Resilience

Brown, I want you Brown,

Brown roots, Brown trees.

Family lineage ripens into clans

And sheep graze the lands.

With hair in a bun,

She emerges from the hooghan,

Brown skin, Brown hair,

And eyes of glowing embers.

Beyond the mountains

Everyone looks down on her,

And she returns their gaze with a glare.

Brown, I want you Brown.

Dying trees drink murky water

Which also grows wild plants.

Burnt trees crumble in their ashes

As new ones arise from them.

Their roots dig deep in dirt

For each new growth.

As far as the mountains, Atsá

Soars away from Diné Bikéyah.

She chooses to stay within mountains,

Brown skin, Brown hair,

To protect her family lineage.

“Shí Awéé, I don’t want you to know

About lifelong trauma our people endured,

Culture that was lost,

Language that is almost extinct.”

“Shimá, I’ve come to ask you

About our history and ancestors.”

“If I could, Shí yazhí,

I’d tell you everything

But I am not educated.

I tremble with fear from those who hurt me,

And my mind no longer remembers.”

“Shich’é’é, I want you to

Get an education.

A good one, if possible,

With pure intentions.”

Can’t you see this empty

Space in my mind that I have?

“Your words influence

Shich’é’é, who wants to learn more.”

“But I am not educated,

And my mind no longer remembers

Our culture or the language.”

“Let me learn, at least,

At school and home.

Let me learn. I can handle it,

At the earliest time possible.

Knowledge will lift me

To see far past the mountains

Where Atsá soars.”

As Shich’é’é learns the truth,

About the cutting of long hair,

Disconnection from family and home,

Exploitation of her homeland,

Missing and murdered men and women,

Tears that have never been wiped.

The embers that are her eyes

Were inherited by her ancestors.

To keep speaking Diné Bizáád,

To remember the way of Diné,

To become one with Resilience.

With moccasins tied,

Hair bun fixed,

She runs the glittering path to Hózhó.

A flock of crows circle her.

Brown, I want you Brown,

Brown roots, Brown trees.

Shich’é’é kept the fire inside

Alive with stories from the past.

“Diyin Diné’é, how often am I supposed

To pray for clean water, growing trees

Among a land of dirty water and dying

Trees?”

Little Shich’é’é sits on a

Thick branch of a dead pine tree,

Brown skin, Brown hair

And eyes of burning embers.

After flames of fire fall,

Prayers sleep among the ashes.

The language belongs to her

As her culture does.

Brown, I want you Brown.

Brown roots, Brown trees.

Family lineage ripens into clans,

And sheep continue to graze.