As I peered past the hard rain against my windshield, I saw multiple shades of gray composing my new world in a wiggly abstract. The Sierra disappeared from my rearview mirror and was replaced by beacons of headlights urging me forth. Welcome to the Golden State for this dusty Rez boy. I was definitely in uncharted water and there was no turning back. The award and acceptance letter from the art college in my glove compartment confirmed that. This was just another stage of life’s journey and transitions. That gave me a little semblance of cockiness.
I drove into the grayness of Oakland that afternoon with no idea where the school was located. I had to park precariously to find a phone booth and call the school. In this manner, I worked my way up to the California College of the Arts on the slope of the Oakland hills. The rain subsided as I stepped onto the lush campus where beautiful concrete architecture seemed to blend in well with the leafy environment. This must be what it feels like to walk into a salad bowl—a verdant world dripping with the fragrance of the city’s dankness and the Pacific Ocean. It was not a large campus, and that offered comfort.
My Ford Comet and its contents were my only tie to the rolling Rez and known world I had left a few days back—my music, saddle and fabrics still clinging to the aroma of sage. I stood on the corner of the main arteries of Oakland and Berkeley, squinting into the haziness drizzle makes, with my Stetson wet and pliable on my head. The cafeteria ladies, cheery and curious, asked my origin as they served me a bowl of beans and crackers. “I am Navajo from Arizona.” I replied.” Well I’ll be! I thought you were all gone. You all must be doing a rain dance now,” she said as she served me up another bowl. I think I will like this place, I thought.
Colors and shapes stood out boldly in the grayness. The admissions people provided me with an address where I could stay until I got my awards check. It was very hard to negotiate the avenues and streets of this strange new world. In 1976 there were no cell phones or GPS of any kind. I had to rely on my indigenous GPS to get to the address in east Oakland, a very sketchy place I would have thought had I not come from Kayenta, where sketchiness had names like Chee’s Jungle and Silver Bullet, and bootlegged booze is often times served up with a beating. Where brown faces stare you down with clenched fists—a turn of a phrase that comes to blows. Somehow the sleek high-rises and lighted marquees were more intimidating than the graffiti-covered avenues of the city’s anatomy. I just had to smile into uncertainty.
The address provided turned out to be an American Indian Movement flop house where I ate another fine meal of hotdog and peanut butter sandwich. I had known some pseudo-AIM radicals back on the Santa Fe, N.M., campus. I had little to share with these folks—anger seemed to dominate the walls and voices. I came in peace. I left that place in search of a place to rest my head. I had no idea where.
Like a sleek speed boat riding the waves, my chiddy (vehicle), rode the crests of the asphalt trough east Oakland back down into downtown where the most unexpected sight caught my attention: a native guy walking the street and from his back, I recognized him by his gait. Mike was a fellow student back at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe. We were never close there by our company. He hung with the urban “Indian” crowd, dressed impeccably, and I with my ragged bunch of Rez sheep camp ropers. I pulled over and gave a shout. He flashed a recognizing smile, a big Lakota “Aaayy.” He climbed in and we proceeded into the unknown.
It turned out he was a student, one of the only two Native students at the art college. I was flabbergasted, beside myself with disbelief. In this massive city and all its inhabitants, I had to run into him on Broadway. He was dressed in jeans and a paint splattered T-shirt—so unlike the guy I knew that wore a powder blue suit with bling. Now he was accessible, confined in my car blasting out the Grateful Dead.
Instead of going back to his apartment, we decided to go to a notorious “Indian” bar known as Hilltop. We drank and caught up on matters of our current situation. He was so happy to see a familiar face and now the third Native on campus. A few drinks later some words were exchanged and I ended up in a barroom brawl with another cocky Navajo. With a slight bruise on my forehead and trailing bravado, we left that night into the kaleidoscope of the city lights. Somewhere, he got out and wandered off and the address he gave me was undecipherable. It was a confusing place and all I wanted to do was find a place to rest my head. Eventually, I found a quiet place on a side street and fell asleep in my car.
Later in the night, I woke up to a sound—firecrackers or backfire. A man came rushing by, knocked on my window frantically and took off again. I saw more people milling about shouting angrily into the night. This was not a place of rest for me. I was in a risky neighborhood in west Oakland. I made my exit and drove further north into a more genteel area, well lit with manicured pastures. I parked off the curb and placed my saddle on the ground as a pillow and fell asleep under my Pendleton. When I awoke, there were people all about and an angry security man was nudging me to get off the lawn in a threatening manner. It turned out I was camping on the greens of UC Berkeley. I left before other authorities got involved. I also found the first of many parking tickets I was to collect.
With my trusty Rand McNally, I made my way back to the art college. It was still a few days before the semester began so I made my class list—art history being at the top. I was determined to get past this initial gauntlet of a new wilderness. My car had somehow sustained a noticeable dent in the front fender just past the hole in the windshield now covered with a piece of tribal campaign sticker. Fortunately, the driver’s side was clear. I don’t recall where this happened, maybe a post or something else solid. By now, all longings to get back to the Rez’s familiarity dissipated and I was set to make the best of my situation.
In the light of a new day, it all seemed possible. Now, I had to go find my friend Mike. Disheveled but still looking gorgeous and feeling good, I ventured forth with the prayers of the great Hero Twins in my heart.
To be continued, again …
