Thoughts on Tuba City
Aerial Photo from Tuba City High School Yearbook 1965
Tuba City is not a place that I find easy to think about. This is, in
part, due to the fact that there aren't very many people who even
know of its existence, much less any who are familiar enough with the
town or the area to carry on a conversation about it. It is also
difficult for me because there are so many strong feelings
evoked by the memories, thoughts and images resulting from my experiences
while living there during my junior high school years. I guess for
most people, two years doesn't amount to much, and considering how
much my parents moved me around during my years growing, even I am
mystified by how much I think about Tuba City, but when you have
been moved thirty times, across five states (Texas, Arizona,
Colorado, California and Washington state), during the first seventeen
years of your life, two school years in the same school, living in
the same house, becomes a most cherished and wonderful experience.
My time in Tuba City occurred at a time when so much was happening
to me physically, emotionally and psychologically.
I was starved for stability, affection, organization and
a place I could call home, something which eludes me, in some ways,
still today (2002), forty years later. It was yet another place that
I had hoped would become "home", but was mercilessly pulled away,
with no explanation from my mother, or any consolation for, or
acknowledgemenet of, my loss.
This had been, and would continue to be the pattern of my life: move
to a place, settle in, and then be extricated from the premises,
with no continuity, no resolution, no respect for how I felt or how
the move would affect me. All I am left with are names associated
with a place which has no connection to my life now. I am not really
able, today, to go to Tuba City and look up some old friend to discuss
those times with. As far as my mother and sisters are concerned,
Tuba City is in the past, and therefore, out of bounds for
discussion. That seems to be the way they deal with everything. "We
don't live in the past," they will say, besides "it's not relevant
to our lives today."
For me, Tuba City is a place of mystery, pain, frustration, fascination,
romance, beauty and fear. Some of my most vivid memories emminate
from Tuba City, yet there are many large gaps that linger in my
understanding of what happened while we were there and why we left.
Being orthodox Southern Baptists, a radical christian fundamentalist sect,
my mother and sisters seem to have difficulty separating my
rejection of their theology from any real feeling that I have for
them personally. The result has been a total breakdown in communication,
which broke off entirely, with some finality, back in January of 2002,
when my sister Helen Marie and I had our final e-mail exchange. I chided
her for only sending one or two line messages, with no real content, and
only when someone died, or during one of the big holidays, whereas I
would send an extensive response, trying to express whatever was
on my mind at the time. I grew weary of the one-way street that the
exchanges had become, so I fired back a rather terse response to a
merry-christmas-happy-new-year four line e-mail message, stating that
I could get greetings and funeral notices from my aunt Carolyn and
would just as
soon receive nothing if this was all that she could do. Her response
was direct and genuine, with no effort to mask her feelings. She
said that since our "views" were so different "it was probably best
that we go our separate ways". So, finally, after thirty years of
being away from home, I got the real attitude of my sisters and
mother, all of whom live in the same city (Richland, Washington)
now (see Boston Bound).
It's too bad. While I am on a quest to reconstruct my horribly
fragmented life's history, my access to the very people with whom I
would like to have a dialog about my past, has completely broken
down. That leaves me with whatever I can reconstruct on my own. The
reality though, is that if I did subject myself to communication
with my mother and sisters, I doubt quite seriously that I would get
any more out of them than I do now. They have all been located in
Richland since 1970, a year after I left.
Sherri, the middle sibling (I am the oldest), was able to attend her
entire high school time in Richland, and Helen Marie, the youngest,
attended junior highschool and senior highschool in Richland,
creating an entirely different context for them, but they have
fallen under the same theological spell as my mother, leaving them
with very little interest in the past or developing any kind of
relationship with me, which doesn't surprise me, but it does sadden
me. In all, however, given the choice between subjecting myself to
their abuse on a regular basis and going my "separate way", I
will take the latter. At least, in that instance, I have the
freedom to be myself, rather than be faced with the coercive efforts
on their part to corral me into their world view and patterns of
behavior. I fought that battle for far too many years, and
appreciate the peace of mind that I have finally found, but it has
taken a full divorce from both my birth family and my first
marriage, including my children, to accomplish that.
Since my sisters are younger than I am, their memories would
probably not add much, but my mother was an adult and should be able
to help fill in many missing pieces, but when she and I were speaking
to each other it was very difficult to get
her to focus on anything except tearing down my father, whom she
divorced back in 1962.
Given my current stable and fulfilling life, surrounded by
supportive and loving family, friends and spiritual community, one
may be curious about my desire to re-construct my past. Why has this
become such a passion for me? The answer to this question, as is the
case with so much in life, is not simple, but I don't think that it is
all that unusual. I
am now over fifty years old and I look back on my life with great
pain and disappointment that it took as long as it did to work through
the abuses from frequent moves, fundamentalist theology and coercive,
enmeshed family systems which show neither respect for, nor support
for, boundaries: individual boundaries, generational boundaries, or
cultural boundaries. In short, I grew up with very little tolerance
for diversity in thought, perspective or behavior. It was assumed
that there was one, absolute, correct way of looking at life and
living life, even though there was very little consistency, not to
mention a plethora of double standards, even within Southern Baptist
fundamentalistic circles.
As a child, I needed parents, stability, love, affection and support
and acceptance of who I was. I had none of those things, although I
am quite certain that an interview with any of the members of my
immediate family would reveal that they believe that I did receive
all of those things, and at the time, I would have agreed with them.
That is the insidious nature of abusive family systems. Children know
nothing more than what they were exposed to as children and they,
being highly sensitive and adaptive, find ways to survive even the
most debilitating circumstances. But, those self-evolved techniques
of survival come at a price, and that price is laid directly on the
child's ability to understand who they are as individuals and how to
express and articulate this knowledge to others. This leads to
relationships which simply repeat what the child experienced
while developing towards adulthood.
That was the case for me, as well. Throughout my youth, all I knew
was a nomadic life, sometimes changing houses two, three or four
times a year. Only twice, in my first seventeen years of life, did I
live in the same house for more than a year. The first instance was
in the house my parents bought in Commerce City, Colorado, just outside
of Denver. And the other was Tuba City, Arizona, the subject of this
chapter in my memoir. In the case of Commerce City, however, my
parents were going through the throws of a divorce, so even though
the house, itself, remained stable for that two year period (see
Thoughts on Commerce City),
my life was hardly stable, under any circumstances. That leaves Tuba
City as the only example of a period in my youth where I actually
had two school years and a summer without turmoil, strife or a change
of location. In other words, that one period of time in the average
young person's life where much of their strongest sense of place and
personal development occurs, namely the summer vacation at home,
occurred only once during my entire development to adulthood.
As a result, there were no extended, close, intimate friendships, no
summer romances, no casual explorations. In short, there was no
opportunity to actually be a kid and develop any real sense of who
I was, much less establish a foundation for a healthy adult life. But
given the religious perspectives of my mother, I would not have been
able to grow in the manner that I needed to, even if she
hadn't been so incapable of staying in one place.
For many years I wondered why Tuba City lingered so strongly in my mind,
occupying my thoughts more than any other period of my life. It was
not until very recently, when I started working on this memoir, that
I fully understood how significantly Tuba City stood within my
history. It was the one oasis of calm in life full of storms. In a
sense, it was the eye of the hurricane called "my life".
At the same time that I realized Tuba City's stabilizing gift to my
life, another factor associated with Tuba City came to light. Up
until Tuba City, my life was filled with my mother's vision of life
as a full-time religious zealot. Every phase of my life was controlled
by her religiosity, her theology and her religious goals for me.
Every Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and many other
nights, year round, were filled with activities defined by the
church. Tuba City changed all of that. The only Southern Baptist
church in Tuba City was a small mission church which didn't have a
full slate of activities for my mother to throw me into. As a
result, I (for the first time in my life) was not only allowed to
stay in one place for a significant period of time, I was free to
explore my own life, at my own pace, in my own way. This lead to
full scale personal renaissance. In other words, I could be a kid
and enjoy being
a kid, and I took full advantage of that opportunity until my
mother, for some unknown reason, decided that it was time to run
away from something else and bring an end to my new found childhood.
She once again, was preoccupied with stealing my home.
Now, this doesn't mean that I felt Tuba City was special in any
particular sense. It was an extremely isolated government compound
that was too far out to even receive a television signal. I can think of
many places that, on the surface, would be more appealing to me, but
for me, being able to stay at one place, regardless of the location,
was the most valuable of all commodities.
I am not going to pretend that I understand what my mother was going
through. I don't have any idea how she felt about the job itself. I
was only thirteen and she was never one talk sit down and actually have
an-depth conversation that would incorporate her feelings, hopes and
desires. I was more interested in riding my bicycle to the
trading post or digging up lizards in the open areas in back of our
house. But when I think about how difficult it was for a single
woman with three children to survive back in the sixties, or any
time, for that matter, I cannot fathom why my mother would give up a
job that provided housing, retirement and stability. I had the
impression she had friends, and it was obvious from the places she
chose to live that arid places were a favorite. There is simply no
rationale that, I can isolate, which would justify her move from Tuba City
to Poteet, Texas (see Thoughts on
Poteet) in the summer of 1965, especially since she didn't
really have a job offer before making the decision to move, and the
job that she did obtain, at the elementary school in Poteet, didn't
pay enough to survive there, so she ended up taking a second job.
That next summer, we moved again, this time to Connell, Washington
(see Thoughts on Connell).
One of the difficulties with moving around so much, is that one
loses their connection with the various places one has lived. Since
there are no relationships and no means of keeping the memories fresh,
or adding new memories to further instill the location in one's
mind, it is hard to keep connected with experiences that occurred in
that location. Over time one starts to doubt their memories of a
particular place as new places crowd the brain with the cluttered
noise of fragmented, disconnected experiences. As strong as my
experiences, feelings and thoughts for Tuba City were, it was
difficult to maintain any continuity with that period of my life. A
stream of new locations were coerced upon me and I just gave in,
losing all hope that I would experience another period like that. I
drew in my social antennae and shut the door on new relationships. What
was the point? Relationships expose one to vulnerabilities that
inflict deep pain when the relationships are destroyed, and
relationships that are dismantled by calous, unwarrented displacement
are the most painful. The only way to be spared this pain is to
avoid all relationships and simply to prepare for the next move,
which in the case of my mother, would never be more than a few
months away.
With Tuba City, I never had the opportunity to visit my friends or
even to revisit. That time in my life was simply lost, thrown onto
the ever growing heap of lost "homes" that were mercilessly pulled
out of my grasp just as my fingers touched them.
I had no means of validating
the fact that I was actually there, except for the "Shi'Kaya"
yearbook that I have carried with me tenaciously across the
country, and thoughout my life. Regardless of how many of my life's
artifacts I have thrown away, or given away or simply lost, I have
kept this one book, clinging to it as though my
life depended on it, and in some ways, perhaps it does.
When I open this book and see the pictures of myself, my
friends, teachers, and even the arial photo of Tuba City that is
presented on the inside cover of the yearbook (displayed at the top of
this web page), I am consoled that it
really did happen to me. I really did go through the experiences
that have remained in my memory and I really did know those people
forever frozen in the glossy images contained within that book.
I don't know where any of those people are today and I have my
doubts that any of them would remember the skinny
thirteen year old boy they once knew, but the pictures in that book
give testimony to the fact that I was there, that they were there,
and that somehow, I felt something there that I had never
experienced before, nor have I experienced it since then.
When I look at the aerial photo I can
see the public junior high school that I attended, the Bureau of
Indian Affairs Navajo boarding school that my mother taught in, the
Bureau of Indian Affairs hospital that spread out between the
boarding school and the public school, and at the fringes of the
picture, I can see the desert that extends for many miles in all
directions. I don't think I have ever been so thankful for one
picture, for this picture provides me with a complete view of my one
stable, physical home, my one real summer vacation at home and my
one opportunity to step away from my mother's crazy world and
experience life for myself.
For many years after leaving Tuba City, I was convinced that I hated
the desert, that it was the most horrible of all places to live, and
I was angry at my mother for continuing to subject me to arid
regions of the country, such as south Texas (Poteet) and southwest
Washington (Connell and Vernita). But as I start to reconstruct my
own personal and extended family history, through interviews, the
writing of memoir stories and through my work with my family's
genealogy, I have started to realize that it was not the desert I
was angry with, it was the abuse I was being subjected to while
growing up with a manic-depresive mother who was running from her
own personal demons and making me (and my two sisters) pay for her
instability.
There were some significant events that took place in my life while
there, such as:
The changing of my voice from boy soprano, to a bass/baritone.
When I first arrived in Tuba City I could sing higher than any
of the girls in music class, and not just a little higher, I'm talking
an octave or more, enough to impress everyone, including the
teacher.
My first conversations about sex with someone besides boys, namely
with a classmate by the name of Priscilla Lane.
My first job, delivering for the Flagstaff newspaper.
So, what is Tuba City? There are several ways I could answer this:
A trading post for american indians (Navajo and Hopi)
A Bureau of Indian Affairs boarding school.
A Bureau of Indian Affairs hospital.
A public school system for locals.
A residential community.
We came to Tuba City when my mother finished her degree in elementary
education at Colorado State Teachers College (now University of
Northern Colorado) at the end of the fall semester 1963. The only job
available at the time was a teaching position at the Bureau of Indian
Affairs boarding school in Tuba City. This was not the first time we
had been in Arizona. In 1957 my mother and father moved us to Phoenix
(see Thoughts on Phoenix)
from Decatur, Texas, where my dad would once again attempt to attend
college, this time at Grand Canyon Baptist College, which has since
become Grand Canyon University.
We arrived very late at night, after a long drive through the "four
corners" and down Highway 160 (also referred to as the "Navajo
Trail"). My very fist memory of Tuba City was my mother looking for
someone at the boarding school who could help us. She found one of the
caretakers, who put us up in an empty room at
the school. I remember a long night on the bare floor, with only
blankets to wrap myself in, accompanied by the sound of radiators
hissing, a sound which echoed endlessly throughout the large room. We
were exhausted and grateful for anyplace besides a cramped carseat.
The next day, we would move into the house that would become one of
the few places that we would stay in for more that just a few months,
while I was growing up.
I didn't realize how much my experiences in Tuba City had branded my
mind until I drove through Tuba City on a trip I made in 1995
(see Letting Go The Horizon).
Events to write about:
My conversations with Priscilla lane.
My hikes out to "Wonderland", a group of rock formations several
miles out in the desert to the north of Tuba City.
The sandstorm while at school.
Getting paddled (corporal punishment).
Find the lizard nest.
Playing "Glowworm" on the trumpet as a tryout for the high
school band.
The band trips.
Not having money for food while on the trips.
Following the Navajo girl out into the desert.
Helping clean mother's classroom at the boarding school.
Performing in the Tom Sawyer play.
Running for class treasurer (Eighth grade)
Finding the rabbit at the dinasaur tracks.
Little league baseball.
Team name: Pirates.
The inside the park home run.
The over-the-line homerun.
Hitting a young boy (accidentally) while in the on-deck circle.
The free pop for the winning team after the game.
Watching a Navajo funeral.
Finding lizards.
The long trips in the bus to football games.
My effort to run for class treasurer.
The ghost of Coal Mine Canyond.
Dale Stewart's visit.
David Grijalva's Visit.
Out trip to meet Kirby at Yosemite and Sequoia National Parks.
Stealing stamps, and my overall attitude towards theft at the
time.
Oliver Smith
