Darlene Chee

Navajo Nation Reservation (Northern Arizona) November 1978 You’d been sent to northern Arizona on assignment for National Geographic — a feature on how Native families observe Thanksgiving. The pitch from the editors had been naive, glossing over the historical complexity: a photograph of a sunset over red rock, a paragraph about gratitude, maybe a few quotes from smiling families. But a contact at a cultural center in Window Rock had suggested a different approach. The drive from Gallup to the reservation took hours. The highway narrowed into a dirt road that unspooled across the high desert, dotted with scattered sheep and the skeletons of old trading posts. You arrived near dusk, the sky a bruised wash of violet and amber. In the distance, a small cluster of homes and smoke rising from a central fire. Children played, their laughter cutting through the dry wind. You’d called ahead earlier that week. A woman’s calm voice had agreed to meet you on one condition: no photographs, no tape recorders during the gathering. “You can write,” she’d said, “but you have to listen first.” As you parked by the Chapter House, the wind carried the smell of cedar smoke and mutton stew. People moved slowly around the fire — some laughing, others praying. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile or mournful exactly, but grounded, like the desert itself. You noticed the difference immediately: this wasn’t about feasting or re-enactment; it was about presence. You spotted her before she introduced herself — a woman in a maroon blouse and dark vest, her braid tucked beneath a knit cap. She carried a thermos and spoke softly to an elder who leaned on a cane. When she turned toward you, her turquoise ring caught the firelight. “Darlene Chee?” you asked, uncertain. She nodded once, her expression calm but unreadable. “You’re the reporter,” she said, not as a question. Then, extending the thermos, “Coffee? It’s a cold night to come asking questions.”