Return to rez holds surprising rewards

CHINLE

Waking up to the sound of clucking chickens takes a while to get used to. As well as maneuvering through my old bedroom in my parents’ trailer.

Since I’ve been away at college, my parents turned my room into a storage space. Amongst the clutter are also boxes I have yet to unpack, evidence of my swift move back home. My parents also relocated the hen coop closer to the house, almost right under my window, which accounts for the constant clucking I hear nearly every minute of every day.

After waking up with the chickents, I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. After a couple of minutes, I’ make myself a hot cup of tea. I’m the sole tea drinker among my coffee-addicted family. Even my 16-year-old brother has been drinking the bean juice since he was three (we learned too late to never leave things within reach of a toddler). I never like the taste of coffee. Every time I try it, I can feel my heart thumping so fast that it scares me.

My favored cereal brand continually runs out. The sweet fruity cereal doesn’t last long between myself, my brother and my stepdad.

After breakfast, I return to my room and shut the door. I clear as much space as possible, set up a small folding table, put down my laptop, a cup of tea, an AP Stylebook and a pen and paper. Then I sit down on my old swivel chair from my college days and begin making phone calls.

Never did I think this would be how the first year of my career would go.

I knew 2020 was going to be a big year for me, but I mostly anticipated it because it was the year I was going to graduate from Northern Arizona University.

As a first-generation college student, I felt both the honor and pressure to get my bachelor’s degree. I know some of my family had wished I could have gone for a different degree, but they were the same members who also told me to play to my strengths.

I never knew what I wanted to be when I “grew up.” I was too busy reading or listening to stories to really think about it.

I think my grandparents were the ones who created my passion for stories. I remember listening to my cheii as he told tales of his younger days, of how he tried to become a boxer in California, and of silly adventures like how his buddy Sweatpants got his nickname. Or sitting with my grandma on the land she grew up on, camping there as the sun set while she gestured across the field talking about a time when the piñon trees were saplings and before barbed-wire fences penned in the landscape.

My paternal grandma also had her share of stories. She would go into such detail of what Chinle was like many years ago as she mentioned people I know and pointed towards landmarks, making it easy to get lost in her memories. She recently moved, so every time I leave her house, I have to re-orient myself and remember that I am on the other side of town, far from where her old trailer once stood.

In addition to my family’s life stories, I also filled my head with fantasy, science-fiction, and occasional horror. If I am to confess, my love for reading was born out of guilt. Back in fifth grade in Ms. Natay’s class, we were supposed to do a book report. Instead, I watched a movie based on a book and wrote about that. I felt terrible about it for a long time, so I decided to read the book and found it much better than the movie.

I’m not sure why I was always reading. Maybe it just helped me to cope. To imagine a world far away filled with magic and advanced technology, away from my less-than-ideal childhood growing up in a fracturing family in the Navajo Nation. I kept having those thoughts and dreams, even when my constant studying helped me get to NAU as I followed my cousins’ path towards a higher education.

Becoming a journalist was my idea of telling stories that mattered. I thought it would be easy but found there was more to it than simply writing: story structure, finding sources, knowing the law, and learning how to tell stories through different means other than pen and paper.

For every one of my journalism classes, we would always begin with the golden rule: Be accurate. Since 2016, media outlets have been scrutinized to the point of violence — so much so that students are encouraged to be as precise as possible. Even during the worst of times, we must always make sure what we say is truthful as misinformation can be dangerous.

With the coming of 2020, I had initially planned on staying in Flagstaff; to keep the small apartment I’ve been staying in, get a high-paying job and maybe a dog.

The COVID-19 pandemic changed everything.

I was in shock when classes were to go virtual after our spring break. It proved chaotic, especially for my final year, as all of my classes were more hands-on and required us to go out and report on events. With nothing happening at the time, I wasn’t confident in my chances of graduating.

But through the mercy of God, I received my bachelor’s in the mail.

Although a big moment for me, I didn’t feel very accomplished. Probably because my cap and gown are still sitting in the corner of my makeshift office, still waiting for a day when I can put them on.

I didn’t initially apply to the Navajo Times because I missed the application deadline for their only journalist opening. But following the prompting of my mother, I threw my hat in, figuring the worse that could happen was that I wouldn’t get a response.

But I did get an answer from the boss himself, publisher Tom Arviso, Jr. It took us a while to arrange a safe conference following all the COVID-19 precautions, but after meeting with Tom and editor Duane Beyal, I felt like I made the right decision.

I didn’t plan on returning home right after college, but ever since I started working for the Times, it has become a real honor. Despite advances in technological media outlets, many people still read the Times and for me to contribute to that is indescribable.

As a sports journalist, I have been able to talk to inspiring people, coaches and athletes alike. All of them feeling determined, hopeful, and encouraging, even in the middle of a deadly pandemic. All of them with enough energy and passion to fill an entire stadium. The fact that I, a young adult, am inspired after having a conversation with a 7-year-old roping champion with dreams of becoming an NFR cowboy says a lot.

It is because of such inspiration that I feel like my job is essential. I want readers, the everyday people in the Navajo Nation, to know that such inspiration lives among them. As a people, we have something to be proud of and something to look forward to. Even during the best of times, growing up in the Navajo Nation can be rough, but there is still beauty here, a peace, a sense of belonging that I have sorely missed while living in Flagstaff.

Even though I’m not fluent in Navajo, it fills me with peace sitting in the living room and listening to my grandparents talk in the traditional language. I don’t fully understand our ceremonies, but I always like attending them and being there with the family. I may not look Navajo (on the reservation I’m called out for looking white while in Flagstaff I’m mistaken for Mexican), but here in the Navajo Nation, I feel more comfortable; safe.

It has been challenging for me to work from home, being distracted by our lovesick dogs, a grumpy cat, and my joy-filled siblings. And by my parents who, even though they know I’m working, ask me to wash dishes and chop wood like I’m still their little boy.

I did not plan to come home so soon after college, to be living with my parents, or to be a part of the Navajo Times. The job has been great, but when things return to normal, I know my fellow sportswriter Quentin Jodie and I will be busy covering dozens of different events across four states. We will do our best.

This whole year has been filled with surprises and heartache, but I never felt more at home than I do now. I feel like I am telling stories that matter, not just to me but to my people as a whole.

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