CAPACITY BUILDING
INSTITUTE ANTHOLOGY
EDITED BY AMBER MCCRARY & SHAINA A. NEZ
Copyright © 2025 by Abalone Mountain Press
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Ryan Allison
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the copyright holder except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
Set in Palatino font
ISBN: 978-1-7377123-9-8
Published by Abalone Mountain Press www.abalonemountainpress.com
The Diné Artisans & Authors Capacity Building Institute (DAACBI) began as a dream.
Each contributor brought their brevity and dedication to carry this collection forward. I want to name them here, because they are the heart of this anthology: Roanna Shebala, Dalenna Bahe, Tylia Sky Begaye, Danielle Burbank, Lindsey Curley, Danielle Emerson, Shannel Garcia, Chris Hoshnic, Tommey Jodie, Elxcia N. Smith, Danielle Manygoats, Chasity Thompson (Nahasdzáán), Tanya Tyler, Dayhenoa C. Yazzie, and Bazhnibah.
Serving as co-editor for this independent project I’m incredibly proud of what we created. I worked closely with Amber, our publishing partner, to read through every submission, shaping the flow of the anthology while honoring the voice of each contributor. Her editorial guidance helped bring this vision to life, and I’m thankful for her collaboration throughout.
The theme of home emerged organically from the writing fellows’ reflections on place, identity, and memory. A public call for submissions on home shaped the direction of the anthology, inviting the Diné community into a broader conversation of shared and lived experiences. Their words reflect the beauty, resilience, and brilliance of what home means to a lot of us.
Ayóó ahxé’héé’ to everyone involved in this independent publication, we stayed the course until the very end. Be proud of what you helped create. This anthology is more than a collection of work, but a celebration of hane’, hooghan, and the voices—past and present—that carry us forward. -Dr. Shaina Nez
Over the course of sixteen weeks, I had the privilege of meeting and working with some of Diné Nation’s most promising and emerging literary voices. I’m deeply grateful to Shaina (co-editor and genius behind DAACBI), Byron (brilliant and beautiful co-teacher), and the DAACBI writing fellows (a light in the darkness that can be creative writing) for allowing me to be part of their creative writing journeys.
As I edited and assembled this anthology, I was continually struck by the power, beauty, and depth of each submission. Since the initial pieces were submitted, I’ve watched several of these writers go on to earn prestigious fellowships, attend renowned writing retreats, and be published in some amazing places. The talent within this collection is remarkable. Some poets speak to experiences that echo my own sense of home, while others open windows into lives shaped on or away from Diné Bikéyah.
What is poetry, if not a vessel for memory—a form of blood memory carried through language? These poets embody that essence, channeling the voices of our ancestors while envisioning futures for the generations yet to come.
- Amber McCrary
Hooghan-Naashá by Nahasdzáán
Home is a whisper, a memory scattered like desert sand. Hozho - harmony - eludes me, slipping through my fingers like water from a cracked clay pot.
I am a child born of broken bottles and silent screams, raised between worlds - neither fully belonging. The word “home” in Navajo is Hooghan but what does home mean when walls have never held safety?
When parents are ghosts walking through rooms, their spirits drowning in liquid pain?
I learned early that home is not a place, but people. My papa and grandma - they were my true Hooghan They showed me home is more than structure.
Home breathes in the mountains, whispers in the wind through juniper trees, dances in the rhythms of our Diné traditions.
Home lives in our skin, our bones, our collective memory. We carry it within us - a sacred narrative etched deeper than blood.
When papa left, he took a piece of home with him. The hole he left cannot be filled, cannot be forgotten. His absence is a constant ache, a reminder that home can be stolen, can vanish like morning mist over red rock valleys.
Our bodies are home, they tell me.
Home to heartbeats, to dreams, to ancestral stories waiting to be told.
Our skin becomes walls, our breath becomes foundation. We are walking homes, moving landscapes of memory and survival.
I am learning to rebuild.
To understand that home is not perfect, but resilient. Home is laughter shared between sisters.
Home is the turquoise that gleams like hope against brown skin.
Home is remembering who we are, where we come from. Diné bizaad (Navajo language) teaches me: we are never truly homeless.
We carry our stories, our traditions, our strength. We will never be truly homeless - this land remembers us.
These mountains, these valleys, these sacred grounds - they are our eternal home.
We are indigenous. We are Diné. Our roots run deeper than concrete and colonizer’s borders.
This land is our birthright, our breath, our beginning. We belong here, always have, always will.
Our ancestors’ footsteps are carved into every stone, every canyon, every wind-swept mesa.
We are home. We are the land. We will never be homeless.
And in this understanding, I am finally beginning to heal.
Here by Tommey Jodie
Can I pull the land from me like a vein? Tug at its river of light that flushes through wash. This wash - it waits for me to sweat all night and jump in at dawn.
I lather myself with its overgrown thaw. The mane of horse. The brushing wakes me from anesthesia. The thelesperma burn like sun in the gloaming. You can see the low moon stretch its turquoise yawn across the saddled butte.
Here, I see cowboys. Here, I practice spiritual surrender. I learned that the cure to pinch nerves is home. I twirl in my girl body.
I am everyone’s daughter. I am everyone’s mother. And there are mountains that hold abalone. And there are prophetic coyotes that wander. And there are sacred clouds and rain that hold us. And there are ancestors that wait for me. And there is beauty in beauty in beauty. And we pray them in these places.
By Elxcia N. Smith
Home awaits me inviting me with open arms. I am not alone. Mother Earth below me, nurturing my growth with abundance. The light that shines on me, father sky above me. Guided by those who have heard my cry.
Tears rolling down.
I know why home has been a place of comfort. The stillness is in the wind as the breeze blows. My hair shines a symbol of rain when it flows.
Knowledge from those before me will continue to grow. Those words of hózhó naasha dóó continue to guide me.
The beam of light a sun ray of grace.
Living in two worlds with the fate of walking abundantly holding onto the beauty.
A five fingered being living graciously.
Home by Bazhnibah
Home…
fireplace crackling, wood breaking down with its sweet sounds and smells fire dancing – orange and yellow plumes its movements like a person dancing on coals bringing shimά, shi zhé’é, shi tsilike, shi naaike, shi dezhi together, warmth, togetherness, oneness.
Home…
the hot iron skillet, aroma of tortillas with small pop ups quickly forming frying potatoes - spam and onions sizzle all senses on high alert with the smells, sights, sounds shimά, shi zhé’é, shi tsiliké, shi naaiké, shi dezhí together at the wooden table and run-down crickety chairs.
Home…
the pliers, machines, pads, silversmithing supplies, sounds of pounding silver, cutting, soldering, buffing the finished products – yoostsah dóó lάtsíní shimά, shi zhé’é, shi tsiliké, shi naaiké, shi dezhí together thankful for the creativity, source of pride and income.
Home…
everything we have in our possessions, ceremony with prayers with family together bring blessings – spiritual, stories, practices, traditions
That day we lost nalí’s béégaashí
Our father loved telling us, drink your spit. Heavy, stretched as shítsilí and I pulled our tired bodies out of a shared metal bunk bed My brother never had to get up early, our father talked a lot about what he had to do growing up compared to what his brother had to do,
that’s why I do my best to treat you all the same. Treating us all the same meant everyone had to go chase cows and everyone had to drink their own spit when they got thirsty. I made the mistake of wearing basketball shorts, red cuts, scrapes up and down my legs from weeds and red Red Valley łichíí rock.
Our nalí’s silver truck tumbled, rolled over dirt, water washes, dried stickers, and we’d sit in the back chasing off rez dogs nipping at our taillights. Breathing in pieces of hay hauled every other weekend to feed shinalí’s cows.
Shítsilí and I were dropped off on a tall crimson hill and told, bring the cows north.
We carried sticks found near our feet, shitsilí went left and I went right. Our father drove off,
I’ll meet you halfway, down past the wash. We never met him down past the wash. Instead, our little legs, led shinalí’s béégaashí towards a nearby gas station, with old pumps and rusted metal. Velvet crushed masaní’s and their grandchildren looked on with wide eyes and clenched jaws. We had no way to tell our dad. Panic filled our elementary bones.
by Tanaya Tyler
I am from Tséʼałnáoztʼiʼí (Sanostee) which is about twenty miles south of Shiprock, New Mexico. I grew up away from the reservation, first in La Grande, Oregon then in Salt Lake City, Utah but used to come back often to visit family. Both of my parents’ families are from Sanostee.
My parents said it felt like home again when we saw the Shiprock pinnacle appearing on the horizon as we headed south from Cortez, Colorado. We usually came with my mom and visited her family. My mom’s family lives on the eastern side of Sanostee near Black Rock. Four of my aunts lived there with their houses built near my grandpa with a hogan near his house. All their front doors faced east. One of the best parts of being there was the sunlight hitting us first before the rest of the community. There were no mesas or hills near us, so the sunlight illuminated the front room through the fabric curtains that shimasaní had sewn years before. His horse corral and sheep corral were to the south of the house. Further south sat a wash that cuts through the land, which carried the water down from the Chuska mountains when the snow melted in the springtime.
As kids, we explored the washes near my grandpa’s house or played in the sheep corral. In the wintertime, we sledded down the large hill nearby to the west and used what we could find. Some used a cardboard box, and some used a plastic garbage bag. My cheii has been gone for years and I still miss him. Now when I travel back from Albuquerque, it doesn’t feel like I am truly back until I see the Shiprock pinnacle on the horizon. I see it and feel like I am home.
By Elxcia N. Smith
Drifting into the abyss of adoration I call upon you. Remembering how you smiled as the essence of your aura lit up the room. A voice of calm touch engraved on my heart. I hear a voice in the distance, náli? Laughter appears, home surrounds me, I stand by you. Where the gleaming golden rays enter the hogan. Walking in your steps may I continue to be bound by your strength. Powerful as the dootl’izhii you wore. Among the cornfields of everlasting memories, I walk. Hear my call as the words “I miss you” never seemed so far. Yet here I stand guided by you. Shinálí adzaan ayóo aniínishni.
by Dayhenoa C. Yazzie
I am from pillow, From Bashas water and lice killing shampoo.
I am from the dancing red wall valley as the sun moves rocks to rest.
Humorous, mellow, the bird echos of beauty the valley holds, where colors share their endowing voices everywhere.
I am from red dirt that gets everywhere and marks stains of home, from time immemorial.
I’m from long drives home sharing goods and bads, as the bumpy dirt roads soothes tears of both laughter and fears, and strong minded Diné women, with even stronger hearts made to persevere.
From the head of the household, Dr. Victoria Yazzie, shima.
I’m from the start something you finish it and to look around, be aware, listen, hear, above, below, and all around before you say there’s nothing there.
From go outside and the bogeyman will get you.
I’m from my way of life, to be in harmony, balance, to live the hozho way of life.
I’m from the best fair in the Navajo Nation (Tuba City babies roar). The two clans that traveled far away into Cane Valley for protection, stew made with love and blood-drops from slivers when someone isn’t a good in-law.
From the sister I slept with for fifteen years cried for the first night I stayed in my college dorm.
The watering the horses and feeding the animals with my little sister, racing her home as shima calls dinner is hot and ready.
The sweet smell of logs pressed against my face, while I rest my head, the livelihood of my family, my home dances as I lay in bed.
I am from pillow, where the memories of home live and where I go to never forget.
by Nahasdzáán
Hózhó – Becoming –I walk with beauty before me. Home.
My birthright.
Hózhó whispers —
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Bare feet. Wooden floors. Silence breathing.
Hooghan – Home — not walls, but heartbeats.
Cedar whispers. Juniper memories. Navajo land beneath skin
Ancestors walk with me.
Each step – a prayer. Each breath – remembrance.
Displacement carves canyons in memory
Long Walk echoes—pain transformed Resilience blooming like corn stalks
Who am I?
A collection of scents
Sand. Blood. Language. Carried in wind.
I carry home within me
Harmony in me Home follows me
In beauty i walk
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Elders speak without words
Wisdom etched in weathered hands
One person can be homeland – k’é
A heartbeat that makes any ground sacred
Someone who reminds us
Who we are, where we come from
We are not defined by suffering
But by how we walk through it
Beautifully. Deliberately.
To Live in harmony
Hózhó
Where spirit meets earth
Where human touches universe
Where balance dances
Identity: not static
But moving
Breathing
Becoming
K’é - is not a place
But a continual act of returning
To ourselves
To each other
To land that remembers
Walking – Naashá
Always walking
In beauty
Hózhóogo Naasháa
Beauty i walk
I walk with beauty behind me.
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Hózhó náhásdlíí’
Home by Dalenna Bahe
The crackling of the fireplace, the smell of fresh cedar wood burning. Water on the stove boils to cleanse and moisten the dry air. Mom in the kitchen, dad outside chopping wood, and filling buckets of coal, laughter of children playing and helping before it gets dark; this is home.
As you enter the house, the heat hits your cold face and the instantaneous fogging of your glasses. Helping mom in the kitchen to peel potatoes and mix the dough, this is home.
You can smell the grease heating up, and the crackling of the wet potatoes hitting the frying pan. Splashing of grease and the heat of the pan, this is home.
Gather the ingredients to make dough; flour, salt, baking powder, and warm water. Mixing the ingredients and feeling the squishy-ness as it begins to form into a lightly firm ball. Rolling them into smaller balls and shaping them into tortillas, this is home.
Heating the pan; the smell of hot iron, rubbing the grease to your pan, the sizzling of the frying, lay the tortilla, the smell of hot bread cooking; this is home.
Mom’s hands can withstand the heat and you sit there and wonder; does it hurt flipping and grabbing the bread; this is home.
Laughter, talks of today, talks of tomorrow, encouraging words you receive and give at the table; this is home.
The crisp air of wintery nights, the dry heat of summer nights and the sweet sounds of bugs zipping around in the
spring. All followed by an early dawn of a reddish orange that fades to yellow, white and the light blue sky; this is home.
Arizona skies hit differently, they are full of vibrant colors from dawn to dusk, and bright clear skies full of stars; this is home.
by Dayhenoa C. Yazzie
I have lived in Tsaile for a year and have considered the Chuska mountains and Tsaile and Wheatfields lake to be my home. I have run every inch of this campus from the dirt to the paved roads. I’ve seen my college community through seasons of spring, summer, fall and winter. My bestest friends are sheepherders, Yeii dancers, sliversmithers, runners, weavers, leaders and my favorite flower jokers.
Being a student at Diné College doesn’t initially mean you’ll be indulged with cultural knowledge, but the connection to community and the land will never leave you. The five sacred beings will always be with you, however it is a choice to feed your fire and truly understand the foundation of Diné College. Dii Sa’ah Naghai Be’ke Hozhoon na’natin.
The educational philosophy lives within the breath of Sa’ah Naghai Be’ke Hozhoon. The foundation of songs, prayers, and ceremony Haatali prepared for the Diné people. A symbol of resilience for future generations, a place of learning and embodiment of Diné language, culture and K’e.
I see Diné College as being deeply influenced by its environment. The land is what makes Dine College so special. From the towering pines, to the juniper and oaks that sit against the mountain, the gleaming windows of the largest hogan in Navajo stands surrounded by generations of laughs and old time traditions of pinon picking.
As Diné College students we must remember we are the purpose and future of our people. It is now in our hands to carry the stories, songs, prayers, traditions, ceremonies, and language of our people.
This may seem like a big responsibility, but that is why we have K’e. Through our relations to each other we will find relatives and strength by supporting one another through carrying on our next generation. As young Diné individuals we are important because it is now our turn to be storytellers. Acknowledging that storytelling isn’t theory but lived experience. As these stories will connect us to our community, land, who we are and where you come from as children of the Long Walk, as children of resilience, as children of the Holy people.
by Shannel Garcia
“Change your clothes! We’re going to Másání’s house!” My grandma scolded me. A tank top and jean shorts were no outfit for the red sand and mesas of my childhood. I didn’t listen, of course.
The determined mind of a lonely child
Chizhí knees and a stubborn pout I climbed the Juniper Tree
The tree was a naturally made playground in the middle of the Rez. I remember picking the berries and pretending to make cake, pretending the discarded hood of a car was a kitchen table next to the kid-made slab of wood we called the “stove”, pretending each branch was a “room” on this Juniper Tree where we played “house”.
The wandering mind of a lonely child
Chizhí knees shivering in the dusky breeze I fell backward off the Juniper Tree
My first thought was that my grandma was right when the bark of the Juniper Tree scraped the back of my knees as I hung there. This playground betrayed me. With a stubborn pout to hold back tears, I managed to drop myself to the hard ground and laid there in pain watching the Juniper branches sway. I couldn’t let my grandma know she was right.
The frantic mind of a stubborn child
Chizhí knees bleeding and me limping I left the Juniper Tree
No one was in Másání’s house. I limped into the kitchen and
grabbed a few paper towels. I held them to the back of my knees, determined not to cry. There couldn’t be any evidence. Másání came into the house. She eyed me suspiciously and spoke to me in Navajo. I didn’t understand. My goal was not to be reprimanded so I gave her a shaky smile. She smiled back at me after a while and left. Even now, as an adult, I think she knew everything that happened.
The melancholy mind of a reformed lonely child Scarred knees and a still-stubborn pout I miss the Juniper Tree.
by Tylia Sky Begaye
Being a Navajo means to survive; That is what they say.
Home is where you are born, but it’s also where you were first abandoned.
You must endure, just like your ancestors— taught to fight, but not for what is rightfully yours. Born in a place that should be familiar, yet feels far from your own, like walking on another planet, full of emptiness— fields of debris and decay; a grave full of my people’s history.
Home is where I survived from, where I learned to endure, with a body already beaten, before I could even breathe. Learning to survive without the water contaminated by greed.
I walk through a land that doesn’t welcome me, where my footsteps are erased by the wind. The animals share this land, but their eyes tell me I am foreign. The mountains stand over me, daring me to come closer.
Home is the place I run to & from, when the weight of survival is too much, where they say we carry the strength of the earth.
But I think we also carry her rage— rage for her loss, rage for her love.
We learned how to take from her, and give nothing back. She gives and gives and gives— her body, the landscape, her children, the animals, her emotions, the weather. She is rightfully angry.
Her door is closed now, but still, she waits, as a mother on the couch waiting for curfew. While we’ve been left standing outside, longing for a home we once knew.
To enter, we must change— learn to listen, to give back what was taken, and honor what was lost. Only then will she open the door, welcoming us in, no longer strangers, but her children once again.
by Danielle Manygoats
On a sunny and cloudless day, My brothers and I had no chores to do but play. There are no toys because they were left lying around. The toys they wanted could never be found. There are broken ones at a nearby trash dump. I see an old goal with no net, a glove with no baseball, a deflated football, a soccer ball that lost all color. My brothers switch on hose water turning dirt into mud. A little bath to soak in our young blood. Looking beneath soaked sneakers, we realize where our feet stand
The toy we’ve been looking for is in this land, Homegrown Play-Doh.
My brothers mold race tracks for their hot-wheel cars, I make pies decorated with rocks and leaves, mounds to mimic the ant hills, mini hogans that look like grandma’s. We don’t care about our old toys, Or buying new ones with coins. Right now, we are playing with the lands finest. We want to be children with no wish list.
Portrait by Shannel Garcia
Natural frowns aching cheekbones crooked teeth she can’t laugh or smile too long because it hurts in the valley of bones brown skin stretched over her inheritance wide eyes intimately familiar with the tears carefully gifted by the child she used to be small round lips she was too afraid to open programmed to believe anything she had to say wasn’t important every time the mouth opens she risks pain skin ripping at the seams just to be heard she spent years finding herself digging into skin to find reflections underneath eyes so used to tears she probably couldn’t tell she was crying this is the face mirrored as a too emotional child a too quiet adult her face is L O U D if she cares to look
Natural frowns aching cheekbones crooked teeth
by Nahasdzáán
Kinlání (many homes) — Unraveled
My hair hangs loose, uncombed, wild
No mother’s hands to weave my identity
No fingers to braid the stories of our people
Into the tapestry of my skin
Who will teach me to be asdzą́ą́ - a woman?
Who will whisper the sacred rhythms
Of shimásáni wisdom?
Silence screams louder than words
My body — a battlefield
Unmarked by your protection
Unblessed by your teachings
A vessel of inherited wounds
Frybread remains unlearned
Traditions slip through my fingers
Like sand, like blood, like tears
I am a Asdzáá without roots
You left me incomplete
A broken vessel
Searching for love in the rough hands
That mirror your own violence
Shizhé’é — a phantom
Who never showed me
How a man should touch, should hold, should respect
So I learned to love the lies of a hastiin — man
That reminded me of home
k’é — is Broken
I collect my shattered pieces
Each bruise a testament
To the lessons you never taught
Each scar a language you never spoke
I am my own mother now
I am my own father
I am the Asdzáá
You were too lost to create
Ayóó’ánííníshníi — love
Is a wound that never closes
A prayer without an answer
A song without a melody
Shimá – My mom
Shizhé’é – My dad
Do you hear me bleeding?
Do you see me surviving?
by Shannel Garcia
The house is old, much older than the salt on her forehead and the NES they used to play that sizzled on a TV like it was alive
Remnants of her father’s adolescence
Foreign religions sit on an old bookshelf, proof of her family’s divided divinities she remembers Binálí Hastiin and the bible he carried around, pages still marked with speeches and sermons he planned to give our thoughts are a highway, shiyazhí, he once said she wondered if prayers calmed the traffic in his head, because it didn’t work for her
The house is old, much older than the Mormon bible on the bookshelf where the taxidermy toad still looks like it might still croak
The house is old, much older than her earliest memory: The Battle of the Silverfish, striking while she slept—the battle her father fought the night he didn’t get to sleep
Proof one can’t evade an invasive species
Colonization. Insects relocated. She remembers the slow extermination she remembers when her room wasn’t hers but be longed to Binálí Hastiin, yellow-paged true crime novels stacked on a desk can I have this room? she asked she thought of how the spirit of a room could change so drastically once given away, the NES stowed away
The house is old, much older than the outdated encyclopedias, the box of VHS tapes in the corner
The house is old, much older than the outdated commodity
food, untouched by time, resting at the back of the kitchen cabinets
She can trace the lines of a person’s lifetime
Objects out of time, she remembers the smell of mothballs and dust, of old oil, of rust,
she remembers Binálí Asdzaa working with ghost beads and turquoise, shuffled footsteps down the hall at three in the morning
oh shi awee, Binálí Asdzaa always greets
she thinks of how ghost beads remind her of Binálí Asdzaa’s hands, power in their fragility
The house is old, much older than the 80’s windbreakers inside the closet, the dusty U2 poster inside the laundry room
The house is old
She sees the changes through time –a timelapsed video, An artifact and a refuge, a sanctuary made from a land dispute
The house is old, not as old as Binálí Asdzaa, hoarding fabrics still stacked in a closet they keep closed
Not as old as Binálí Hastiin and the yellow-paged true crime novels, found here found there
They are connections to the old house, the veins running through the plaster and old wooden doors their imprints of wisdom intertwined and stained within the carpet their echoes of Diné Bizaad echoes in the hallway at dawn
Memories create ceremonies like drumbeats in the foundation
Timeless.
12:30 Wednesday
by Roanna Shebala
It’s one of those days when listening to my breathing becomes essential, where my heart has to turn on survival mode manually.
Telling my body to inhale and exhale.
To listen.
The shifting fan in the other room has a raspy hum, forcing me to clear my throat. Its only job is to move the stagnant air, and it sounds restless, Much like my lungs. Its only job is to take in oxygen to help me survive.
The fan mixes our shredded skin, hair, and dust particles, while the AC adds a bit of moisture. You can smell the synthetic version of rain and wet dirt.
Petrichor on demand.
It’s like the dust on cheii’s dashboard in his blue pickup truck, mixed with lukewarm water, old leather, and newspapers with a hit of chlorine.
Came out of ceremony this past Saturday morning. My hair still smells of dirt, smoke from tobacco, and split pine. It’s been washed three times since then, and it still lingers. But it seems to be the only thing keeping my breathing steady.
Would igniting a wick of a scented candle appease the senses?
eucalyptus and tea trees infused with natural organic beeswax are sold during their bi-annual sale. Stress relief only $16.99.
Having anxiety, and especially at its peak, the rambles of all the worst-case scenarios is like a tambourine made of cicadas. Or the morning alarm goes off but reiterates how today could go bad, so one may jot down lists on how to be prepared to plan the next move, which leads to sacrificing more. This is why I don’t play chess anymore. It’s loud.
Asdzaa Yazhi and Her First Grilled Cheese Sandwich
by Roanna Shebala
My cheii nicknamed me Asdzaa Yazhi, It is held above me like a standard for those who are 5’4” and taller.
Standing up straight against a wall in an IHS, I’m 5”3 and a half. Tiptoeing never helped.
The first time eating grilled cheese was the summer when mom had decided to babysit. Turning the middle room into a playroom. A child battlefield, defended by those who did not know how to wash dishes, didn’t know how to pick up their toys. They had no idea how to fix their bed. And they were all older. This was the summer of first grade.
Asdzaa Yazhi, remember carrying our baby sister from the hard linoleum tiles over the hot rod cars, kicking the small green army men aside, and nudging the Connect Four pieces to grab our sister’s Raggedy Anne doll. Even then, we were in survival mode.
Remember the grilled cheese sandwich?
How mom poured the Cambles Chicken Noodle Soup from the can into the saucer pan with the missing handle. The same saucer pan she would always use to make Kraft macaroni and cheese. This may be the time we start to love food; we start to love cheese.
Asdzaa Yazhi, we have white hair now, and it is an evening song. Look at these silver strands. Tuned white,
Sung translucent, We let these roots turn old. We’re almost at the bridge of our song. I want to grow old. I want our complexion to be the lyrics kissed by the summer sun, our winter skin to be baked in the color of the Navajo Nation fair with a thin coat of dust, and the shade of our cheeks to shift from pink to mauve. The smell of cedar and pine trees still lingers in our hair.
Asdzaa Yazhi,
We’ve had bald eyebrows once. Our sisters watched a razor swipe across our faces. Bald. I don’t know why I did that. It may have been to make our sisters smile or to make us smile. But I saw you that night. The innocent mischief. You giggle in the center of my chest, felt like the flutter of wings, My lungs finally exhaled sunbursts of laughter. This is why I call us Sunshine.
by Christopher Hoshnic
Somewhere in the husks I found him. Fingers cradling cans of -pares—a serpent in baked Alma Ata—tally red, yellow, green, yellow pears—red again. Red was the color of it, wasn’t it?
I lost him to Cancer, a charred remnant The As- lost in wheat filled plains, dust covered wounds positioning harm—Dainty cross
Daily, over a stove my mother tends to these— our millennium’s greatest survival kit. Here, in the Badlands where psychosis is
a breakeven, a wage, a warrior panhandling along the 66, outside the gas stations where parsnip as dan delions on wheels
sheer the sheep of their mounds—the Dwelling. That’s what he called it The Dwelling— when the music escapes and enters the body it slits the tongue like a fruit fly—like Judas. Now the husks burns taxing and spreading across Nation, from the bellies of Nation— churn an aorta around the mesas a stampede of flowers grunting and rising. He’s so far away now.
Somewhere in the basin going towards the cáscaras. Drink, Maro, drink, eat. He is here with the cascades
the conservation. I may drink once, drink twice, hail a taxi three times before I see him again. Until then, I join sensation, I join this harmony—build my garden scorch it ready it for rebirth, blood in the Badlands bleed for a new -pare.
by Tanya Tyler
My land, Diné land where the Chuska mountains surrounded us protected us
Uranium was unleashed
Ensnared by the breeze
Transversing the dry wash
Slithering through the canyon
Soaring over roads
Settling on the homes and hooghans
Inhaling dusty radiation
Inhabiting the form
Entering lungs, tearing into hearts, kidneys, uteruses, prostates
Language perishes first
Villages grow into strangers Rituals vanish
Relationships shatter
It has come for our bodies
Cancers arrive
Rain into mud
Blood has soaked the land
Contamination fused like synthetic honey
When will the next world come?
Will I see them all again?
My grandparents, aunts, uncles.
All taken too soon
This is our home, we cannot leave. This is where our ancestors came from. This is where I will be when I’m an elder. This is where I will continue their fight.
by Lindsey Curley
I am butterscotch bliss when I think about being home.
Elders pass a handful of Werther’s candies around— some take two or three. Me, I focus on one with my tongue in the middle— the juices of saliva makes its way down my throat. I am in an aria of familial stories, of success and atrocity.
I hear the lingering sorrows in Diné Bizaad of my aunties, uncles and some relatives I’ve not met. I am in a state of garrison gray between observation of the dark sky, my grandpa’s shirt and the coffee kettle.
I sit in what could be dawn or the setting of the sun— I understand what they mean, but I also wish I knew the words they were saying.
This community poem was created using submissions by the following individuals from various backgrounds:
Jessica Ann Sanchez
Duane
Braden Thue
Juana Rosalia
Danielle Burbank
Elisabeth
Byron Aspaas
Danielle Shandiin Emerson
Tara
Ashanti Files
Jake Skeets
Mandi Harrison
Shannel G.
Rowie Shebala
Marisa Lin
Nana
Julian Ankney
Shantel Chee
Kinsale Drake
Special thanks and acknowledgments to Christopher “Chris” Hoshnic and Roanna “Rowie” Shebala for assembling and leading the Multicultural poem during the DAACBI Virtual Exhibition Celebration on June 11, 2024.
Nahasdzáán is a Navajo writer and storyteller from Lukachukai, Arizona. She was raised by her nalís—her papa and grandma—who not only cared for her and her sisters but also shaped her understanding of love, resilience, and k’é, the Navajo way of kinship and connection. Their wisdom and strength remain her greatest inspiration. At the heart of her writing is a deep respect for Navajo life, culture, and the beauty of nahasdzáán (Mother Earth). Through poetry, stories, and reflection, Chasity honors her upbringing and the lessons her grandparents passed down, carrying their spirit of memories and teachings in every story she tells.
Tommey Jodie is a Diné artist, writer, and researcher from Winslow, Arizona. Her work is inspired by her Diné culture, exploring themes of identity and connection to the land. She is currently pursuing degrees in Nutrition & Food Systems, Food Studies, and Creative Writing at the University of Arizona.
Elxcia N. Smith is a 19 year old sophomore majoring in Dine Studies at Dine College. She has earned the 2024 TCJ Student Award for best nonfiction celebrating indigenous voices in literature. She enjoys writing using it as a way to express herself. Shik’éi dóó Shideyoni ádoone’é nishłį́nigíí éí Náátsʼíílid Dine’é Kin Łichíi’nii nishłį́ áádóó
Naakai Dine’é éí Bashishchiin, nááná Tótsohnii éí Dashicheii áádóó Tsé Ńjíkiní éí Dashinálí.
Danielle Shandiin Emerson is a Diné writer from Shiprock, New Mexico on the Navajo Nation. Her clans are Tłaashchi’i (Red Cheek People Clan), born for Ta’neezaahníí (Tangled People Clan). Her maternal grandfather is Ashííhí (Salt People Clan) and her paternal grandfather is Táchii’nii (Red Running into the Water People Clan). She has a B.A. in Education Studies and a B.A. in Literary Arts from Brown Uni-
versity. Her writing centers healing, kinship, language-learning, and family. She is an incoming MFA graduate student at Vanderbilt University.
Tanya Tyler is Diné from Tséʼałnáoztʼiʼí, New Mexico on the Navajo Nation. She graduated with honors from the University of New Mexico with a Bachelor of Arts and double majored in English and Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Her work has been published in Conceptions Southwest and Yellow Medicine Review. She is a first-year student in the MFA program in Creative Nonfiction at the Institute of American Indian Arts. She currently lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Dayhenoa C. Yazzie is Red House People Clan, born for the Water Edge People Clan, with maternal grandparents from the Leaf People Clan and paternal grandparents from Towering House People Clan. Raised in Cane Valley, Monument Valley, Utah, Dayhenoa is deeply connected to her roots. A double major at Diné College in Public Health and Diné Studies, she focuses on the intersection of language and health outcomes in Native communities. Dayhenoa held the title of Miss Western Navajo, served as Vice President for the Associated Students of Diné College, and was named AIHEC Slam Poetry Laureate.
Dalennna Bahe is Yéʼii Dineʼé Táchiiʼnii, born for Tó díchʼíiʼnii. She was born and raised in Tuba City, Arizona, and is currently a student at Diné College, pursuing an Associate degree in Business Management.
Shannel Garcia is a Diné, Hispanic writer, and ADHDer from Shiprock, New Mexico. She is Áshįįhí (Salt People Clan), born for Tódích’íi’nii (Bitter Water People Clan). She received her A.S. in Mathematics from Diné College. Her fellowships include the Diné Artisans + Authors Capacity Building Institute, the Young Lance Fellowship, and the 2025 AWP Tribal Colleges & Universities Student Fellowship. She
was also named an Indigenous Nations Poets’ 2025 Fellow. Shannel finds joy in reading, video games, sleeping, and being around her family’s five cats. Her work can also be found in Chapter House Journal and Yellow Medicine Review.
Tylia Sky Begaye is from Toĺlkan, AZ, Tylia Begay carries the strength of 4 clans: Tó’aheedlĺinii (Water Runs Together), Mą’ĺĺ deeshgĺĺzhĺnĺĺ (Coyote Pass People), Táchii’nii (Red Running into the Water People), and Bit’ahnii (Under His Cover People). Currently studying at Diné College, Tylia’s true passion lies in pursuing law because words matter deeply to her as a reader and advocate.
Her love for language spans both cultures, honoring the power of words in both her ancestral tongue and the dominant language of the legal system she hopes to enter. As an activist writer, Tylia understands that precise language shapes justice, and she’s determined to advocate for Indigenous rights of all people.
Roanna Shebala is a Native American of the Diné (Navajo Nation), brings poems to her audience from her experience growing up on the reservation and the teachings of her parents, grandparents, and community. She holds a B.S. in theater from NAU and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing - Poetry from IAIA. Spoken Word Poet who has been on four National Poetry Slam teams, a five-time representative for the Women of the World Poetry Slam, and a two-time representative for the Individual World Poetry Slam. Her work has been featured in The Rumpus Magazine, Button Poetry, Indian Country Today, Annick Press, Red Ink, the Smithsonian National Museum of American Indians, and the Poetry Foundation’s Dine Poetics series. Shebala has performed her spoken word poetry nationally and at the Lincoln Center for the Out of Doors Project. She has taught at ASU Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing and is a Master Artist teacher for the Identity Project. A Dine Artisans Authors Ca-
pacity Building Institute Fellow 2024.
Danielle Manygoats is an emerging Diné writer from Sawmill, Arizona located on the Navajo Nation. Her clans are Tódích’íi’nii (Bitterwater), Ta’neezahnii (Tangle People), Naakai Diné’é (Mexican People), and Áshįįhí (Salt People). She is currently pursuing her BFA in Creative Writing at Diné College. Her favorite genre to write in is poetry. Her poetry reflects the Diné culture, perspective, and personal narratives. She plans to continue writing Diné poetry and to publish her poems into a book one day.
Christopher Hoshnic is a Navajo poet, playwright, and filmmaker, honored with the 2023 Indigenous Poets Prize for Hayden’s Ferry Review and Poetry Northwest 2025 James Welch Prize. His fellowships include the Native American Media Alliance’s Writers Seminar, UC-Berkeley Arts Research Center, and the Diné Artisan and Authors Capacity Building Institute, with support from Indigenous Nations Poets, Playwrights Realm, Tin House, Juniper Institute, and others.
Bazhnibah Kawano (Diné) is Naaneesht’ézhi Táchiinii, born for the Kinyaa’áanii. Her maternal grandfather is Naakaii dine’é, and her paternal grandfather is Tódích’ii’nii. As a young girl, Bazhnibah was interested in the fine arts with dance, writing, and photography, which led to a Bachelor’s in Fine Arts degree from the University of Arizona in 1980.
As a creative nonfiction writing student, Bazhnibah enjoys writing non-fiction including poetic-memoirs, epistolary, and hybrid works about Diné culture. She also loves stage playwriting and is sometimes in the mood for fiction micro-essays. She has been part of Diné readings of poetry and essays in public forums.
Lindsey Allison Curley (Diné) is Red House Clan and born for the Hopi Salt Clan. She has a BA in Creative Writing and
a minor in American Indian Studies and a Masters in Library & Information Science at the University of Arizona. She is a Birth-8 Librarian at the Pima County Public Library with a team specializing in Community Engagement and Outreach. Her poem “Hashk’aan’’ was featured in the Poetry on the Plateau series at the Museum of Northern Arizona and was a Poet + Artist Collaborator in the 4th annual Writing on the Wall gallery show for her poem “Chrysocolla-Impregnated Chalcedony.
Dr. Shaina A. Nez is Táchii’nii born for Áshįįhí. She earned her Ph.D. in Justice Studies from the School of Social Transformation at Arizona State University. She is a visiting faculty member for the Native American & Indigenous Studies (NAIS) department at Fort Lewis College. She is originally from Lukachukai, Arizona.
Her dissertation, “Emerging BIWOC Authors: An Examination of Experiences in Social Capital, Career Preparation, and Gender Inequality in MFA Creative Nonfiction Programs,” calls for a publishing future that values and sustains BIWOC narratives, identity, land, and story, as essential to the transformation of literary institutions.
Her recent contributions include the essays, “COVID-19 Memory Dreamscape” in COVID-19 in Indian Country (2024), edited by Farina King and Wade Davies (Palgrave Macmillan), “Diné Brevity as Indigenous Theory” in Indigenous Poetics: Native American Poets on Method and Expression (2025), edited by Inés Hernández-Ávila and Molly McGlennen (Michigan State University Press) and poem “Memories of Allegiance” in Poetry Magazine’s special edition on Diné Poetics (2025), edited by Esther Belin.
Shaina is a first-generation professional, a board member of the Arizona Humanities (AH) Council in Phoenix, Arizona, and the Northern Arizona Book Festival in Flagstaff, Arizona.
She founded the Diné Artisans & Authors Capacity Building Institute (DAACBI) Fellowship Program in 2023, which supported emerging Indigenous artists in Creative Writing, Navajo Silversmithing, and Navajo Weaving.
Amber McCrary is Diné poet and zinester. She is Red House Clan born for Mexican people. Originally from Shonto, Arizona and raised in Flagstaff, Arizona. She earned her BA from Arizona State University in Political Science with a minor in American Indian Studies. She received her MFA in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry at Mills College. McCrary is also the owner and founder of Abalone Mountain Press, a press dedicated to publishing Indigenous voices.
She is a board member for the Northern Arizona Book Festival and Words of the People organizations. She is the Arizona Humanities 2022 Rising Star of the year and a Native Arts and Cultures Foundation LIFT awardee.
Her debut poetry collection, Blue Corn Tongue: Poems in the Mouth of the Desert is out now from University of Arizona Press.
You can find her poems, interviews and art at Yellow Medicine Review, POETRY Magazine, Room Magazine, Poets and Writers Magazine, The Navajo Times, Santa Fe Literary Review and Hayden’s Ferry Review.
THIS ANTHOLOGY IS A MUST-READ FOR THE RICH CONTRIBUTIONS OF DINÉ AUTHORS AND CREATORS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR JOURNEY OF CONNECTING AS A COLLECTIVE THROUGH COMMUNITY-CENTERED GATHERINGS AND MENTORSHIP. THIS COLLABORATIVE WORK EXEMPLIFIES POSSIBILITIES OF COALITION BUILDING TO SEEK, RESTORE, AND LIVE IN BEAUTY TOGETHER. - DR. FARINA KING
THROUGH THESE WORKS, I CAN HEAR THE DISTINCT RHYTHM, LAYERS, BEAUTY, AND HEARTBEAT OF NIHIZAAD. THIS COLLECTION OF RISING VOICES IN DINÉ LITERATURE REMINDS US OF OUR HUMANITY THAT IS NOT SEPARATE FROM NIHIKÉYAH: “OUR BODIES ARE HOME… HOME TO HEARTBEATS, TO DREAMS, TO ANCESTRAL STORIES WAITING TO BE TOLD.” DÍÍ HANE' BEE NIZHÓNÍGO DÓÓ NIHIDZIILGO BEE NÁÁS YIIKAH DOOLEEł.- DR. MANNY LOLEY
THE ANTHOLOGY IS A BEAUTIFUL CONSTELLATION OF STORIES, DREAMS, AND VOICES THAT READ AS BOTH URGENT AND INCREDIBLY GROUNDED IN WHAT IT MEANS TO BE DINÉ TODAY, WORKING FOR A MORE BEAUTIFUL FUTURE FOR ALL OF US. WHAT A GIFT. - KINSALE DRAKE
A REMINDER OF OUR BIRTHRIGHT, AN ODE TO OUR HOMELAND, THIS ANTHOLOGY, LIKE A HOGAN, HAS EARTHEN LAYERS. THESE DINÉ VOICES BUILD TOGETHER, HOUSING CEREMONY, MEMORY, GRIEF, LAUGHTER, AND HEART. THE DAACBI ANTHOLOGY WELCOMES YOU HOME TO DINÉTAH, WHERE THE LAND SINGS. - STACIE DENETSOSIE
