Chester Nez Has Walked On

I knew this day was coming, and relatively soon. It's every bit as painful as I expected it to be.

Chester Nez, Diné elder, warrior, and the last of the original 29 Navajo Code Talkers, walked on yesterday at the age of 93.

Warrior, cryptographer, author of two autobiographical books, teacher of future generations, traditional Diné man. He was all of these things, and more, and yet listing them seems almost insulting, dismissive. He was so much more than the sum of his achievements, and although he achieved an iconic status in the dominant culture that is rare among Indians today, it is his identity as an Indian man that informed his choices and conduct and that was the fullest expression of who he was. 

I wrote about Haastiin Nez on three occasions over the last year or so, all related to his service as a Code Talker: 

• here, discussing his then-new memoir; 
• here, as part of a broader discussion of Native Words, Native Warriors, a traveling exhibition exploring in depth the role of American Indian Code Talkers in World War II, and coordinated jointly by the National Museum of the American Indian and the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service; and 
• here, in a piece covering the designation last year of August 14th as National Navajo Code Talkers Day. 

August 14th will be especially bittersweet this year.

I found the photo above in my Photobucket account from a long time ago, showing him as a young soldier 70 years ago and as a traditional elder today. I suspect I initially found it in the promotional materials used for his public appearances and teaching engagements. I once actually had a photo of Haastin Nez himself, along with three of his comrades in arms and tradition. You see, a little over seven years ago, I was privileged to meet him and three of his fellow Code Talkers. As I wrote last year:

About six years ago, I and my mother were privileged to meet Hastiin Nez, along with three other original CodeTalkers who have since walked on. It was a chance meeting in Albuquerque; even then, he was wearing his signature yellow traditional shirt, as pictured in the photo. My mother, who regarded them as the heroes they were, desperately wanted to take their photo, but I wasn't brave enough to ask. Their driver, however, realizing what she wanted, agreed to introduce us. They graciously welcomed the woman who wanted the photo, and seemed pleased that her daughter, despite being non-Navajo, could say Yá’át’ééh properly. They generously allowed us the photos (which are currently packed away), a few wartime stories, and their thanks for our respectful interest even as we were thanking them for their kindness.

When I wrote that passage last year, it was with great sadness at the realization that the other three men I had met on that morning had already walked on. It was also with profound gratitude that chance, or fate, or Spirit had seen fit to afford me the opportunity to meet them in person.

Today, the world is a little dimmer, knowing that Haastin Nez and his stories, and his bright yellow shirt, are no longer a part of its physical realm.