On May 11, after much struggle
and sacrifice, I received a master’s degree in English.
What that tells me is that if I could run a startup magazine on a
zero budget, graduate with distinction and win some journalism
awards from a national journalism association along the way, then
others can do it, too. But it’s anything but easy.
My mother, Rose Ann Joe, was born sometime around Mother’s Day in
1933, 1934 or 1935 — no one really knows. She grew up on the
Navajo Reservation without electricity or running water and was
raised in the traditional Navajo way: herding sheep, gathering
herbal medicine plants, planting corn, waking up at dawn to pray
and taking part in age-old ceremonies. She and my dad, Robert Sr.,
raised all nine of us in the same way.
Back then, few
could write. Unless an official recorded one’s birth, it only
mattered that you were born. Our parents grew up when most Navajos
still hid their children from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The
hidden children never received a Western education or even learned
to speak English. So, it’s ironic that almost all nine of my
parents’ children have degrees, including undergraduate,
graduate and law degrees. My mother knew that getting a college
degree meant a way out of our poverty.
Growing up in a
small reservation border town in northeastern Arizona, I was a
C-minus student. Mom used to tell people that I barely graduated
from Winslow High School in Arizona, and that the family had to
hold a ceremony to ensure that I would graduate at all. But I read
a lot and somehow made it to the University of Arizona. There, I
struggled, but I also founded Red Ink, the first national Native
American publication for college students.
After my
mother passed on three years ago, I decided to get a master’s
degree in English. She would have wanted that. But four weeks into
the fall 2006 semester, I also had to take on the job of publishing
a monthly, 15,000-circulation publication with no startup money. I
couldn’t let it flounder: The Associated Press had just
published a story that ran in thousands of national newspapers
about the debut of Rez Biz magazine. After my partner quit, it was
either fold the magazine or continue alone.
So, while
most of my fellow students stressed over assignments, I also had a
magazine to run and bills to pay. It’s hurtful when you feel that
other people hope that you will fail, and people you’ve trusted
turn on you. It helped to recall what my mother used to say to me
in Navajo, after I’d been beat up as a kid: ”Tough it out. Harden
yourself. They’re just making you stronger.”
If running
a business under trying circumstances was tough, my classes were
another trial. One day, while I was sitting in my graduate research
class after staying up and studying all night, I almost got up and
walked out the door. ”What am I doing here?” I thought. A class
discussion whizzed over my head. My classmates were citing writers
and books I’d never heard of in my life. That wasn’t
surprising: My childhood was spent herding sheep during the
weekends; summers watching ceremonies being performed under the
stars, hauling water for drinking and reading under a kerosene
lantern. In their suburban homes, my white counterparts might have
been discovering writers like Kurt Vonnegut. Could I ever catch up?
At Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff — even
though the school is jokingly called Native American University
because of the sheer number of Native students — few minority
students went into the graduate program in English. I’m the only
Native American in many years. Despite the barriers, I was happy to
finish with a 3.48 grade-point average, and I was named Outstanding
Native American Graduate Student. More important, however, I
avoided drowning myself in self-pity.
Maybe it was the
support and teachings of my parents, family, spiritual leaders and
my adviser that gave me strength and hope. Maybe I gave my all for
my mother. Maybe I had already been through the absolute worst when
she passed away as I held her in my arms. Maybe it’s for all these
reasons.
The only thing I know for sure is this: If I
hadn’t gone through this experience, I never would have known what
I was capable of accomplishing, and I would not be a stronger
person today. I learned this lesson: You can do anything you want
if you put your mind to it. My parents may not have been there on
May 11, 2007, but they were there in spirit.
George Joe is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of
High Country News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He is the editor
and publisher of Rez biz magazine and lives in Winslow,
Arizona.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
