The Death of a Diné.

I've found that phone calls from blocked numbers have a higher potency of Fate in them. I was accepted to AFI with a blocked call. Tonight I received another, with much less joyous news. I share it hesitantly on my blog, but realize simultaneously that if I don't write it down here, it won't get written down at all.

About a year ago, I was on my way to the Grand Canyon to do a portrait for Arizona Highways. As I topped out of the Sonoran, I spotted a hitchhiker and picked him up. He was Native American. His name was Herbert Tsosie. He was trying to get home: The Gap. It's a place in Northern Arizona about halfway between Flagstaff and Page.

Let me back up just a bit. As I was leaving the house that morning, I felt inclined to grab my Mini Disc recorder. I didn't know why until I saw Herbert. 

For the next 3 hours, Herbert and I talked. Herbert talked mostly, and I listened mostly. That's exactly how I wanted it. I have audio clips from that car ride that are incredibly significant to me. This is why I hesitate to post this. I try to keep my most personal feelings to myself, to my God and to my wife. There are very few people who know how deeply I love the Diné people and their land — and how important I believe them to be in the Grand Scheme of things.

I took Herbert clear to Cameron, and was consequently late for my portrait. He asked me to come to his home the next day to spend time and meet his family. I said I would.

When the next day came, I arrived at his home at The Gap. Herbert was not home, but his family was — and they were not expecting me. After a somewhat tense moment (insert stereotypical image of White Man Cowboy and Savage Injun Chief squaring off-----though it was actually me and an obese old Navajo woman — sorry to dash your fantasy), I was able to explain my presence on their property. 

They explained that Herbert was gone, that they had no idea when he'd return. This was common, they said, and he would often come home very intoxicated. I failed to mention that as I drove Herbert home the day previous, he drank two liters of beer like it was Mother's Milk. Nevermind my ignorance toward Open Container Laws — only someone less naive would have thought about that.

I left my contact information with his family and left. I also didn't say that Herbert was going to take me to see a Dinosaur footprint in the sandstone on the mountain behind their property, as well as an ancient moccasin print. Not getting to see those was also disappointing. 

Herbert never called. It was almost six months later when the phone rang. It was a "928" Area Code, which means it was from Northern AZ. A man identified himself as Harry Tsosie — Herbert's father — and asked if I would come and meet with him. He was in Glendale visiting his daughter. I eagerly said that I would — extremely humbled by his contacting me.

The next day, I spent hours in a little house trailer in Glendale learning everything about the Tsosie clan. Things that are so special to me. Harry's father was a bona-fide Code Talker in WWII — a major reason we were able to win the war. He and virtually all the men in his family had served one time or another in their lives — some multiple times. I have always been fascinated by the irony of the Native Americans' patriotism toward a people that drove and slaughtered them like cattle for centuries. I think they saw past the White Man, into the preservation of their sacred lands. 

If there's one thing I have going for me in this life, it's Sincerity. In my photography and in my life I have known that I have a way about me — people trust me and open themselves up to me. It's a gift I do not take lightly or abuse.  Herbert and Harry both opened their hearts to me, and I feel privileged for it. Harry told me that Herbert was in jail, and would be out in January. When I spoke with Harry in January, he said that Herbert's sentence had been extended for a year. Harry also asked me if I would be willing to come to The Gap to photograph his entire family, who would be gathered for the graduation of his Granddaughter. Again, with absolute eagerness, I agreed. The proposed date was May 23rd, 2009.

I sent Harry occasional texts over the next few months — to say hello, to tell  him how much I was looking forward to May. We also had plans to teach me Navajo, which I've thought about learning for years, and hope to.

Two weeks ago, after not hearing back from his texts, I decided to call and confirm everything for the 23rd. I got his voicemail, left a message and never heard back. I called again a few days later. This time a woman answered. She was Diné, so I assumed she was Harry's wife or daughter. She refused to speak with me and hung up. I called several more times, trying to explain who I was, but she became more hostile with each call, finally telling me she had no idea who Harry Tsosie was. 

Side note: After hundreds of years, I am amazed how little progress has actually been made — how much deep, abiding anger exists. It is palpable. This goes for many races.

I remembered I had another number that Harry gave me. I tried it, left a message, and never heard back. Until tonight. Harry's daughter called me. I was thrilled. I told her I figured Harry changed his number, as is so often the case with cells these days, but was so glad she got my message.

"My father passed away a couple of months ago."

 These words could not have been less expected. My heart literally lurched in my chest. I was, and still am in total shock. I feel as though a critical connection in my life has been severed.

Herbert is still in prison. The last time he saw his father was over a year ago. He was probably drunk. Harry was always very concerned for Herbert. I am sure he knows of his father's death, and I cannot imagine the pain of not being there when he was needed most.

And now it's now. I have a few Diné friends, but none were as important to me as Harry. He was, to me, an ancient and true Diné. He was one of the last of a generation of Native Americans that will never exist again. These days they don't even teach their native tongue in school, and very few Diné (Navajos) among the new generation can even speak it. This is a tragedy of enormous magnitude.

So, this post is for Harry. It is for the Diné whose culture and land I love beyond words. It is one of my main goals in life to tell a small part of their story — to pay tribute to their sacred landscape — in a way that does it justice.

wes.