Jornada del Muerto: Prisoner Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone.
    And still, in my heart, it’s the summer of
2015. The fields are full of a bounty of harvest. Having arrived
from Mexico, I’m a minor celebrity in our community. My
great-great-grandmother is ill but not yet dead. My father has just
retired from his job as Park Ranger at the Pecos Pueblo Historical
Site. My brothers and sister are married, and their children run
like banshees in the street. The weather is warm, and I am
happy.
    What if I missed their ascent to the
afterlife in the press of souls and my own grief?
    The question haunts me. I am filled with
doubt -- maybe someone survived! I tell myself that I’m being silly
or stupid. Of course, the pueblo people are gone. The Dine, with
their general mistrust of people and scattered Hogan housing, might
have survived. The Hopi and Apache may have outrun the wasps. The
wasps may have missed the Comanche and plains Indians. But the
pueblo people live right on top of each other. My mind accepts the
truth that my heart rejects -- my people are gone.
    I have projected my soul to my home, to the
black mesa, where we hid from the Spanish Conquistadors, to Mesa
Verde, where our ancestors made their home, to Three Rivers, where
the ancient Mogollon thrived, and to the Clovis cave at Burnet
Cave. My soul sees only death, destruction, and wasps.
    I had prepared myself for this
eventuality.
    And still, my heart refuses to give up on
humankind. In the deepest reaches of my heart, I believe that,
somewhere, there are other human beings. Maybe the Wixaritari
survived or some of the hidden tribes of Mexico. Maybe the Mogollon
Monster or Bigfoot, as the white man called him, survived. Maybe my
mother’s little sister is waiting for me at the pueblo.
    The first few years with the Wixaritari, I
was desperate with homesickness. I would lie next to the fire long
after my shaman teachers were asleep. In my mind, I would see each
person in our clan, all of the friends I’d left behind, every
lover, and beloved. I would send them blessings and love. I prayed
that they missed me in the same, desperate way. I longed for
them.
    By the time I returned, I’d grown from a
homesick child to a man, from student to full shaman. I had
hardened to life. I was separate from human life, detached. Having
delved into the deep reaches of the spirit world, I no longer felt
a close connection to my family or community.
    I wasn’t homesick when I came to the Pen. I
didn’t miss them. I received a photo of my son, born six months
after I entered this cell. I put up his picture but felt no
connection to him. My family was my spirit guides and my home the
spirit world.
    Now that I know that everyone is gone, I
wish I had cherished them. I wish I had done what most prisoners do
-- written letters, begged for visits, taken conjugal visits,
stayed connected to my family, my people.
    I didn’t. And now it’s too late.
    It’s been almost ten years since I’ve heard
a coherent sentence. It’s been more than five years since my ears
heard the sound of drums and music. George and I live in a silence
broken only by the sound of our labor.
    I will never hear Tiwa, Tewa, Dine, Hopi,
Apache, or any Ind’n language again. The wasps completed what
invaders were never able to do. The wasps have broken the backs of
the Indian Nations.
    I see my mother in my dreams. Her black hair
falls almost to her knees. She is holding me in her arms. Her long
nose brushes my face. The firelight reflects in her dark eyes,
which hold only love for me. She is singing to me in Tewa. I see
her smile. I feel her kiss on my cheek, and fingertips tickle my
belly. I am safe in her arms. I am safe. The world is filled with
sound. The television blares the announcer’s annoying voice and
roar of the professional football-game crowd. My brothers listen to
punk rock in the room they share on the other side of the wall. My
sister is giggling and gossiping on the telephone in the hallway.
But my ears hear only my beautiful mother’s song. I am