Running Barefoot

“Samuel!”

“What Josie?!” The other kids that got off at our stop were trudging home, out of earshot by now, but he seemed reluctant to continue the conversation.

“But she did!” I insisted again, enunciating each word.

Samuel’s eyes rested on my face, and I realized I was clenching my jaw tightly, my chin jutting out, daring him to deny it.

“I believe you, Josie,” he said at last. He turned then and strode away, his gait smooth and unhurried, his moccasins quiet on the hard packed snow.

I felt relieved that we seemed to understand one another. It wasn’t until I read the play again, many years later, that I realized we hadn’t been talking about Desdemona and Othello at all.

The school year was drawing to a close. Samuel grew distant and withdrawn again, much like he had been in the beginning. He’d been in constant touch with his recruiter and was mentally almost gone. He was swimming well enough now; he’d attacked the sport with a vengeance and was certain he’d be okay throughout training, even if he wasn’t the strongest swimmer. He had been running every night as well - trying to be as ready as he could be for boot camp. He told me that he wanted to get a perfect score on the fitness test. He’d gotten all his medical records when he’d left the reservation. He’d needed a series of shots that he’d never gotten, as well as some tests that were required. He was grim and testy the last month in school - ready to graduate, ready to move on.

I didn’t really understand why he was so anxious to leave. Boot camp sounded horrible to me…and wouldn’t he miss me at all? I couldn’t imagine not seeing him every day, listening to music, reading together. As he grew increasingly more agitated and short-tempered, I grew steadily more forlorn. I wanted to give him a gift for graduation. He had made the honor roll, which he seemed proud of; he was Ms. Whitmer’s new favorite student. She was so impressed with him she had given him the Outstanding Senior English student award. But all this didn’t seem to assuage his restlessness.

One morning on the bus I offered my earphones to Samuel, only to have him push my hand away irritably. I stifled the girlish instinct to cry from my hurt feelings. Sonja said women have many emotions, but only one physical response. When we’re angry we cry, when we’re happy we cry, when we’re sad we cry, when we’re scared, you guessed it, we cry.

“What’s wrong, Samuel?” I said after several moments of tense silence.

“I don’t want to listen - that’s all,” he said tersely.

“Okay. But why did you push my hand away? Am I bothering you?”

“Yes.” Samuel lifted his chin as he said this, jutting it at me, like he said the word purposely to hurt me and make me angry.

“What am I doing that’s bothering you?” I again fought the wet that threatened to undermine my dignity. I spoke each word distinctly, focusing on the shape and sound instead of the sentiment.

“You are so.....” His smooth voice was layered with turbulence and frustration. Samuel rarely raised his voice, and didn’t do so now, but the threat was there. “You are so… calm, and accepting, and NAIVE that sometimes…I just want to shake you!”

I wondered what in the world had brought on this vehement attack and sat in stunned silence for several heartbeats.

“I bother you because I’m calm...and accepting?” I said, my voice an incredulous squeak. “Do you want me to be hyper and, well, intolerant?”

“It would be nice if you questioned something, sometime.” Samuel was revving up to his argument; I could see the animation in his face. “You live in your own happy little world. You don’t know how it feels to not belong anywhere! I don’t belong anywhere!”

“Why do you think I created my own happy little world?” I shot back. “I fit in perfectly there!” I hated it when he tried to start a fight with me.

“Come on, Samuel. Everyone feels like they don’t belong sometimes, don’t they? Mrs. Grimaldi even told me that Franz Schubert, the composer, said that at times he didn’t feel like he belonged in this world at all. He created amazing, beautiful music. He had this enormous gift, yet he often felt out of place, too.

“Franz Schubert? He was the guy that wrote the song you played at Christmas, right?

“Yes!” I smiled at him like a proud teacher.

“It’s not quite the same thing Josie. I don’t think Franz and I have much in common.”

“Well I hope not!” I said saucily. “Poor Franz Schubert never made any money from his music and was completely broke and mostly destitute when he died from Typhus at only 31-years-old.”

Samuel sighed and shook his head. “You always seem to have an answer for everything, huh? So tell me what to do, Josie. My mother keeps calling me. She calls me late at night, and she’s so drunk all she can do is cry and swear. My grandparents are trying to stay out of it, but I know her calling like that, at all hours, is upsetting them. She says I will never find hozho in the white man’s world. Can you believe she is using the Navajo religion to make me feel guilty, while she is a complete mess?”

I realized none of Samuel’s angst had anything to do with me.

“What’s hozho?” I plied him gently.

“Hozho is at the heart of the Navajo religion. It essentially means harmony. Harmony within your spirit, your life, with God. Some people compare it to karma too, the idea that what you put out comes back to you. It is a balance between your body, mind, and spirit.”