In Their Shoes: In Their Shoes

14: Passing as “Bessie Yellowhair”

/J,.: ~ssinlJ as ':JJessie Yellowhair " ((We must return to and understand the land we occupy.» - Vine Deloria ~SSieYellowhair told me how her f.unily was near starvation. She was fifteen. Her mother found an advertisement for a "live-in" maid, and the family sent Bessie to work in California. Bessie told me how difficult this had been, how she missed birds, plants, animals. City noises, dirt, smog, pollution assailed her. Because I wanted to understand what it means for an Indian who is quiet, passive and peaceful to enter into a white society that is aggressive, loud, materialistic, I asked Bessie Yellowhair if I might borrow some of her clothes and even her name. I had stayed with the Navajo long enough that I was confident that I could pass for one of them. My hair had grown down to my waist, and I dressed the way the Navajo Indian women did, in a long fluted skirt and velvet overblouse. I scanned a small weekly, the Navajo Times) and found an ad: "WANTED: loving Navajo babysitter for three children, six, four and two." The salary was twenty-five dollars a week. There was a name, Mrs. Morton, and a California telephone number. I called, and after I assured her that I could speak English and knew how to use a vacuum sweeper, she said she would arrange a prepaid ticket to Los 141 142 In Their Shoes Angeles, which I was to get from Greyhound in Holbrook, Arizona. Preparing to leave, I put all my identification cards in an envelope and mailed them to my address in Washington, D.C. Suddenly, I felt stripped, cast into a helpless anonymity. I could no longer produce my "preferential" cards. Nor a driver's license, checkbook, wallet, address or phone book. Inside my undergarments, I sewed a five dollar bill and a few coins. Adrift and rudderless, I was besieged with a nagging doubt: suppose I can't inake it out there? What if I have made an irrevocable judgment and am permanently saddled with it? I sought solace from Thoreau, who said, "Not till we have lost do we begin to understand ourselves." Once fully committed, I felt a gradual sense of calm, of letting go. lt was six in the morning, and I, newly self-christened Bessie Yellowhair, walked away from the reservation toward Highway 264 that leads to Tuba City. I was wearing a long fluted calico skirt with a dark maroon velveteen shirt. My hair, in two pigtails, was partially covered by a kerchief tied securely around my head. Soon I found myselfstanding on a highway, a small flowered canvas suitcase near my feet, raising a hand, motioning for a ride. I felt the whoosh of an occasional vehicle and wondered why I had never realized the speed of an automobile until now, on an isolated highway where they zipped past with such velocity. Suddenly a pickup truck pulled off the road, kicking pebbles into my face. Lifting my skirt, I ran toward the vehicle, carrying the flowered suitcase, and climbed into the front seat beside a man with an old, tarnished look to his skin. Distressed to realize that he was not like me, not a Navajo, I did not trust him. My adjustment was already taking hold. His assumption of superiority, and with it an unmistakable disdain, diminished my morale. I pushed myself against the door, fearing his intention. Passing as «Bessie Yellowhair)) 143 Eventually, he spoke: "Where you heading?" "Holbrook," I replied. I wanted to say more, but my voice gave way to a fear of betrayal. My will seemed suddenly eroded, and instinctively I threw up my guard against a vaguely felt threat. My voice came in slow motion and seemed altogether detached from the person I had been before. "When we get there," he said in a casual but husky tone, "you can spend the night with me." "No, no," I said, barely finding a voice in my state of shock that came not only at hearing his words but recognizing that I was almost defenseless. His truck was going seventy miles an hour, and no other vehicles were in sight. His matter-of-factness was demoralizing, and I had to assert my resentment lest I encourage and embolden him. I pondered what Bessie Yellowhair might do in this same situation. Then I heard myself saying, "You stop this car! You let...