If I Were a Pueblo Princess

When I was in first grade I learned about the Pueblo Indians. I went on school field trips to museums and drew pictures of adobe homes in class. I went on family trips out to Pinnacle Peak and hiked the red hills till I was tired and hungry. And in college I learned about the real, tragic history of American Indian tribes.

I always wondered what it would be like to live in a Pueblo villiage "way back when". I loved the desert. I loved the heat. I loved the sun. I loved Gilla Monsters and horned toads and "garden lizzards". I loved Prickly Pear fruit and the strange and subtle smell of rocks.

I remember driving out to the state parks, watching the mountains grow bigger and bigger as we got closer. I remember wanting to climb those mountains barefoot. I don't think I ever tried, for fear of Black Widows and scorpions. Sometimes I would stop and stare up at the sun, then out accross the seemingly endless span of jagged, red cliffs. I imagined that I was an Indian Princess.

I imagined I lived in an adobe and ate hot corn tortillas with honey for breakfast. If I were a Pueblo princess I would spend my days padding through the mountains barefoot, eating cactus fruit and scanning the horizon for ominous birds. I would learn how to talk to the animals, and one day I would find my spirit guide.

Then I would be invincible.

Maybe I was a mountain lion. Maybe I was a bear. Maybe I was an Iguana so I could change my colors to blend into my surroundings. Maybe I was something poisonous.

I always liked sweating. I liked it when my heart raced and my muscles filled with hot blood. I liked it when the wind blew across my damp scalp causing my skin to ripple into goose bumps. I liked how much better cold water tasted when my mouth was dry from panting. I once had a dream that I was soaring through the Grand Canyon, speeding along with the pressure of the currents, but ever descending, gently to the bottom.

I felt safe in the desert. I didn't worry about starving, or dehydrating, or being maimed by an animal. I wanted to roll in the dirt and sleep in the sun and sit by a fire after the sun went down and the temperature dropped with it.

I used to stand in the middle of the street in our suburban neighborhood and watch the sun sink below the horizon. The middle of the street was the best place to stand because East Janice Way ran due East/West. From the street, it looked like the sun melted into the pavement before me. The sky turned pink first, with a lavender glow at the farthest reaches of the sun's last light. Then the sun turned orange and the sky was red behind it. Bright oranges and pinks painted the underbellies of the clouds, and a deep blue began to creep forward from the other end of the block. The purple sky was right above me. Then the sun turned red and the whole horizon looked like it was on fire. I could stare right at the sun without having to squint. That usually meant it was alsmost bedtime.

The collective buzz of the cicada chorus gave way to the sound of cricket chirps and the pavement grew cold beneath my feet. I would get into my pajamas and lie in bed, trying to burn the image of the sunset into my mind so I could keep it forever. I was sure that each sunset I saw was the prettiest one yet, and I didn't ever want to forget it.

I hated how quiet my room was. It was silent. And through the door I could hear the soft mumble of the t.v. in the living room. I wanted to hear the cicadas and the crickets and the wind. I felt cut off - trapped - in the house when the desert was still settling down outside.

"If I were a Pueblo Princess . . ." I'd ask myself. And if I was lucky, I'd fall asleep to a dream that I followed a horned toad through the desert to a cave full of beautiful Indian jewelry, and there I would find my spirit guide who would teach me how to be invincible.