Sarita and I live in Navajoland, and the clash of two cultures is worth a grin sometimes. Here's a report of a recent event:
Michele bustled into an exam room. Since Navajo Health is not Cedars of Lebanon, she’s not a doctor but a physician’s assistant. She’s blonde, big of hip and bosom, undeniably cute, and unstoppable as a HumVee.
An elderly Navajo lady huddled in a chair opposite, dressed traditionally in velveteen skirt, turquoise bracelets and necklace, head scarf, and jacket. (For whatever reason, even in August at a temperature of 102, there’s always the jacket.) As Michele opened her mouth to ask what the problem was, a stink bug skittered across the floor between them.
Michele raised her foot to stomp it. The old lady was quicker. She snatched the bug up and popped it into her mouth.
Michele kept her voice down to a low scream. “What are you doing?” She reached, but the old lady averted her head.
“Get that thing out of there.”
The old lady said, “Mmphphssrrhhss.”
Michele tried to pry the mouth open, but the old lady clamped her teeth tight.
Michele fingered. The old lady said, mushing her words out around the bug, “These things heal mouth sores.”
Michele babbled. The old lady froze her mouth closed and glared.
Michele left and sent a nurse in to perform the bugectomy.
Soon the old lady trundled down the hall toward the waiting room and the front door. Michele looked at the nurse but thought better of asking about the insect.
“Respect for tradition,” said the nurse.
Michele sighed.
