Tattoos

When they came in, I tensed for trouble—shaved heads and tattoos. They were emblazoned with the sign of the Swirling Log. Among my people, the Diné— it was our symbol of humanity and life, used in many of our Navajo healing ceremonies.

I had learned long before leaving the reservation that our symbol had come to represent hate among the whites.

I looked toward the door as another customer came in. She was tall, straight, and dignified despite her apparent advanced years.

My Grandmother came to mind. Being over a thousand miles from home working my way through college as a cashier in a local convenience store, I missed the comforting wisdom of Grandmother.

Their shopping done my two decorated shoppers came to the register. They could not resist taunting. One raised his hand with his palm facing me. “How” was all he said. The other called me “Tonto” and announced, “Nice braids.”

I silently checked them out, and they left without incident.

The old woman had been waiting behind them with her purchases—cookies, a carton of milk, and two tins of soup. She smiled.

The total displayed on the register. I began to put her items into a worn canvass bag she had brought with her. On the bag was a faded star formed by two intersecting triangles. Age had nearly erased the message it once displayed, Never Forget.

She counted out coins from a cloth purse with a metal clasp. The kind that grandmothers everywhere always seem to have. The left sleeve of her shirt rode up as she counted, displaying a faded, almost invisible tattoo on her forearm.

I glanced away self-consciously, but she noticed and pulled her sleeve down covering the mark that had to bring with it so many terrible memories.

My mind went to the tattoos on the earlier skin heads. Tattoos, I thought. Very different tattoos both invoking memories of a time most would want to forget. A time that as her faded canvas bag reminded us, we should Never Forget.

As she put the exact change in my hand, her fingers lingered just a bit longer than they needed to. I looked deeply into her eyes. There was no hint of frailness there. Only the strength that comes from surviving.

In that instant, I remembered Grandmother telling me stories of our ancestors. Of their long march under harsh conditions—of our genocide.

As she left, she whispered, “It will be okay.”

Watching her walk out of the door, my lips formed the words,

Thank you, Grandmother, I will Never Forget.

Howard Moon is a writer and poet. His writing and poetry have appeared in multiple collections and anthologies, Small Change, Montana Mouthful, Das Literarisch Journal, Of Poets and Poetry, Native Skin, Breath and Shadow, Ariel Chart, and more. He has won national, local and regional awards for writing. He is of Native heritage and identifies as BIPOC. In 2012 he suffered a brain injury and has been diagnosed with a mental illness —Pseudobulbar Affect. He has also been diagnosed as a hemipelagic. He is retired and lives in central Florida with his wife.