Changing Woman

By Mary Stuever

April 2008

At the Fort Apache camp, the spring winds are calm. The blue sky is crystal clear. Nearby, the East Fork of the White River runs cold and swollen from the abundant winter snowmelt. Buds burst forth on the cottonwood branches. Out on the dance grounds, several Apache families are celebrating one of the first Sunrise Ceremonies of the year. Spring is in the air. 

We are reminded by this coming of age ceremony that change is a part of life. In Apache tradition, through this four-day celebration, the girl becomes a woman. She becomes Changing Woman. She is instructed on how to conduct herself through life’s stages. This weekend, the dance honors Ashley Kessay, the daughter of my field operations manager. In the ensuing weeks ahead, there will be many changes for my staff. In a sense, Ashley is paving the way. 

I have accepted a new job with the New Mexico State Forestry Division. I am leaving Whiteriver, Arizona and moving back to Placitas, New Mexico. I once worked for State Forestry for six years, primarily as the Timber Management Officer for the Bernalillo District. Now sixteen years later, I am returning as the State Timber Management Officer. Many of programs I worked with then, such private landowner assistance, are still active. However, there will be plenty of new challenges and learning ahead—plenty of change. 

My five years with White Mountain Apache Tribal Forestry has been amazing. Although the majority of my energy has been focused on the Rodeo-Chediski burn rehabilitation, I have dabbled in almost every other forestry activity on the reservation, including firefighting, prescribed burning, timber sales, thinning projects, fuels treatments, sawmill issues, and greenhouse operations. More importantly, I have learned thousands of lessons from hundreds of people. 

The drumming on the dance ground paces my heart beats, my steps, the movement of my body. Last night I was joined by a friend from a neighboring community. She pointed out that we were the only white people at the ceremony. Being among so many friends and colleagues, I had forgotten to notice. As I break the news that I am leaving to my staff and co-workers, I am greeted with congratulations and enthusiasm. There are no expectations that I would remain in this community that feels like a second home. 

I can sense the intrepidness from my leadership team. For years, we have worked toward the moment when they will “take the torch” and strike out on their own. There is strength in their commitment; strength in their resolve to be the best that they can be. Our department is already changing, whether I leave now or not. Considering what we have accomplished in the last half decade of post-fire disasters, I have no doubt my staff will stand tall in the face of any new crises they face. 

I work the bread dough between my hands to make fry bread, tortillas, and bàń ditanè. Producing only one flattened piece for every four or five the Apache women put on the open fire, I still smile that I have finally learned to “make bread.” It is an incredible honor to stand in the early morning light, making bread and getting lessons in Apache language and culture. 

I am also a changing woman. Although I am sad to be leaving my life on the Fort Apache Reservation, I am grateful for the friends, memories, and lessons I will hold next to my heart for the rest of my life.