Categories: uncategorized
Date: 21 June 2006 04:52:29
Taos is brown.
The traditional pueblo is brown, I mean. The sand, the adobe, much of the "high desert" terrain around it. All browns. Who'd ever think a thousand shades of the same color could be so beautiful? The sun shone on it all and woke up every nuance to be wakened. The cool wind blew and kept the day from getting too hot, but not so energetically as to raise a dust. Perfect day.
When I lived in Iowa, the reservations were just that, "reservations". "The Rez". Down here in farthest South Louisiana, where the Houmas continue their fight for federal recognition as a tribe, there aren't any reservations for them.
In New Mexico, I went to "pueblos".
The people who choose to do so can live the old way, in adobe houses built and decorated much the way they would have been 100 years ago. There was gas lighting in the little church, perhaps gas for light and heat in the pueblo apartments, I don't know. No electricity though.
When the tourists come, they can stroll through little shops and look over jewelry and artwork and pottery. Sometimes the residents set up tables outside, sometimes they have turned their family living areas into a gift shop or a little sit-down cafe.
I had a great Frito-chili pie in one such room. The elderly couple who lived there invited us in. The gentleman took our orders, and the lady popped outside to her deep-fry station and whipped up round after round of frybread. Their nephew recommended their place for lunch, when I chatted with him and bought a lovely necklace of silver and tiger's-eye.
Everything was brown. Warm rich dark-chocolate brown, bright chili-brown, dun dried desert grass brown. No wonder the tiger's-eye inspired me, it's brown too.
The dogs struck me as well. No, they weren't all brown, hah. It just looked as if they had been specially selected as a cast to play in a movie -- "The Dogs of Taos Pueblo", maybe. They were a small pack, all well-grown, obviously outdoor and unpampered dogs, each of a different breed or cross.
One was a lively clown of a dog, a pit bulldog, sort of a white-and-tan pinto pattern. He dashed exuberantly around the place. One of the tourists must have been a lover of the breed -- he got down on one knee and held out his arms and called to the dog, and was almost bowled over. It was funny.
One young man remined me so much of my daughter. No, he didn't look much like her -- his long black hair was about a foot longer than my girl's long black hair, actually -- but he had the same intense focus on the wire jewelry he was twisting, and the same willingness to explain what he was doing, if you were interested. I wished she had been there to meet him.
I tried to tell him what I was after -- that I was interested in items made by the resident artists, items that reflected the Taos Pueblo people. He understood exactly what I meant, pointing out for example the photo postcards of his grandfather and one of his little cousins, and an uncle.
They wore typical traditional clothing, lots of bright reds for a "dressy" event like posing for a picture. They wore nothing on their heads, their hair down or braided perhaps but no feathers or any other fancy headgear. This as opposed to a very nice photo of an older man in a full war-bonnet of white feathers -- good picture, but no one he knew. Not Taos, and not Pueblo.
These are people of the 21st century, and at least the younger generation are educated people, people with options, but they want to live out the old ways, as far as the daily lifestyle of the adobe pueblo village goes.
A few days earlier, before the weather broke, I spent all of one white-hot, white-bright day at two other pueblos, viewing Rain Dances, Green Corn Dances and Commanche Dances.
Here also were the old ways, dances performed much as they had been for hundreds of years, although along streets and squares of a more modern style of village.
At the Corn Dance we watched from the nearby sidelines while the graceful movements were performed -- all ages taking part, little tiny kids being encouraged to go through the steps and learn. One little boy could not have been more than two -- he wore his long ash blonde hair down to his behind, and a loin cloth, and not much else. (He'd set aside his I Love Elmo T-shirt and purple Barney tennis shoes just for the big event, I am sure.)
He made a gorgeous picture, or would have if photos had been allowed -- they aren't -- just as they would not be in some churches or museums.
He seemed to me a perfect snapshot, himself, of the future, and how bright it could be. Probably some Anglo or Hispanic background in his family -- hence the pretty blonde mane -- yet the love of the old ways and traditions has obviously been taught to him from day one. Thank God the days are gone when people had to hide one side or other of their family tree.
Earlier in the day, at the Commanche dance -- a much more energetic and warlike dance than the gentle Rain or the encouraging Green Corn dance -- I noticed one of the singer/drummers as he played and chanted. His was the clearest voice -- his was the most energetic drumming -- he meant what he was singing. And yet that was the most Irish face I have seen in a long time.
I'd love to know his story. How was he part of things? Were all his family tribal members, and he a "throwback", happening to look like an Irish immigrant great-grandparent? Was he in fact not a blood-relative at all, but a loved part of the tribe for some other reason? A respected young student of the old ways, invited to perform?
Ah, well, you can hardly go interview a ceremonial drummer in the midst of the ceremonies.
One couple of Commanches were either a father/son team, or perhaps an elder and younger brother. The colors and theme of their costumes reflected their love of the Dallas Cowboys football franchise. The little boy's apron-like wrap said "COWBOYS" across it. That was hilarious, and sweet, and ironic. I loved it.
All day long I was reminded of our human richness of differences, and of our human closeness in all the things that matter most.