Shima Yazhi

In Navajo, Shima is the word for mother. Natives keep relations close. We don’t typically use the term cousin. We refer to our cousins as our brothers and sisters. Their children are my nieces and nephews. My uncles are my fathers, and my aunties are my mothers. In Navajo, the mother is recognized in the name for auntie.

Shima yazhi.

My little mother.

Cindy was my shima yazhi. My auntie may be from my anglo side, but there is no better language to describe her. She mothered me like I was her daughter. And I loved her like a mother.

My first memory in my life was the night I came out of my bedroom in my yellow sleepers with the footies, as my father almost struck me down when he threw a speaker toward the hallway in rage.

The speaker’s breath blew on the top of my head as it sailed over me. I thought in my 2 or 3 year old mind it had been a frisbee.

I then remember seeing yellowish street lights zipping above me as I stared out the back window of the car lighting our way to our late night destination to a safer place.

I tell this so I can tell the next.

I saw the final yellow light gleam and light up the face of my pregnant auntie. She hugged us and took us in holding the screen door open for us to pass into sanctuary.

Late in the night, she held me and brushed my hair back. I leaned into her and the child within her rounded belly.

I felt safe and loved. Things that can be hard to find as we go through life. But I knew i always had that with my shima yazhi.

My brother and I would sing, “old aunt cindy has a farm. E I E i O!” on our way to Aunt Cindy’s house in my mom’s golden VW Bug. We thought the Edwards house was a huge farm. Chickens. Goats. Horses. Dogs. Geese. Peacocks. And a pig.

Man, Brian loved that pig.

My mom got the Bug from Aunt Cindy after my father had someone take our car and drive off into the sunset with it. My mom was going to school and working several jobs to get us by. Then suddenly was without a car. Aunt Cindy gave my mom the Bug and accepted payment as my mom could.

My mom worked and went to school, so Aunt Cindy would often pick us up in the white wagon to play with our cousins.

I remember two car rides with just her and me, specifically.

First.

A song came on the radio. I was sitting in the front passenger seat next to my auntie. A song came on the radio and at first we were both softly singing. She saw me singing and said, “if you’re going to sing, then SING!” And she cranked up the radio as we turned the corner of the Edwards belting…

“Looking for love in all the wrong places

Looking for love in too many faces…”

Our family has many talents, but singing is something most of us lack. I’m sure we sounded like a couple cats mewling.

But she didn’t turn off the car until the song was over. She clicked the key back on the ignition and just started laughing. Her body joined the rhythm of the laughter, and it made me start laughing. We then laughed at each other, laughing and laughed some more.

Second car story.

I remember heading to the Edwards house. I had just gotten my first pair of glasses. Auntie took her off her glasses while driving and handed them to me, insisting I give her my glasses. We drove for a bit wearing each others glasses and she said, “Alright, give ’em back. I can’t see shit.” As she was cruising to a stop at the gate to the house.

I love my mom. But my mom had a different set of skills than other mothers typically had. My momma taught me to cast a fishing line after using live bait, throw up and hit a baseball, and have love for Mel Brooks movies.

Aunt Cindy, shima yazhi, taught me how to be girly. She would do my make up. Even coming to my first dance recital in Henderson to liberally apply makeup for my debut as a tap dancing strawberry. I don’t remember the dancing, but I remember Aunt Cindy smiling and brushing bright blush on my cheeks. She told me to look up and to the corner as she thickened my lashes with Maybelline Mascara. The good stuff in the pink container with the green lid. I felt sophisticated for a five year old.

My auntie had my uncle dave put a ballet bar in the garage so she could exercise and do ballet. She’d teach me. Then she took me to the Judy Baily Theatre at UNLV to see it live.

I remember getting cold waiting for it to start. She had reminded me there was no talking during the performance. Not even whispering. I shivered, and she draped her sweater across me like a blanket, still warm from her having just worn it. The ballet started and I was entralled. Aunt Cindy made me want to be a ballerina.

Besides doing my makeup she would also do my hair.

When perms were an essential requirement of the 1980s. Aunt Cindy permed my long, thick locks so I would not have to pay for it.

Aunt Cindy would play opera music to keep us out of the house. Problem was I liked it. But she wouldn’t let me stay. Opera time was her me time.

Aunt Cindy was so versatile. She could be a ballerina in the garage, moving from first to fifth position with the music. Then, she’d go into the house and change her shoes. Go fetch a goat and start milking it in the same place that had been her dance studio moments before.

My auntie and I were always close. We had our troubles. We’re both a little stubborn. We lost time being angry about something that didn’t matter. When she had been hospitalized, I dropped what I was doing to go see her. She couldn’t speak with the tube, but she squeezed my hand tightly.

That lady had quite the grip.

For a wisp of a thing, she had a remarkably strong grip.

My Aunt Cindy, My Shima Yazhi loved me so much. It’s a feeling those who loved and were loved by her know. It doesn’t go away.

My Shima Yazhi will never leave me, as she is a part of me. Not just the DNA, but her love, light, and spirit are a handprint on my heart, touching my soul, telling me,

“Hey, Teach. We’re so proud of you. You’ve got this. I love you, honey.”