Native American cultures, including New Mexico’s Pueblo Indians, have always placed great importance on respecting their elders. Like most of the kids at Santa Clara Pueblo, I grew up knowing that anything short of that directive wasn’t an option.

Our obedience to this rule was demonstrated through the observance of certain protocols and considerations, such as speaking in a respectful tone to elders, opening doors for them, offering them a seat or a place in line, and of course helping them without hesitation or complaint when called upon to do so. In my immediate family, this obedience also included adhering to my parents’ rules of the house and those put forth by my grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles, and other members of the pueblo community, related or not. Certainly, these are reasonable gestures to bestow upon senior members of society, earned by virtue of their time and experience on the planet and the knowledge and wisdom that come with time. Here I offer homage to some of the most important elders in my life, most of whom now remain in spirit only and in my most cherished memories.

Each enriched my life with still-held-close lessons that continue to influence my daily existence; all are part of what shaped me into who I am today. To Gia Kwijo, my great-grandmother, I offer thanks for teaching me how to be strong, resourceful and able to think beyond my own needs and wants. In addition to her own, Gia raised several other children at Santa Clara Pueblo over a time span of more than 50 years. She supported all of them by selling pottery she made from traditional clay that she gathered from hillsides near the village and prepared in her home.

Gia drove a hard bargain, holding steady to her prices, and knew how to stretch whatever she earned in a way that seemed beyond possible. Being witness to her selfsufficiency instilled in me a sense of confidence. It gave me the courage to pursue my own creative path, which in turn gave me a means to provide for my own child. To Saya, my grandmother, I offer thanks for giving me the gift of culture. She possessed so much knowledge about our Tewa ancestors and how they lived in the days of long ago, and she shared many of those stories with me over the years.

She knew all the traditional dance songs and their steps by heart — exactly where in each verse the drums stopped and started again, where the voices of the singers crescendoed and then fell back into silence. Saya knew the ancient language of the Tewas and the meanings of very old words from the time of our creation. It was she who gave my daughter and me our Indian names: Agoyo T’se (Yellow Star) and Pa’ Ojagee (Deer in the Frost), respectively. To Willian Andrew Cain, my grandfather, I offer thanks for giving me a childhood filled with music and laughter. Grandpa was a Scots-Irishman from Louisville, Kentucky. He met my grandmother when they were both working at Los Alamos during the Manhattan Project.

They were married for more than 65 years and together raised seven children. His love of music was a gift to them and to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all of whom inherited his vast and varied musical tastes. From Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn and Hank Williams to Janis Joplin (“‘Me and Bobby McGee’ is the best song ever written,” he’d often say), from Burl Ives’ Songs of the Frontier and the over-the-top productions on the Lawrence Welk Show to opera and classic musicals, we grandkids heard it all. And Ta Bill (Uncle Bill), as everyone at the pueblo called him, could spin a joke like no one else, winding through the narrative with a Bluegrass State cadence and delivering the punchline with razor-sharp timing. To T’hamu Ojagee Tsaii (White Fog on the Horizon) and T’hamu Tsireh (Bird on the Horizon), my great-uncles, I offer thanks for showing me the power of kindness. Gentle glances, warm smiles and other small but meaningful gestures were priceless gifts they bestowed upon me and many others. T’hamu Ojagee Tsaii never spoke ill of anyone, and he didn’t allow me to engage in less-than-kind talk in his presence.

To him, the phrase “If you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, don’t say anything at all” was not just some outdated adage but a truth he lived by. As a World War II veteran and a former prisoner of war in Japan, he may have had reason to speak ill of others, but he never did: he remained a true humanitarian throughout his life. (My mother still has the silk-screened handkerchief he brought her when he returned from the war in 1945, a gift in honor of his newborn niece.) T’hamu Tsireh was born without the gifts of hearing or speech.

From him I learned to listen with more than my ears. I also learned to be accepting of those who are different and who communicated in their own way. This taught me that the human-to-human connection transcends language and that we don’t always need words to communicate. To Povi Tsaii (White Blossom), Seyan Ba-ah (named for a sandstone butte with a vein of white clay, a sacred landmark to the Tewa people) and T’han Sedo (Grandfather Sun), my uncles, I offer thanks for giving me the gift of love. When my father passed away suddenly during my early childhood, it was they who kept me from being swallowed by the pain and grief of such an immeasurable loss. They became guiding forces in my life from that time on and remain so now.

To all these people, and to the many other elders who have blessed my life, I offer thanks: for nourishing my body and mind when I was a child, for lighting a path for me during my young adult life, for supporting me through the experience of becoming a parent and for continuing to provide sustenance to my soul as I travel into my own elderhood.

RoseMary Diaz was surrounded by elders throughout her childhood at Santa Clara Pueblo. She dedicates this story to her mother, O’kuu Povi (Hillside Blossom), the most important elder in her life. To her she offers thanks for the sacred gift of life and for providing a constant source of love and support through the years.