Fibers entwined

In the heart of Kansas, where the plains can stretch out like a vast, golden quilt beneath the sky, a Hopi Blanket, Manta, spread across the foot of the wooden cedar bed .

The Adams had worked this land for almost 15 years. Among them was May, a young girl who had been severed from her roots. She was born a child of the Hopi people, she had been adopted and moved across states into the Adams lineage, leaving behind her ancestral name to be known simply as May. Manta, her blanket, could not even remember her given name.

I was Manta, a woven tapestry of tradition and history, crafted from the fine wool of Hopi sheep. For generations, my threads had been spun with care, each strand holding the stories of my people within its delicate embrace.

In the Adams household, May handled me with reverence and care. Her touch as gentle as a whispering breeze. Her adoptive mother Jane cared for me as well with compassion and love for my owner.

I did not know how to feel that day when an unfamiliar hand snatched me of off the bed and tugged outside. I found myself swept away by harsh hands, dragged across unforgiving surfaces, my fibers strained against the weight of neglect.

It was the voice of grandmother Adams that pierced the air, cutting through the stillness like a sharpened blade. Her words dripped with bitterness, her actions fueled by a desire to claim what she deemed hers. But I knew better. I did not belong to her; I belonged to May, bound by a bond stronger than blood.

“Load up that mirror on top of the blanket,” said a harsh female voice of grandmother Adams. “Make sure that mirror is wrapped good. I will whip each of you if it breaks.”

She must have come to claim the possessions she thought belonged to her since her son William was sick in the hospital and she did not want that silly daughter-in-law or no good ‘injun’ granddaughter to have her stuff.

Upon arriving at grandma Adams’ house, the mirror was unwrapped and I lay discarded with my threads now fraying. Unknown to me May and her adoptive mother, Jane, discerned who had taken me and embarked on a journey to reclaim me. Laying on the front porch I heard the VW bug of Jane’s drive up and their steps echoing with determination as moved toward the house, where I lay cast aside like a forgotten paper towel.

"I needed something to protect my mirror," grandma Adams’ words rang out, her tone dismissive, her regard for me as fleeting as the wind.

But May, with fuming steps ran onto the porch and gently pulled me from the dirty wooden porch, cradling me against her chest.

I was enveloped once more in May's embrace, my sense of belonging and love returned. The bond to her and generations past had not been untied. I would always find solace in the gentleness of her touch.

“You are not welcome in our home,” said Jane.

“The mirror and the desk are mine and my families’. William is going to die and both of you are nothing and deserve none of my things,” answered grandma Adams.

“When William returns, you are still never welcome,” answered Jane as she pulled at May’s arm and at me to come home.

Within a month, William returned home, his body still sore from the accident yet still ready for life ahead, May for the first few nights wrapped him in my embrace, offering him comfort and her love.

I fully repaired with care of Jane’s hands who specifically learned the Hopi’s old ways to always be able to repair me and connect May to her roots even with her ancestral name “tsiro” lost to memory.

Whether it is a blanket or Manta or May or Tsiro, naming it does not make you own it, loving it makes you own it.