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    Painted Turtle: Woman with Guitar
    Painted Turtle: Woman with Guitar
    Painted Turtle: Woman with Guitar
    Ebook165 pages2 hours

    Painted Turtle: Woman with Guitar

    By Clarence Major

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    About this ebook

    A New York Times Book Review Notable Book of the Year

    This novel, narrated by Baldy, a Navajo/Hopi guitar player, tells the story of Zuni folk singer Painted Turtle, from her childhood experiences on the reservation to her performances in cantinas in the Southwest. First published in 1988 and long out of print, this work from Clarence Major follows Painted Turtle as she seeks to assuage the spiritual sicknesses that have shaped her uneasy relationships with family, friends, and her tribe.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUniversity of New Mexico Press
    Release dateMar 1, 2015
    ISBN9780826356017
    Painted Turtle: Woman with Guitar
    Author

    Clarence Major

    Clarence Major is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of English at the University of California, Davis.

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      Book preview

      Painted Turtle - Clarence Major

      Prologue

      Inkpen sent me to her to make her more commercial, to get her to switch to electric. I never liked the idea all the way but I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be good for her to rake in a little more money and to get off the grimy cantina circuit. I liked her music on the demos he played for me.

      If she was telling her own story she’d start it with Sonahchi. She was that culturally bound. That seriousness and lack of ambiguity were part of her charm. Did I say charm? I never met a charming southwestern Indian in my life! Even us Navajos (and I’m part Hopi) never went in for good old American charm. They’ll tell you my father’s people, the Navajos, were like the rest of them, part of nature, but don’t believe it.

      I kicked around a lot before I decided to try music. That summer when I picked up a guitar, it happened to be electric. It happened one night in a cantina in Sante Fe. This Mexican group let me sit in with them. They said I was a natural. But even then I knew it wasn’t me, that the real me was somewhere else, in a quieter place.

      She was on when I went in. A drunk at the bar was talking baseball real loud, arguing scores with the bartender. This was the first time I heard her sing her Twins of the Sun. That one-string-at-a-time guitar kept leaping between her words like tongue-flames between the toes of a firewalker. I sat quietly in a corner and watched. She went next into another one I had heard on the demo, Call Me Makki. She didn’t bother to tell the audience what makki meant and I liked that. She held her guitar right and the tilt of her chin was just right for the light and her buckskin gave her the right kind of warm contrast to her skin which was only slightly lighter than the buckskin. I watched her eyes. She never once looked in my direction.

      When she finished I took my guitar with me and went over to tell her how good she was—as if she needed to hear that. She smelled of mint and freshly tanned leather. Her necklace and rings and watch were of silver and turquoise and coral and mother-of-pearl and jet agate and they sparkled dimly in the dark light. This was the woman Inkpen said was making hardly enough to get from town to town on; sleeping in bus depots, in flophouses, motels at the end of the line? She gave me only a half-smile—not even that, really. Zunis are like that, especially toward us Navajos. I saw her sizing me up right away. But I didn’t let that coldness stop me.

      Chapter 1

      Wonderment

      Her father made a cradleboard while her mother was breastfeeding her. This was right after the sandbed. It became a family joke that she knocked the ear of corn off the bed. Of course she didn’t. Some of the old folks later said it was the sure sign of bad luck.

      She was taken off the cradleboard a month early, in the third. I’ve seen the old moms keep the babes on till they are a year or older. That’s bad news. But that was at Tewa.

      The old folks had occasion to gossip again, when the Little Turtle tried to chew the turquoise that had been placed in her cradle to keep witches and devils away.

      In my mind I saw her mother as she washed the Little Turtle. When she finished she placed her in the sandbed. The mother’s hands were crusty and strong and warm.

      She was beginning to walk. The first step was very important. The whole family watched. As she took it near the front step, smoke from the bread-baking oven nearby swam into her face and caused her to lose her balance. She sat down in the sand and everybody laughed.

      The first time she went with her mother up Corn Mountain to gather clay she was still only a toddler. Marelda used the clay to make pottery. The Little Turtle helped—or thought she helped—her mother gather the clay.

      Soaked in water

      then ground between rocks

      The hand-shaped surface

      made into a spiral

      Mudfrog handles, one

      on each side; dung-covered

      Fired in hive-shaped oven

      Olla carried to the goat-

      owner for milk

      She played with the older girls in the clan. The chief of the girls and Sakisti called for her to make song. She danced as soon as she learned to walk; she danced, danced, danced, like crazy she danced; danced with the older girls in the Santu at the Sacred Plaza.

      When she was bad her mother told her Atoshle would come and get her. She cried out of fear. Her father comforted her with animal stories. But the stories did not always drive away the fear. After all, Atoshle could eat a whole kid without chewing the parts. He kept the bones in his cave. He castrated little boys who played with their shuminne.

      She learned early to mistrust strangers, to trust the strong odor of yucca soap, to trust its purification powers. She also learned not to wander out of the yard at night. Atoshle or some witch might grab her.

      Learning was easy. She played fair in the kick race with the other girls. She avoided, even before first grade, being a bigshot. Before she was two she developed an appreciation for jewelry. She liked its sparkle; she liked the red and white brightness of her first moccasins, her first headband, her first shawl. Her father’s mantas and breechcloth also attracted her eye. She liked her mother’s ceremonial dress so much she put it on one day and wore it all around the house. This earned her a spanking; her first. She tried to wear her father’s leggins of buckskin a week later but could find only one thong so she looked pretty silly to Marelda, so silly in fact that the act of wearing clothes not her own didn’t earn her punishment this time. With her courage up, she next ventured into her father’s overshoes of undressed sheepskin. She fell. She cried. She recovered. This was learning.

      Learning was wonderment. The first time she saw the huge Shalako birds, feeling the excitement and fear together and the other winter dance-figures, and later the summer dancers, she changed—a little bit each time. Her spirit was altered. She lost herself in the change. But she always came back. The sounds of deer hoof-clankers rang in her ears. The smell of cottonwood in bloom and the pussywillow were, at first, stunning and stinging. She heard with surprise the gourd rattles and the sounds of the hoop dancers. In her father’s arms at the lady’s wood chopping contest, she shuddered from the sight of the big arms and the sound of the ax wrenching the wood apart. Seeing smoke the first few times drift up from the chimneys of the adobes was the discovery of a silent and strange presence.

      Sleeping, as much as the wakeful times, was wonderment. Not only did the dancers come in the night, Atoshle could get you, anything else could happen. The night had no rules. Ghosts came from everywhere, and especially from the graves and from the lake the older people talked about.

      Ghost dancer why

      do you dance

      so slowly

      with such menace

      while the dwellers

      of the pueblo

      sleep

      Is the night

      your sole

      companion?

      Chapter 2

      Old Gchachu

      Ican just see Old Gchachu sitting at the head of the table, his only living relative, a childless daughter of fifty, sitting at the other end. I keep watching the Turtle in this setting. Maybe I watch her with the eye in the back of my head or out the corners of my real ones. Old Gchachu waves to Marelda to bring the Little Turtle over to him. The mother takes the child’s hand and trots her over to the patriarch. He touches the child’s head with fingers that are knotted twigs shaking in a desert storm. He tells her she will grow up to marry a priest who will be a very wise man and she will become legendary among the Zuni for her cooking of shredded lamb stew and blood pudding and hominy and sheep liver and intestines and olla podrido sauces made of chile-colorado and coriander-leaf and that she will be especially good at tchutsikwahnamuwe and legendary also for her love of children and family.

      The old man calls Waldo over and Waldo stands beside Marelda and the father-of-the-clan looks at the father of the Little Turtle. Old Gchachu motions toward Marelda’s pregnancy and says that the next one will be a boy who will grow up to be a greatly respected member of the Bow Priest Society.

      I of course imagine this, making it up from what Painted Turtle told me. She said she was afraid of the old man. She was glad when her mother led her away to help the women and the other girls again.

      Being part Navajo and part Hopi myself, I can just imagine the old man Gchachu rapping his staff handle on the table top. The chatter ends. He waits till feet beneath the long scarred table stop moving. When there is only the sound of the grumbling infants and small crawling children, he says, Everybody here now bow your head with your hands together for prayer.

      Another old man whimpers, But Larry that is the Christian way.

      You can just see Old Gchachu lifting his crusted hand to stop the protesting man’s words. Our ancestors are served well. Bow your heads.

      The patriarch glances at the rows of children at the children’s table. You children close your eyes and bow your heads, too. He can barely see their faces let alone their eyes but he waits a second or two to give them the chance to obey.

      I see the Turtle shiver in confusion. She’s sitting between two older children. She closes her eyes and clasps her hands together. I grew up in a family more Catholic than hers and my image of myself at that age cannot match the holy one I have of her. The Little Turtle has her eyes shut and I can see her thoughts. She thinks everybody in the world has closed his eyes and is waiting for something to happen. Only Old Gchachu knows what it will be. She peeks to see if her brother Albion has his eyes closed. He does. She closes hers again. Old Gchachu clears his throat.

      The old man begins to speak in a chanting voice, saying words about the Lord God and the Sun and the Moon and the Earth. He asks these things to listen to him. Then he appeals to them, Receive our thanks to the souls of our ancestors for this food which we are about to eat for the nourishment of our bodies. Dear Ancestors, be with us always in your wonderful spirits and knowledge, be in our hearts, bless us with water and corn, give us the seed we need to make Mother Earth feed us so that we may live long, healthy lives in the spirit of you, our Great Ancestors. Amen.

      They all repeat his last word. When I was a kid I thought amen meant it was time to be happy again.

      You can see the Turtle peeking to see if it’s time to open her eyes again. I used

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