THE COLORS OF MY HEART

Giving a New Voice to Navaho Tradition:
Interview with Sharon Burch

Sharon Burch and daughter Kelsey Clark. All photos by John Running Courtey Canyon Records
“My daughter Kelsey is Scotch-Irish on her father’s side and so I gave her an Irish sounding name.
Her grandfather gave her the Navaho name “T’aa Nabah” which means “warrior who will always return home.”

One day a man went hunting for deer while the woman stayed home to garden, cook and weave. Returning from a very long and tiring hunt, the man brought back a fat deer that he had killed. He felt very proud of himself. The woman made a very fine stew of the meat and they enjoyed the bountiful meal. When they had finished eating, the woman wiped her greasy hands on her dress, belched and said, “Thank you, my vagina.” After hearing what the woman said, the man asked, “What is that you said?” She repeated what she said. “Why do you speak in this manner?” he asked. “Was it not I who killed the deer—whose flesh you have eaten? Why do you not thank me?” “Was it your vagina who killed the deer?” “Yes,” she replied. “My vagina is a great hunter. If it were not for that, you would not have killed the deer. It is for want of that you men hunt and bring food to us women. It is my vagina that does all the work.” The story continues with the man and woman getting into an argument and separating. Then one day, Owl paid a visit and reminded the man about continuing the growth of the people. After thinking about it, he saw the wisdom of the Owl and admitted how desperately he had missed the woman.

Navaho story told by Sharon Burch

GROWING UP IN A MATRIARCHAL TRADITION

I grew up knowing that the woman was the strong one—the life-giver. The Navaho have reverence and respect for women because of that. We also have great respect for men and make it known that they are needed. Men know they are here to help with procreation and to assist women. This is how it is. We never question that.

Growing up, I never knew that other cultures weren’t matriarchal. My grandfather told me, “You are what your mother is.” When I perform my music I introduce myself first as Sharon Burch; then I introduce my mother’s clan, because that is who I am. “My mother is Navajo (dine’). Her clan is Tl’aashchi’ii, meaning Beneath the Red.” Then I introduce my father’s people saying, “I am born for the German people. And so with this, this is who I am. And in this manner, I walk in beauty on our Mother Earth.”

DAILY LIFE

My mother comes from a very traditional Navajo family. The Navajo language is still spoken and the elders still live simply without the luxury of running water or flush toilets. My mother was one of twelve children that my grandfather delivered at home in the hogan (eight sided dwellings that are usually made from logs and mud). We grew up with my grandparents, aunts, uncles and many cousins. In our family everyone raised us. The memories are still vivid. The day’s activity began in early morning. We usually rose with the sun, but on sleepy days, my grandmother would wake us by sprinkling water on us. Those who slept on sheepskin on the floor dragged it outside and hung it over some logs to air out. Everyone did chores. They didn’t seem like work because we had fun doing them and we had a sense of purpose. Working together sure made them easier.

On days when we herded sheep, we counted the animals before taking them to pasture in the morning. Grandfather had a big flock—at one time over a thousand sheep and goats. He also had us count them when they came back into the corral in the evening. Every animal was accounted for because the coyotes ran rampant in that area and loved to munch on sheep and goat meat. We took the flock several miles away from where we lived to a place with plentiful vegetation. My legs hurt from walking; it was quite a challenge to keep the sheep and goats together so they wouldn’t stray.

We took a jug of water and a bag of lunch with us and usually ate our food before lunch. By lunchtime we were already tired and famished. Water always tasted so good; we could never get enough of it. After chores we could play. We didn’t have many toys. We didn’t need many, because we used our imaginations and what was around us in nature. A juniper tree could be our playhouse. A stick, depending on the size, could represent anything from a doll to the steering wheel of a tractor. Sometimes rocks were trucks that we plowed through the rich, red dirt.

On more relaxed days, we would watch my grandmother and the women in my family weave rugs at their looms or prepare traditional meals. We helped our aunts and uncles buff their silver jewelry before taking it to town to sell to the traders. On days when there wasn’t much to do, grandmother would have us race up the hill and back. We were never bored. There was always a plan. The children didn’t need much discipline. Yet, there were times when we got scolded or when grandmother would run after us with a switch. I don’t remember her actually hitting us, only chasing us. We liked to see her run and thought it was very funny. She was a large woman with a big heart. Her belly shook when she laughed.



The strength of the Diné is shown in the women of my family. From left sitting: Elsie Yazzie (Uncle Tim’s wife), Sarah Duboise (aunt), Nan Yazie Burch (mother), Kelsey Clark (daughter), Sharon Burch (standing behind Kelsey), Jane Etcitty (aunt), Marion Pino (eldest aunt), Nina Begay (aunt), Maggie Pino (aunt), Rita Vallo (youndest aunt), Glessie Little (aunt). Sitting on the floor: Sheryl Burch (sister), Shannan Gardner (sister), Brittany Gardner (niece), Sheila Jennings (sister).

In our Navajo culture, according to the legend of the fourth world, when First Woman and First Man separated, Woman Chief—mother of First Woman—interfered in the business of her son-in-law. So it became the custom among Navajo women to avoid the presence or not make direct eye contact with the son-in-law. When my father first came to live on the reservation, that was how it was. However, my grandmother grew fond of my father and was happy that my mother selected a helpful, caring man. She knew about my father’s distaste for mutton and would cook something else for him, but they never spoke directly. This was partly because of our custom (although it was becoming outdated) but mostly because of the language barrier. She didn’t speak English and he didn’t speak Navajo. Still, she and the rest of the family graciously accepted him. There was a great sense of loss when grandmother passed on in her early fifties. She was an exceptional woman who treated people with respect and dignity. Like my grandfather, she was concerned with humankind; people came to her for advice and support. The tremendous respect that runs in our family is greatly due to my grandparents’ wisdom and reverence for life. Respect isn’t demanded; it is a way of life.

Singing is healing. We call our medicine people, ha’t’aa/’ii—one who sings. My grandfather was a Blessingway medicine man—a healer, a shaman in our tribe. The entire community had great reverence for him. Even as a child I knew he was exceptional. He respected life, cradled nature, showed kindness in his laughter and had a strong affection. To me, he was larger than life—different than any one I had ever met, and yet, just a simple man living a very simple life.

Grandfather did songs, prayers and ceremonies for our family. It was like having a doctor in the family. He conducted my puberty rite ceremony, and blessed my marriage by performing a traditional Navajo marriage ceremony. When I was younger, I remember the sweet smell of earth in the hogan as we sat listening to beautiful prayer songs. I would close my eyes and listen to all the voices—voices of the women resonating through the voices of the males. It was mesmerizing. I tried to follow along, but most times fell asleep because the ceremonies were usually held during the night. My grandfather’s voice was powerful and dominant. My mother and my aunt Marian had the strongest voices among the women. Aunt Marian is now a medicine woman. The medicine bag was given first to my uncle Tim, who sadly passed on six months after grandfather, so the family handed the medicine bag to Aunt Marian, the eldest child. As a traditional woman, she knows the ceremonies and songs and speaks only her Navajo language. My mother also learned most of the songs that grandfather sang as she traveled to ceremonies with him. Today, in great respect, these songs are sung only when needed.

Sharon Burch, Mother Nan Yazzie Burch and daughter Kelsey Clark

My mother enjoyed singing and taught the songs to my sister and me when we traveled with her in the car. One song in particular, Mountain Song, was a favorite. When my father re-enlisted in the Navy, his ship would pull into port in Long Beach or San Diego and he would travel by bus to Flagstaff, Arizona to meet and spend a few days with us. My mother, sister and I drove from where we lived near Gallup, New Mexico and as we came close to Flagstaff, we could see the sacred mountain San Francisco Peak. We would acknowledge its beauty by singing Mountain Song. We were excited to see our father and sang with excitement. After the visit, we sang the song again while driving home—this time with less enthusiasm as we watched the sacred mountain appear smaller and smaller. Our song let her know we would return. Singing was good. It helped keep my mother from crying on the way home. Memories of those weekends are filled with much happiness. I felt the love my parents had for one another and used to wish hard for my family to be together all of the time.

THE MOVE TO CALIFORNIA
AND FINDING MY VOICE

During the summer of l969, my father was transferred to Treasure Island Naval Base near San Francisco. He wanted our family to be together and my mother knew the time was right to leave her extended family. Since by tradition the man lives with the woman’s family, even though my father was in the Navy, my mother’s people tried to persuade her to stay in New Mexico. This was also partly because my mother had just given birth to her third child, Sheryl.

It was different in California. There were black children, Asian children and a lot of white children, but no Indian children. It was awkward at first, but the other children wanted to help. I had a very nice teacher who was thoughtful and understanding that I was adapting to a new way of life. My parents had just learned that my new sister, Sherl, had cerebral palsy and would need assistance the rest of her life. Shannon and I didn’t understand what that meant. Sheryl was our sister; we loved her and to us she was normal. The many children in our neighborhood seemed very confident and out-going. I was reserved and quiet, and mostly observed the new and fascinating life around me.

Music became my friend. It was one of my favorite subjects in school, but when it came time to sing out loud, I didn’t feel comfortable. There seemed to be enough voices filling the room, so I moved my lips and enjoyed hearing and feeling the music swirl around the room. Gradually, I became more comfortable projecting my voice. That soon changed. In my junior high music class, someone was singing off key in the soprano section. The choral director, determined to find out who it was, tested the soprano section one by one in front of the entire class. I didn’t think it was me, but she examined me twice and made her decision. I was demoted—of all things, in front of the class—from the top to the bottom row. I was so embarrassed that I never took another music class.

Sharon Burch Photo provided by Canyon Records, Phoenix, Arizona

Then I satisfied my love of music by taking a beginning guitar class. I remember sitting in my closet wearing a sombrero hat—playing and singing quietly to myself. The hat allowed me to hear myself better but blocked my voice from traveling outside the closet. I enjoyed singing and didn’t care what my voice sounded like to myself. It felt good. I remember sitting in class waiting for school to end so I could go home to my closet. I still didn’t feel comfortable singing out loud, even in front of my family.

During this time, my mother gave birth to my youngest sister, Sheila. My father was out to sea more and more, and my mother seemed preoccupied with my two youngest sisters. This was a difficult time for all of us. I wished we could move back home to my grandfather’s place in New Mexico.

After high school, I returned to the reservation to attend the Navajo Community College in Tsaile, Arizona. That was an exciting time. A couple of months into the school year, there was news that the college was hosting a folk festival. My college roommate suggested I perform because she had heard me sing and play my guitar softly a few times. I knew I wasn’t ready, but she finally persuaded me. Since she also liked to sing, I asked her to accompanying me on stage. We sang a simple folk song and our performance went so well that I wanted to try again. My roommate moved on, so the next time I went on stage, I went alone. I was nervous but took on the challenge of a solo venture. My performance was a disaster. I forgot the words to the songs, forgot the correct chords, my voice cracked and I felt very disoriented and embarrassed. But still, something strong was pulling me, wanting me to continue.

Now, after years of performing, I still get nervous, but I am more comfortable on stage. I think it’s good to feel a little nervous; it adds electricity to the performance. I don’t put much time into practicing guitar or singing because I don’t want to lose my enthusiasm or spontaneity in my performance. I never know what the outcome will be. I don’t like to perfect a song and always leave room for improvisation. However, I do review the songs to see which ones capture my heart and attention. I don’t want my singing to become mechanical and formulaic, so I wait for the moment that feels right to me. That’s probably why I’ve made only four albums in the past twenty years.

This doesn’t mean I’m not enthusiastic. I have so much passion about my songs. They are very sacred to me. They are a way of life for me, and I want to share them with people. I don’t listen to my recordings much but sometimes, when my songs unexpectedly come out to greet me, we become friends again.

The Colors of my Heart album came out last year. Its songs are written for people of all ages, but many have special messages for children. For example, We Are Here expresses the need to take care of ourselves, to love one another, to be with our surroundings and to just be. Another song called Don’t Be Afraid tells how nature makes her music during thunder and rainstorms. Little Starshine is a song I wrote about my first baby. It says, “deliciously may you sleep, deliciously may you dream, my sweet little girl.” I use the Navaho words that most express my feelings.

I have received a lot of support from my family and friends to do this music and would not have done any of it if my grandfather had not given me his blessing. Before recording my first album, my mother and I asked my grandfather if it was okay to sing about the Blessingway using our Navajo language. He said yes, that it would be all right but that I should sing my songs with great reverence. He gave me his blessing. This meant so much to me and has given me the strength to continue and not feel bad when critics analyze my music. I do not sing traditional songs. Those songs already have a life of their own. My songs are contemporary expressions of my traditional Navajo culture. Now I walk forward in beauty with my music, and with my grandfather’s words. He gave me my confirmation.

My aunt Sadie is a jeweler and silversmith who learned her trade from my grandfather’s brother. Turquoise and silver work, which came from the Spanish, are important elements of Diné art and commerce and vital to our identity.

My daughter, Kelsey, is Scotch-Irish on her father’s side and so I gave her an Irish sounding name. Her grandfather gave her the Navaho name “T’aa Nabah” which means “warrior who will always return home.” My three-year-old son also has two names. His Scotch-Irish name is Conner and his Navaho name, “Shush Yazh,” means “little bear.”

Today, I raise my two children with the same values I was taught. Children grow up so quickly, so I try to nurture them as much as possible while they’re little. Nurturing and loving our children sets the foundation for their lives so they can feel totally bonded and secure and grow up to be self-assured, strong and confident adults. I feel that these days we expect children to do things by themselves at such a tender young age without giving them this proper foundation. We expect a baby of a few months old to help himself go back to sleep. My instincts are to sleep with my babies until they are comfortable enough to sleep alone and to separate gradually as they reach an age of understanding and knowing. In my family, we were cradled and very closely cared for until the age of four or five. My three-year-old son still drinks from a bottle. This is part of his nurturing.

My youngest sister, Sheila, is pregnant with her first child. She talks about the little baby inside of her that is growing. My three-year-old son feels like he has that baby inside of him growing also. He walks around with my sister saying, “My baby is growing too,” or “My baby is hungry right now.” He feels in sympathy and is one with her. It is good that he feels what a woman is feeling in pregnancy. When my sister is sick and lies down, he lies down too and says he is sick because the baby is making him tired.

My mother told us that my grandmother used to say, “Hold good thoughts, rub your belly often and project goodness all around when you are pregnant.” We tell Sheila not to watch scary movies, and not to get angry or upset too much during this time. She is doing very well. She naturally has a good heart and enjoys the good life around her.

This focus on new life helps us all to think good thoughts now. This is a very tough time in our family because my sister Shannan is going through a divorce. She did all she could to save her marriage and we all know that she is a very caring and loving person. Our entire extended family is affected by the divorce—we feel her sorrow, her broken heart and her strength. She is a strong woman and inspires us all with her bravery and courage during this challenging time. Because I come from a nurturing family, I forget that many people don’t have the same support. There are people who feel all alone in this world full of people. It is unfortunate that it should be that way, but I also know that we all have a unique path to walk.

I try to understand the challenges in my life and know that the only way I can grow and learn is to be kind to all life. I believe that in our essence, our spirits are positive, pure and loving. My mother told me that shortly before my grandfather’s passing, he saw a rainbow. He spoke to himself as if he was part of the rainbow and told my mother not to be afraid. “Everything turns back to good.” This is interesting to me because I wrote a song called Yazzie Girl several years ago about my mother and grandmother. In that song, I say that grandmother reminds me of the rainbow. Every time I see a rainbow, I know grandmother is nearby. When grandfather equated himself with the rainbow I felt he was communicating with grandmother. My German grandmother just passed on a couple weeks ago at age ninety-three. The day before her passing, my sister and I were driving and noticed a rainbow in the sky—directly before us. There were no rain clouds, just a beautiful sky. We marveled at this rainbow and admired the beautiful colors. Later, I learned that grandmother was then beginning to make her journey to the other side.
My sister, Sheryl, also reminds me of the rainbow—probably because she is so colorful and full of life. She is now thirty years old. Years back, doctors told my parents she would never be able to walk or verbally express her needs, but she proved them wrong. Now she can walk and communicate her needs just fine. A lot of credit goes to my youngest sister for teaching Sheryl so much. At first Sheila didn’t realize the important role she was to play in Sheryl’s life, but now she feels good about the trials and tribulations she experienced during the crucial first years of their lives together.

Sheryl doesn’t look or act intelligent by society’s standards, but she is very aware of people and her surroundings. She is spontaneous and not at all superficial. She cries, laughs and jokes when she wants to. Some years ago, Sheryl and I went to see Paul Simon with some of my friends. He had just come out with the Graceland album and was touring with African singers and dancers. People at the concert were sitting quietly, when all of a sudden Sheryl spurts up out of her chair and begins jumping. When Sheryl dances she jumps—her feet leave the ground. That is her way of expressing what she feels from the music. The more she likes it, the higher she jumps. Sheryl was jumping so high she was stepping on people’s feet and blocking the views of the people behind us. I felt embarrassed. She was so energized and excited about the dancers that she nearly jumped out of her body. There is a lot to be enthused and excited about in this life! I wrote a song called Earth Child for Sheryl. It acknowledges her beauty and innocence.

Sheryl has inspired me and motivated me to help others. I have worked in special education now for over twenty years. I worked as a volunteer at her school during my high school years and, during college, I worked part time at a group home for developmentally disabled women. While on summer break from college, I went home to visit my family and found a summer job working with a special education program in Vallejo. I stayed there for the next ten years. After I married and my husband and I moved to Santa Rosa, I found a similar program there and transferred. Recently I have taken a break because it became too much to juggle working, traveling and performing with raising two children and managing a family. I miss my friends at the program and think of them often. Perhaps soon I will return.

Working to help others is what my life is about. My fear is that advances in technology may replace some of that. When we become a society that is perfect we won’t have the patience with those who need the help. Human caring and hands-on work with developmentally disabled and the elderly is important as well as our acceptance of human error. To be human is to make mistakes, and to make mistakes is to learn and grow.

Sharon Burch lives in the Santa Rosa area with her husband and two children. She travels and performs her music throughout the United States, Europe and Japan and always enjoys returning to the Navajo reservation to perform for her people. Her first album The Blessing Ways was made with A. Paul Ortega, a well-known Mescalero Apache folk singer. In her subsequent three albums, she performed as the solo artist: Yazzie Girl, Touch the Sweet Earth, and Colors of My Heart. In l992 she won an EMMY for original music in a documentary and in l995 won the National Association for Independent Record Distributors INDIE Award for Native American Music.

I want to draw the world the way that I feel,
With corn pollen sprinkles and
the colors of my heart,
The orange feeling of daybreak,
The warm red feeling of the sun,
The cool blue mist of the ocean and
the big blue sky,
The black of the night when day is done.

Yes, I’d want to draw the world the way that I feel,
With corn pollen sprinkles and
the colors of my heart,
The taste of brown comes from our Mother Earth,
The green smells of the plants and trees,
The yellow haze of the afternoon light
Which reminds me, too, of the yellow moonlight.

Yes, I’d want to draw the world the way that I feel,
With corn pollen sprinkles and
the colors of my heart,
The purple touch of the stormy rain showers
And the pure white air that I breathe and live by.
Yes, I’d want to draw the world the way that I feel,
With corn pollen sprinkles and
the colors of my heart.