About once a week, we see certain groups of Native Americans using the Mars Hill Albuquerque parking lot as a place to gather. A number of things can happen when they are present: urinating in the bushes, passing out in the bushes or random shaded areas, the sharing of a bottle of vodka, or collective staggering.
The other day was one of those days. I drove into the parking lot and saw three Natives passing a couple of bottles around as they were sitting on the shaded curb. In all honesty, I wanted to ignore them, get out of my car, and walk inside with a willing blindness. I have heard the stories. I am familiar with the smell of alcohol emanating through the pores. I didn’t want to go there. Well, before I got to the door of the church building I decided to approach them.
Within a matter of seconds they saw me walking toward them. They whispered to each other as I came within a few feet. One of them stood in a defensive attacking posture and was ready to fight. They asked if I was going to kick them out of their spot. I said no and asked where they were from. They responded, “G-town” (Navajo from Gallup), “Thoreau” (Navajo), and “Dulce” (Apache). I spent a few minutes listening to the most aggressive man, the one from Dulce, give his story and talk about his mechanical training and skills on automobiles.
As we continued to talk, I told them to make room on the curb so I could sit down. The Apache did not trust me at all but sat down next to me. I told him I was from Zia. In response, he asked to see my tattoo. He was a bit disappointed that I was not representing the home sign on my skin, especially since I have particular rights to the Zia Sun Symbol. He went on to explain one of his tattoos as an Apache. (It was an electric guitar.) Even though he knew that I was Native, he referred to me as a white guy. He went on to tell me that he didn’t want to hear about anything that I had to say until I’ve lived on the streets for at least a week. He gave me the specifics of this rite of passage: no money, no ID, no food, and only the clothes on my back.
By this time, he began to open up, telling me about his very young daughter. He didn’t like to visit her because he didn’t want her to know that he was homeless or a drunk. He described his daughter’s reaction each time she would see him: “DADDY! I LOVE YOU!” He was barely able to get the story out. His friends listening, he was on the verge of tears. You could see the pain and shame on his face and posture.
Then, in reflexive rage he jumped to his feet and started yelling curses. He looked at me with his fist tightly clinched and arm back ready to punch me. I was seconds away from becoming his outlet for all his hurt, rage, pain, confusion, shame, and anger. He started shouting at me, “I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU! WHO ARE YOU?” and “LET’S GET OUTTA HERE!”
Without flinching and still sitting on the curb, the Native from Gallup calmly assured him that I was “cool.” I asked if they needed some food in hopes of not taking a punch to the face. I walked into the church, grabbed bottled water, chips, nuts, dried fruit, a handful of Dum Dums, and some of Monte’s finest tobacco.
I came back out, and as I handed them the goods, my emotionally reactive friend gave me a hug and apologized for his behavior and outburst of anger. We shook hands, hugged again, and introduced ourselves by name. As a parting word, I asked them to pick up their empty bottle and throw it into the trash.
As of today, Mars Hill Albuquerque has a new Community Group in the parking lot. I hope to engage with this group every time I see them. I’ll let you know when we replicate.
