The wind, in the form of a dust devil, took my hat many years ago. I was 5 years old. I stepped out into the calm and warming day crowned by my new straw cowboy hat. I beamed beneath its brims as I showed it off to the daily gods.
The mysteries. It took many days of piñon picking covered in tree pitch and aching knees to afford that fine hat from the local trading post. The gods must have felt a tinge of jealousy. The calmness of the day erupted into a moving chaos and tumult of dust and debris. “Yii wo’ de’ Yii wo’ de’, naa ko ol, dissi’ ni’!!” Stay away, stay away from me, spirit wind!
Before I could utter those words to ward off its effects, I felt my head exposed and my beautiful cowboy hat rise with the tumbleweeds and sheep camp remnants. I tried running after it; I tried catching it. It only rose higher and further away to the north. Dust and tears blinded me as I lost sight of the hat dancing on disturbed updrafts. I yelled after it to no avail.
Many days afterwards, I walked after the sheep, stumbling through sagebrush-choked arroyos and hills looking for my hat. A prayer held on my lips. I gazed across clay-laid valley and salmon-colored sandstone slick rocks. I even peered into holes badgers made. I yelled to the ravens, “Shi K,is, chi ch,aa sha h. Yinni’ i ish?” My brothers, My hat. Have you seen it? Please show me!
Only their shadows in flight moved across the sand dunes. All that summer, I walked the land toward the north, our neighbor’s grazing area … hoping. Maybe they found it. No. My oldest brother Tom said to me, “Even if you find it you must not wear it for it has been contaminated by the spirits. There is no ceremony for that … yet.” I believed him. I finally resigned to the fact my hat was gone, swirled into mystery.
Since that day, I have worn and worn out many hats—cowboy hats of straw and felt. It was way to also hold my thoughts in as well as to provide shade on my “chizzhie” face. A halo of sweaty beige framed my chizzhie-ness (dry, sweat-stained skin). I have since lost many hats, some in dramatic ways, others due to my own neglect. In the 1970s, I lost the entire inventory of my impounded car in a major California city: my saddle, my saddle blankets, my buckle and, of course, my grey felt wide-brimmed Stetson, the inside of the crown had my phone listing scribbled in black ink.
My latest headgear was a series of felt fedoras, narrow-brimmed and formed by living. Strangers did stop me on the streets asking if they could buy my hat. I refused to part with it. Like an old buddy, a security lid for my soul.
My grandfather’s Navajo name was “Hosteen Bi ch,aa aal tsissi’.” Mr. Small Hat. It crowned that large blacksmith and wheelwright with a handlebar mustache like a mythical king with sparks flying all about.
We are told not to eat with our hats on because we are just feeding our hats while our bellies continue to complain.
Recently I lost another hat. The hat I am usually seen with. The little brown hat was taken by another wind high up in the French Alps. I wave it into mystery, gifted to the mountain I concluded. On that beautiful height rung by snow packed ranges, I tried gazing into the void; I wanted to catch the last glimpse of it. It soared high before disappearing beyond the rocky edge and into the ancient energy of this different land. I would like to believe that some little animal made a home of it—maybe a bird formed a nest into it.
It was a hat full of stories. It was kissed by the dew in Monet’s garden in Giverny, France, dipped in the Mediterranean Sea. If it could talk, it would scream. Tiny tufts of my Dineh hair are resting on the great Alps.
Maybe if another wind blows my hat will fly onto the Italian side. I am happy my hat ended up where it did. Why I was there is another story for another issue. Ha go neii’ Shi Ch,aa’.
