Raise a Hand . . .
12.8.08
It’s early morning – or at least what counts as early to my groggy body. I haven’t even had coffee yet, but I’m already driving down the highway, pulling into the exit lane as the mountains disappear beyond where the highway continues. Pulling to a stop at the end of the exit, I think about the very first time I made this drive, not knowing if I’d ever make it again, not knowing exactly where the pueblo started, not having any clue what lay inside the pueblo. I wonder how many times I have made it since. I fiddle with the radio in hopes of finding a better song and turn left under the highway.
As I turn onto the frontage road that parallels the highway, I remember the warning not to speed because there are days when the police like to set up camp at the very spot where my day begins. Looking around to make sure today is not one of those days, I accelerate. It’s hard to drive parallel to the highway at a slower speed than the cars next to me. Plus, the road stretches out in front of me, slowly rising and falling, yet unable to hide the distance that remains to be driven to the stop sign by JR Clothing where I will turn left.
The pueblo lies at the end of the road where I turn left by JR, but by the time I have reached the frontage road I am already on reservation land. I am on reservation land because someone or somebodies drew a line and created a boundary stating that the piece of land beyond this line belongs to these people. There is a sign that alerts you to the crossing of the line, as does any “Welcome to Blahblah state, home of smiles and rainbows and sunshine!” sign. The sign for the reservation is more straightforward, “Now entering Tesuque reservation,” or some such message.
There is no dramatic change in the already dramatic landscape – mountains growing up on either side of the desert, sky expanding beyond any expanse I can describe. There are less visible signs of human inhabitance than there are in Santa Fe, but Santa Fe is a city. The houses on the pueblo do not look significantly different from my neighbors’ homes, except perhaps for that some are a bit more rundown looking. The dirt roads that wind their way through the pueblo seem rural or of another time, and everything feels dusty and is some version of the color brown. There is a sign on one house indicating that one can buy pottery there, but no storefronts or gas stations or grocery stores exist. There is a recently renovated church that stands over the plaza. Groups of stray dogs, some recent mothers clearly still nursing their young, run around after cars, get into fights with one another or sit by the side of the road watching all who pass by. Old bikes lay on their sides in front yards bounded by barbwire fences. Piles of scrap wood, metal and other miscellaneous items decorate sides of houses and back yards. Fancy cars looking slightly out of place are parked in front of some houses. Shades are drawn; there is an eerie sense of emptiness.
From the moment I pass under the highway after the exit until I park my car, I raise my hand slightly off of the steering wheel in an automatic salute to every car that I pass. Having worked on the pueblo for barely two months, I only know one or two of the people whom I salute, if even that many. When I first witnessed my boss wave at every passing car on my first day of work, I assumed she must just know everyone. I came to learn that it is not an interaction based on friendship or even actual acquaintance, but rather a custom, a tradition or perhaps simply a habit. It’s an acknowledgement of having seen the other person and though I felt hesitant at first to initiate the ritual, I quickly discovered that people I did not know would raise their hand at me if I did not and if I did it first, I almost always would get a wave in return.
It seems like such a small gesture and not very significant. My experience of real life interaction with people I met on the pueblo varied greatly, but my very first reaction was that they were not overly friendly. This is not to say that I found them to be mean, unpleasant or unwelcoming, but simply not overly, outwardly, animatedly friendly. I suppose that’s why the hand wave seemed a bit incongruous at first.
One of my interview questions for this job was about how I would handle getting to know another culture. Going into the interview I realized that working on the pueblo meant working with a culture different from my own, one about which I had no knowledge. Having lived abroad twice, I felt confident in saying that I have lived through culture shock and really appreciate the process of getting to know another culture, despite the fact that at times it can be frustrating and confusing.
There is still much that I have yet to learn and much more that I likely will not learn at all. I realized that today marks two months at my new job and I take comfort in raising my hand to salute passing cars. I don’t really feel part of the community in any significant or important way, but I no longer feel completely outside of it. I even catch my hand starting to loosen its grip on the steering wheel in an effort to wave at passing cars when I turn onto the less traffic-filled streets of my neighborhood. So far I have been able to catch that hand and place it back down before waving at total strangers who would likely either wonder if they knew me or think I was crazy.
