The Pale-Faced Lie

What I once thought was a useless profession now fascinated me. It occurred to me that the Navajo people were victims of the worst of the political system, and even the people who wanted to help them didn’t have a clue what they were about. These misguided civil servants reminded me of the easterners who came to the reservation to experience the pure Native American spirit, to touch Mother Earth and Father Sky, only to find that Navajos lived in third-world poverty with little hope of better lives. They left as soon as possible, never to return.

I grew up hating the BIA. Bureaucrats controlled every aspect of Navajo life, taking away most of their freedom under the guise of knowing what was best for them. It hadn’t worked. Surely there had to be a better way.

No one influenced me more than Mr. Ashcroft. During our many afternoon conversations at the trading post, he’d tell me about the Navajos, how they were butchered like animals during the Long Walk, similar to what Evelyn had told us. When the Navajos were allowed to go back to their sacred lands, Mr. Ashcroft said the government rounded up their sheep, their greatest source of pride and income, and burned them in pits while they stood and wept. The BIA said they got rid of the sheep to prevent erosion, but all they needed to do was return the land to the rightful owners—the Navajos—and they would have solved the problem.

The Anglo government took away the Navajos’ livelihood and dignity, giving them welfare and unemployment instead.

“Be careful whenever everything is given to you,” Mr. Ashcroft said. “Because then you’ll be totally beholden to your masters.”

What he said was true. His stories made me understand the unhappy faces I saw. Nothing about the rules helped the Navajo people.

An even more blatant example of the government’s hypocrisy was their role in regulating alcohol. The politicians and bureaucrats pretended to care about alcoholism but allowed minors to drink with adults all day and all night. They just opened more jail cells and operated additional paddy wagons, letting the drunks back out in time for Sam and me to fire cherry bombs at them. As Dad said, “Half the PhDs in the country study Indian alcoholism, but nothing changes. No one in the government really gives a shit. They just want the tax revenue.”

Things always seemed to get worse when the government took on too big a role. I wanted to work to change that.

Back on the highway, I asked, “Did you kill someone?” The answer was obvious, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“What the hell difference does it make to you?”

“Lots, because if you did, I have knowledge of a murder, making me as guilty as you. And I helped you hide the body and get away.”

“Did you learn that in one of those smart-ass college courses you’re taking? You say it like you know what you’re talking about. You don’t understand anything about real life, boy.”

“You don’t need to go to college to understand murder—or what it means to be an accessory to one.” My hands ached from gripping the steering wheel, and my head buzzed as if I’d been hit.

He never answered questions honestly without unleashing a vicious attack to keep me on the defensive. And it had always worked. Until now. “Did you kill someone or not?”

“I told you long ago, there’s no justice in this world. The real murderers are in the police departments and government.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Murder is murder.”

“Cut the pretentious crap! The worst murderers are found in the institutions you revere. Every man in the Q was vastly superior to the screws guarding them. The legal killers are far more lethal than the illegal ones. And just so you know, no one does the right thing unless they get something back for it. And no one feels loved either. Welcome to the real world. People fake love for lots of reasons—sex, money, and financial security. Love, like religion, is make-believe for idiots.”

“Your world isn’t really that grim, is it?”

“Yes, and so is yours.”

No, my world wasn’t like that at all. “What about when someone does something nice and expects nothing in return?”

“You’re stupid if you think they don’t expect something in return. No one gives something for nothing.”

But when he walked through the door, Mr. Kontz barely said hello before telling me to follow him outside. In their small backyard, he pulled up two plastic chairs in the dirt. “Sit down and listen,” he said, his dark eyes fierce.

My chest tightened as I sat across from him.

“What you doing here?” he said. “It okay for you to visit. Work the summer. But you still here. Why? You don’t belong here. What you do without education?”

“This is home for me.”

“No, is not. Never was. You want to be laborer rest of your life like kids who stay on reservation? They Navajo. They live the way of their fathers, near where umbilical cords are buried. That not for you.”

“Mr. Kontz, I—”

He waved a hand in my face. “Go back to your people. You not Navajo.”

“But we’re Cherokee.”

He scoffed. “That is lie. You not Cherokee. Your father not Cherokee. He lies. You know that.”

I shook my head. What was he saying? “We are Cherokee, and this is my home.”

“No, David, you Anglo. Fort Defiance not your home. Gallup not your home either. I didn’t understood why you try come back in high school. You afraid of your father, afraid of who you are. Face your fear.”

I turned away, my head spinning. Mr. Kontz must have been telling the truth. Honesty meant everything to him. He was brutal to anyone he caught in a lie.

“Your father is trying to find himself,” she said. “It’s hard to be a Cherokee in the East. In Fort Defiance, he had Indians around him every day. He had a true purpose. Now he feels lost without his circle of Navajo and Cherokee friends.”

“Ah, really?” I tried to sound sympathetic, but what bullshit! Dad’s true purpose was breaking the law and carrying on with young women. Did she really feel sorry for him, or was this how she rationalized what he had done?

“His work for the BIA in Washington has made him long for his Cherokee roots. Many of the workers at headquarters are Anglos, and he feels abandoned. Once he works through this, he’ll return.”

Sam joined the army the day he graduated from high school, right after Dad gave him the same speech about being on his own at twelve. I drove Sam to the bus station, and we hugged for a long time, not knowing when we would see each other again. He was still fearless and reckless, and as I watched him board for Fort Dix, I couldn’t imagine how he’d survive in the military.

Lonnie received her doctorate in early childhood development and continued teaching elementary school. Sally moved in with her to finish high school, and I was grateful none of the Crow children were stuck in the house with Mona and Dad.

Dad walked into my room while I was reading the Washington Post on my bed. “Mona thinks you won’t graduate. You failed math and didn’t exactly light the school up in any of your other subjects.”

“I’m getting my diploma. I found out today. Coach Ford vouched for me. I should be scared about going into the world, but I’m not. Being your son gives me an edge.”

He raised his brows. “An edge on what? You have fast feet and a fast mouth, but not much else. You’re on your own the way I was at age twelve when my father died. I’ve been hard on you, but you deserved it. Jesus, you’re a destructive son of a bitch.”

“You taught me well.” I threw my legs over the side of the bed and stood to stretch. “If I can survive you, Mom, and Mona, I can survive anything.”