When people ask me what kind of job I have, I usually tell them that currently I am a stay-at-home mother who used to be a teacher. That then leads to follow up questions regarding the grade levels I taught, which school district employed me, and my feelings towards my students. When I inform them that I taught high school history and government for eleven years, they tend to crack jokes about how difficult teenagers can be and how I must be a glutton for punishment. At that point, I am compelled to set them straight about my feelings toward education, teenagers and my place of employment. The eleven years I spent as a teacher at Mescalero Apache High School proved to be some of the most fulfilling in my entire life. I met so many wonderful people, had the opportunity to observe and share in an amazing culture, and make lifelong friendships that continue to enrich my life today.
After completing my master's degree in history, I absolutely had to find a job. I was broke, in debt, and desperately needing to get my mother off my back. I applied at almost every school in the state of New Mexico and several in Colorado as well. Unfortunately social studies and history comprise a subject area primarily dominated by coaches and since I had no coaching ability, I went a long time without a job offer. Fortunately for me, a week before the start of school, Mescalero Apache Schools took a chance on hiring a brand new teacher who didn't coach, and I managed to stay there for over a decade, as happy as I could be with any job.
I had never taught a day in my life, and that proved to be a good thing because the school at which I taught had been open for two years, had some serious growth to accomplish, and did many things in a distinctly unique fashion. My newness, my flexibility, and my open mind made a perfect match with this brand new educational endeavor the Mescaleros had embarked upon. From the first day, I realized that while I would be immersed in an entirely new culture and set of values, I would also be working with people who were just like everyone else...especially the teens. The first year flew by because I loved what I did. Even though I had to work incredibly hard at reaching a lot of the students in a way that would be relevant to them, I had a fantastic time.
The Mescalero, Chiricahua, and Lipan Apaches make up some of the most warm hearted, caring, quiet, loyal, and interesting people I have ever had the good fortune to know. They keep their own counsel, they are reserved until they get to know you, they love to laugh, they love their children, and they make awesome friends. The students also enamored me of the Apache culture and people. The kids I taught over the eleven years I worked there made such an impression on me. Overcoming tremendous obstacles, these students worked diligently at creating a foundation for themselves from which to build productive, adult lives. I am in contact with so many of them stilll...and I know I am getting old because some of my first students have already turned 30. I refuse to believe that though...to me they are all still 18.
Some of the most fascinating and fun aspects of my job included the feasts that the school held on an annual basis, the Gahe or Crown Dancers who would bless the feasts, the blessings the teachers and students would receive from the medicine men and women, and the cultural activities such erecting tipis, skinning elk, and making native arts and crafts. I also loved to make frybread, a tradtional Native American food, and actually became quite accomplished at it by the end of my tenure. The best part, however, of the entire experience, are the friendships that I still have today with coworkers and students and families on the reservation. I treasure those as well as my memories of the time I taught there. When my youngest gets old enough, I sincerely hope that I can go back again and continue to try to make a difference in the lives of the young people of Mescalero.
Frybread
Woodsmoke from the blessed fire
burns my tired, inquisitive eyes.
Underneath the evergreen arbor,
meat stew boils and the scented heat
makes our tummies grumble.
Broad, brown faces watch my pink hands
manipulate the dough.
I am such a novice with the motions,
and I pattycake the smooth dough
into delicious disfigurement.
Fingertips dance over the ball
so silky soft inside my palms.
I enviously eye the apache women
who spin their frybread
like natural magic.
The liquid lard crackles at the bread's touch
when off the yucca pole
my amateur attempt rolls.
Puffing, popping, transforming into gold
I turn it once, then twice.
Spearing it with my stick,
I drop it into the paper-lined box
to drain while translucent spots appear
and the cardboard lazily
soaks up the flavor.
Burning my hands to hold it,
the crisp, crunchy surface gives way
to chewiness and warmth.
My mouth and mind are startled,
and I know I am in love.
No comments:
Post a Comment