EDITOR'S LETTER

Like a picture, which is said to be worth a thousand words, a single word can inspire a thousand stories. In our long history, no word, with the possible exception of “canyon,” has been the genesis for more prose, poetry and photography than “Navajoland.” It’s a wellspring that never runs dry.

Carlson wrote in our August 1950 issue. “Here is a paradise for the traveler seeking beauty in distant places, willing to venture over untried roads, capable of enjoying the solitude and loneliness of a country both primitive and isolated. Here is a land that challenges the gypsy in a person, defies the glib, packaged details of the travelogue and timetable. The roads may be rough and rambunctious, weather uncertain and sometimes surly, accommodations and comforts few and far, but in this land of the Navajo are scenic treasures the like of which one will not find elsewhere. In fact, there isn’t a mile of Navajoland that does not have much to offer the admirer of beauty and grandeur, but nothing in all that vast, lonely expanse is as interesting or as picturesque as the people themselves.” In this magazine, we write Navajoland as one word. In the Navajo language, it’s written as two: Diné bikéya. You may have noticed those two words on our cover. The idea for that came from a French edition of Les Misérables, a book I’d gotten for my niece. If you’re blessed with the gift of bilingualism, you know that the complexity of any book is more pronounced in its native language. As I was flipping through Les Mis, it occurred to me that our cover lines might benefit in the same way. And then I thought, Maybe we should publish all of our headlines in Navajo. The idea was simple. The translation was not.

There’s no option for “Navajo” in Google Translate, and even if there were, we wouldn’t have trusted it. We didn’t have an authoritative Navajo-English dictionary, either. We did, however, have Laura Tohe. And for that we’re grateful.

Laura is the Navajo Nation’s poet laureate, a title she’s held since 2015. She’s also written and edited several books, and she’s a creative writing professor at Arizona State University. In her role as poet laureate, she says, she’s “expected to promote literacy in Navajo and English, promote awareness of the Navajo Nation to all nations of the world, promote positive self-esteem among the Navajo youth and to promote awareness and appreciation of Navajo writers and their work.” In addition to all of that, she found time to help us translate headlines, including These Generations of Weaving [Díí haa'anoochínígíí da'atłó], the title of an essay by Danielle Geller.

This is the second time we’ve had the privilege of publishing Danielle’s work - the first was last November. This month, she writes about her fascination with Navajo blankets. Her essay begins with a blanket that was handed down to her from her grandmother.

“The blanket was a Pendleton,” she writes. “I found the blue and gold tag sewn into its corner. Pendleton blankets are prized objects in indigenous communities: They are used in ceremonies and celebrations; are given to commemorate important events; are draped over our couches and folded at the feet of our beds. But as someone who had grown up so far from home, I didn’t understand the significance of my mother’s gift. When my mother first told me about the blanket, I thought I would be receiving a piece woven by my own grandmother — a handmade, heartfelt thing. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.” Although she’s Navajo, Danielle Geller wasn’t raised in Arizona, New Mexico or Utah. She’s a Florida native who grew up in rural Pennsylvania, and now lives in Canada. She’s a writer with an outsider’s perspective and an insider’s appreciation. It’s a combination that makes her writing interesting, original and poetic. Add to that an exceptional talent that’s been enhanced by a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Arizona, and you’ll understand why we feel privileged to publish her words. We feel the same way about Mylo Fowler’s photography.

My first exposure to Mylo’s work was on Instagram. He’d posted some beautiful landscape shots of Lake Powell, Canyon de Chelly and Monument Valley. Then, about a year ago, he posted an impressive portrait of Wally Brown, a man he described as “a phenomenal teacher of Navajo history.” Some of the subsequent comments reiterated the point. “Spending just an evening with this guy blew my mind,” Lisa Harrison wrote. I was intrigued by Mr. Brown, so I sent a note to the talented photographer, who grew up 35 minutes south of Page on “the rez.” “Hey, Mylo. I saw your shot of Wally Brown. He sounds fascinating. Do you think he’d make a good profile for Arizona Highways?” “Wally would make a great candidate,” he replied. “For the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, the Navajo Nation asked him to represent us. The man is a legend.” A few minutes later, Mylo sent a follow-up: “I’d love to photograph him for you.” And so he did. Beautifully.

In this issue, we try to tell you something about the people who live in Navajoland.” Those are the words of Raymond Carlson. From his column in August 1950. Seven decades later, we continue that effort with our collection of prose, poetry and photography. And also our profile of Wally Brown. It’s one of a thousand stories rooted in a single word: Navajoland.