Running Barefoot (10 page)

He understood. I felt a luminosity fill my
soul and a sudden urge to hug him.

“It’s in the air,” Samuel mused softly. His eyes were unfocused and his brow creased in reflection. “Like
ni ch’i
.”

“What?” I didn’t understand.

“It’s like
ni ch’i
.
Ni ch’i
is the Navajo for air or the wind ... but it is more than that. It is holy and it has power. My Grandmother says
ni ch’i
means the Holy Wind Spirit. Everything in the living world communicates through
ni ch’i
. Because of this, the Holy Wind Spirit,
ni ch’i
, sits at the ears of the Dineh, or the people, and whispers instructions - tells them right from wrong. People who constantly ignore the
ni ch’i
are abandoned, the
ni’ch’i
will not remain with them.” Samuel’s eyes became focused again, drawing down on mine. “My grandmother believes that the ni ch’i is breathed into a newborn baby as they take their first breath. The child then has the companionship of the
ni ch’i
at all times.
Ni ch’i
guides him as he grows.

“It sounds like the Holy Ghost. I learned about the Holy Ghost in church. It helps you to do what’s right, guards you, warns you, leads you, but only if you are worthy of His company. It only speaks the truth. My Sunday School teacher says it is the way God talks to us.”

“Maybe what Beethoven hears is
ni ch’i
singing God’s music.

“I think you might be right.”

I rewound the cassette and extended the earphones to fit a head the size of Goliath’s. Then I
leaned close to Samuel and fit the whole thing over both of our heads, one earphone on my left ear, one earphone on his right and we listened to God’s music, with our heads pressed close together, for the rest of bus ride.

Samuel never complained about my taste in music, in fact he seemed to enjoy it immensely. He rigged my earphones so that we could turn the fuzzy ear pads outward, so that our heads weren’t pressed together when we listened. I hadn’t minded a bit…but I wasn’t going to admit it. He seemed concerned that someone might misconstrue the intimate proximity of our heads. We each held one side of the headphones pressed to our ear. After about a week of non-stop Beethoven, I brought my tape of Rachmaninoff. We were listening intently to Prelude in C Sharp Minor, and Samuel’s black eyes were wide and shining. He turned towards me as the movement came to a stunning finish.

His voice was awed. “This music makes me feel so powerful, like I could do anything . . . like nothing could stop me as long as I kept the music pounding into my head. And there’s just that one small part where the music becomes triumphant,
like the intensity is climbing and climbing and pushing and reaching and then those three chords play and it says ‘I did it!!!’ - kind of like Rocky raising his hands at the top of all those stairs. You know what I mean?” His voice was soft and sincere, and he looked at me then, smiling a little sheepishly at his enthusiastic review. “It’s so powerful .... I almost believe if I kept on listening I would become ‘Super Sam!’”

I laughed, delighted with his rare humor. Samuel didn’t joke around a lot, and he was definitely not verbose.

“I know exactly what you mean. Remember when I fractured my ankle?” I confessed sheepishly. “I got a little carried away with the music in my head and for a minute I was convinced I could fly.”

Samuel stared at me with a half smile on his face, shaking his head.

“Maybe I will have to make us matching capes and this can be our theme music.” I struck a pose. “Super Sam and Bionic Josie here to save the day!” I sung out.

Samuel actually laughed out loud. The sound was even better than the music, and I smiled at him, happier than I could ever remember being.

Samuel sat silently for a moment, not putting the earphone back up to his ear. I pushed the stop button on my player.

“Do you think you could make me a copy of that tape?” Samuel said stiffly. I wondered why it
was so hard for him to ask such a simple thing when I was so obviously his friend.

“Sure. Definitely,” I said brightly.

Samuel looked at me, his eyes troubled, and the joy of the music fading to a new concern. “I told you I wanted to go into the Marine’s, right?”

I nodded my head, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m scared to death.” He held my gaze fiercely, daring me to speak. I stayed silent.

“A Marine has to know how to swim....and I have been in a pool exactly twice in my life. I grew up on an Indian Reservation, Josie, herding sheep all summer long, not swimming. I can dog paddle sort of…” His voice trailed off.

“Why do you want to be a Marine, Samuel?” I was curious as to why, if he didn’t know how to swim, he wanted to try in the first place.

Samuel was quiet for a minute. When he answered I wasn’t sure he’d understood my question.

“My Shima, my Navajo grandmother, said when I was born she hung my umbilical cord on her gun rack because she knew I was going to be a warrior. It is a Navajo tradition,” he smiled briefly as my eyes widened.

“It’s a tradition to hang the umbilical cord on the gun rack?” I blurted incredulously.

“It’s tradition to save the umbilical cord and put it in a special place that will be important to the newborn child when they are grown. It can be
buried in the corral if it is believed the child will have an affinity for horses. It can be buried in the cornfield if the child will make his living from the land or under the loom if the child is thought to have the gift of weaving. My grandmother said she knew I would have to struggle to find my way in two worlds, and I would need a warrior’s spirit. Originally, she buried it in her hogan so that I would always know where my home was. But she says it felt wrong and she prayed many days to decide where to place my umbilical cord. She said the hogan would not always be my home, and she dug it up and put it on the gun rack.”

I met his gaze, intrigued. He continued, “She believed I would follow in my grandfather’s footsteps.”

“Who was your grandfather?”

“My Navajo grandfather was a Marine.”

“I see ... so you’ve always thought you would be a Marine because your grandmother believed that was your destiny?

“I believe it is, too. I’ve dreamed about seeing other places... about belonging, being a part of something that had nothing to do with being Navajo or being white, or any other culture. If you make it through 12 weeks of Marine training, you’re a Marine - one of the ’few and the proud.” Samuel’s mouth twisted humorlessly as he quoted the slogan. “I don’t have any siblings - my mom remarried to a man who already had five children, so I have three step-sisters and two step-brothers, all older than me.
I don’t know them very well, and I don’t especially like them - they call me ‘the white boy’ when my mother isn’t around. I want out, Josie. I don’t want to go back home to the reservation. I’m proud of my heritage, but I don’t want to go back...I do not want to herd sheep my whole life.”

“So....this swimming thing. Is that the only problem?” I said tentatively.

He looked at me sharply. “I’d say it’s a pretty major problem.”

“The school has a pool, Samuel. Can’t you learn? Isn’t there someone who would teach you?”

“Who?” Samuel gazed at me angrily, “Who Josie? When? You are such a child! I ride this bus for 40 minutes every morning and 40 minutes every afternoon. I have no way of getting to school early or staying late. I have no driver’s license, so even if Don would let me take the truck, I’m useless.”

“I’m not a child, Samuel!” He had turned on me so suddenly, and his anger made me angry, too. “Maybe you need to ask for a little help. Don’t be so stubborn! I’m sure someone at the school would be willing to teach you, especially if they knew why you needed to learn.”

“Nobody wants to help me, and I’d rather drown than ask anyone.” Samuel’s face was grim and his fists were clenched. “I’m sorry I called you a child. Just . . . forget it okay?”

We sat in silence the rest of the way into the school. I wondered why the music had made him think about being a Marine - maybe because
Rachmaninoff made him feel powerful when he felt so powerless.

6. Impromptu

P.E. was mandatory in junior high. I had lived in fear of undressing in the locker room the entire summer leading up to seventh grade. I had horrible visions of having to shower in those open stalls, all of my skinny, prepubescent classmates staring at my private parts. I had nightmares of running through the locker room, bare naked, looking for a towel while everyone else stood fully clothed, gaping at me. Music by Wagner screamed through the dream.

Luckily, showering was not mandatory, and I brought a huge towel from home, kept it in my locker, and huddled behind it while I changed into my gym clothes every day. I had long legs and enjoyed running, but that was as far as my athletic prowess went. Organized sports were beyond me. I was more than slightly spastic. During our ’unit’ on basketball, I attempted to make a basket, throwing it as hard as I could at the hoop, only to have it rebound sharply off the backboard and smack me in the face, bloodying my nose and blackening my eyes. I hated dodge ball even worse, and jumping rope was an absolute joke. I usually ended up volunteering to turn the rope for
everyone else or shag balls in order to avoid having to participate. I was consistently assigned to ‘work with’ the two mentally challenged girls that participated in gym class, not because I could actually help them athletically, but because I was nice. I have to say, though, both of them could beat me hands down in dodge ball and basketball. They were better at jump rope, too.

That day in P.E. we were doing calisthenics- a fancy word for stretching, and fairly safe for those less coordinated, like myself. Ms. Swenson, my P.E. coach, had a student aid leading us in the stretches. Her aid was a high school cheerleader named Marla Painter, who was very beautiful and very . . . stretchy. Her kicks were so high she could hit herself in the side of the head with her kneecap. She was showing us all three splits as I unfolded myself and slunk over to where Ms. Swenson was sitting grading papers. I supposed they were from the health class she taught. I had never seen a single sheet of paper in P.E.

“Ms. Swenson?” I asked shyly. Ms. Swenson didn’t care much for me. She didn’t have a lot of patience for the Klutz club, of which I was President.

Ms. Swenson finished checking the paper she was on before lifting her eyes in exasperation from the page.

“Yes?” She answered impatiently.

“I have a friend who needs to learn how to swim...umm, how exactly could he go about doing
that here at the school, preferably during school hours?” I finished in a rush, hoping she wouldn’t slap me down too quickly.

“What grade is he in?” She asked, her eyes back on her page, checking away.

“He’s a senior. He’s my neighbor in Levan, and transportation is a bit of a problem. He wants to join the Marines when he graduates, but he needs to learn to swim.” Again I rushed through my explanation, daring to hope, but not hoping to fervently.

“Why are you asking for him?” She said suspiciously.

“He’s new to the school, and a little shy - so I told his grandmother I would find out,” I lied, feeling my cheeks burn.

“Hmmmm. Go with Marla back up to the high school when she finishes. I’ll give you a note... you have lunch next right?”

All seventh graders had first lunch, and I nodded my head eagerly.

“Ask Coach Judd or Coach Jasperson about it. Maybe they can work something out for him. I have a brother who’s a Marine - gotta know how to swim.” She finished in an almost pleasant tone.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Swenson.” I waited while she scribbled me a note and signed it like she was in the medical profession.

Marla took me to the high school gym and snagged one of the boys, who was heading into the locker room, to see if either Coach Judd or Coach
Jasperson was in his office inside. She bounced off after that, leaving me waiting outside the boy’s locker room for the messenger to return. I waited for a very long time. Either the coaches weren’t in there, or the boy had gotten distracted. I was about ready to give up in despair, when the last person I wanted to see came walking through the gymnasium towards the locker room.

“Josie... what are you doing?” Samuel said, befuddled to see me lurking outside a place I had no business being.