Growing Up on the Rez
Let’s start from the beginning. I was born in the late summer of 1998 to a teen mom, barely 14 years old. My mother’s story is her own to tell. If she were alive, I would ask permission, but she is not, so I will not tell it. I was born in a hospital close to the reservation—by close, I mean one hour away. We did have one on the reservation, but the services must not have been able to safely give her and me care, therefore transferring us off the rez. That is just rez life.
Since my mom was so young, my grandma and grandpa helped raise me. They were like my parents. My mom was always still my mom, but sometimes, it felt like we were sisters. My grandma stayed at home and cared for me while Mom was in high school, and she worked at the only grocery store in town. I loved my grandma so much. I remember spending every day with her, getting off the bus and sitting with her, watching her shows, watching her clean, watching her cook. I miss her. We will touch on her in another blog, but just know, she passed early in my life. I wish I had more time with her.
My grandpa, whom I called Papa, was a wildland firefighter. He served in the Army as well. He was one tough man. They both attended Catholic boarding schools, and he told stories of how mean and abusive the nuns were to him. He said the boys got the worst of it. His upbringing is another story. We all have our stories. I know his story is why he was so tough.
He was extremely hardworking. He taught me how to work. I remember him teaching me about work ethic when I was 7. I can still picture him and hear his voice. I miss him too. He passed away in May of 2025 from cancer after a six-year battle—a battle that the doctors said would only last a year, max. He was diagnosed a few months after my mom died. That, again, is another story.
Do you see the pattern of grief and loss? This isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, though all of their deaths hurt and cut a deep wound in me that will never be filled.
This information is a good background on how life on the rez was. Everyone on the rez had stories, some, or many, way worse than mine. I lived on the reservation until kindergarten. This is when my mom graduated high school and moved to Phoenix, about three and a half hours away from the reservation, to attend college.
My grandpa drilled it into us that we had no option after high school to be a “bum,” as he would say. We had the option of the military or college. He wanted us to succeed, go far in life, and be better than he was. Not that he wasn’t great, but he wanted more for his kids. So we moved to Phoenix.
My mom had three other children after me, and I was honestly a troubled kid for many reasons, one I will not talk about, but it affected me deeply, to this day. I was too much to handle for my mom. My grandma died when I was eight years old, on Thanksgiving morning. I was there. I loved her so, so, so much. She was my heart. She lived with us in Phoenix to help my mom and aunts with the children while they were all in school.
Without my grandma, I was too much. I had behavioral issues, but funny enough, I was in the gifted and talented program, getting ready to test out of fourth grade, when my grandpa decided I needed to come back and live with him.
Before moving back, we would spend every summer on the rez with our grandparents. We would swim in the rivers, eat bologna sandwiches with Doritos stuffed inside, and break into the elementary school next door to play on the playground. Papa would take us fishing, drive the backroads, go to a remote river, fish, swim, and grill all day. He would grill for us every weekend of the summer. It was the best. He would take us to the movies every chance he got.
As a child, rez life was a dream, until it wasn’t.
Oftentimes, our neighbors, also our cousins, would be drinking, doing drugs, and fighting constantly. I had seen many physical fights at a young age, drunk people, drugs, and domestic violence. It was the norm.
After moving back, I was tainted with grief. My Papa was dealing with his wife of 25 years suddenly passing. His two youngest children, 14 and 16, also in the house, were dealing with the grief. Some turned to drugs and alcohol, some poured themselves into the wrong people, some were angry, but we were all sad. She was the glue.
This is where my depression began. I missed my mom, my siblings, the city, and my grandma.
I started school at the elementary school on my rez. They didn’t have a gifted and talented program, so they just pushed me up to the next grade, which was fine. The only thing I missed was long division. However, I was already young for my grade, and this put me as a 9-year-old in fifth grade. In addition to being young, I was tall, skinny, smart, and “spoke white” because of my education in Phoenix. I was different from everyone else and was bullied for it. Kids were mean. It was hard. I had culture shock moving back to the rez.
My grandpa was often gone—summers fighting fire, fall being a trophy elk hunt guide, early winter prescribed burning in Florida. He kept busy, but I was often stuck home alone with my teenage aunt. This left me with a lot of freedom, and I hung out with the wrong crowd often.
I started smoking weed and drinking at thirteen years old. Because everyone in my grade was older, I did what the older kids were doing, whether that was good or bad. I still got good grades, just as I did before.
My aunt tried to get me to do better. I played sports, I was a part of my school council and clubs, I rode horses, went to rodeos, went snowboarding, fishing, and hunting. The rez was beautiful, with a lot of outdoor opportunities. The extracurriculars were not enough.
As I said, I was often alone. My cousins next door would come over and watch over me often. They were like my brothers.
One early morning, we got a knock on the door, and I answered. It was another cousin. He looked scared. He asked for my Papa. I was scared. I had to go wake him up. I sat on the couch by the door and heard him tell my Papa my cousin, who watched me, who was like my brother, who I had just had breakfast with a few days prior, shot himself in the head.
He was in the hospital, the same one I was born in. We went there. I remember seeing his whole head wrapped in gauze. I remember a lot of family were there. I remember when he died. I remember we took my uncle and other cousin home from the hospital after that. It was silent.
This is when my depression really set in. The reality that everyone dies.
Something I forgot to add: my grandpa, from my dad’s side, died a month after my grandma. A week later, we were in Phoenix visiting, and some cousins were staying at my mom’s. They were going Christmas shopping, and my Papa had all of us kids at my aunt’s apartment.
I remember seeing the Phoenix Zoo commercial. The phone rang. He answered. I could hear screaming and crying. I knew something was bad. It was my aunt. I recognized the scream, the crying. It was the same way she did when my grandma died. I knew someone died. I didn’t know who, but I was so scared.
My Papa was getting mad at her because he was trying to figure out what was going on.
My cousin’s baby died from SIDS.
After my cousin killed himself, I thought of all this. I realized it was never going to stop. I wanted to die too. At only 13.
I will fast-forward a little. In middle school, a classmate and her grandma were brutally murdered in their sleep. I went to that funeral, unfazed. Not because I wasn’t sad or didn’t hurt, but because I was so used to it.
Then my Papa’s best friend.
Then my friend who froze to death on his own front porch.
Then my first boyfriend’s funeral. I broke up with him a week prior.
Then a close family friend who helped me stay out of trouble.
I think there were many, many others. I just blocked them out, sadly. I was completely numb from grief. I had depression and didn’t know it. I thought everyone felt like I did, and I am sure everyone around me did.
I continued to drink and do drugs. I eventually was kicked out of high school. I went to alternative school. My mom got me back in school. I was permanently expelled a week later. There were no other options for me.
I had to move and get away.
So I left.
And back to the Valley I went.
All that trauma, grief, and depression came with me. And I had culture shock once again.
And that’s what I think about when I think about growing up on the rez. Death. Drugs. Alcohol.
I didn’t mention anyone’s addictions and how they affected me, as those are not my stories to tell. But just know those around me suffered from addiction, and I saw it all, was affected by it, and carried it with me.
