The gratitude and pride Daniel’s mother felt for her son’s recovery were evident in her movements. It brought tears to my eyes as I remembered my own mother.
The week spent in
