A Scholar becomes a seeker and finds his truth on a reservation

By Curtis L. Esquibel
Teacher and Guidance Counselor
Jemez Pueblo, N.M.

Posted: May 13, 2003

Curtis Esquibel says his influence today comes in working one-on-one with students at the Pueblo of Jemez in New Mexico.

JEMEZ PUEBLO, N.M. -- A student asked me the other day what I believe in the "mostest, more than anything else."

After a quick grammar lesson, I realized I was on the spot.

I thought about divulging my belief in Santa Claus, my admiration for cancer survivors, my faith in the First Amendment or perhaps my conviction that pizza and Chee-tos are the closest thing to a perfect couple.

Instead I said, "Children and dreams."

If only you could have heard the chorus of grammar-school giggles.

***

I was a child and a dreamer once.

In fact, it was the ninth grade when I first saw my future -- a career as a journalist, a fast, urban life on the West Coast, where creative energy rules and the Pacific swallows perfectly painted skies. No 9-to-5 Cubicleville. No stuffy desk job. Just a morning cup of chai, a keyboard at my fingertips and a notebook in my pocket.

Now that's a living.

For more than two years, that was my life.

I was 24 and a metro reporter for the Contra Costa Times, on the road to what I envisioned as a long career breaking stories and witnessing history. When I wasn't at work, I lived bayside in San Francisco, a city with soul that fits my love for recreation and self-expression.

My life was everything I wanted -- at least in my dreams.

In reality, I was unsure of my path. Somehow everything between work and play had clumped together into a frenzy of hurries, worries and Bay Bridge traffic jams. After two years of working full time, I needed a change.

The voice inside me told me to go somewhere I’ll never be able to go again and live for a few years.

An adventure abroad would mean pressing the pause button on my plan, the only one I really ever knew. Heavy Internet research ensued. Phone queries followed.

Then, last September, the call from a college friend came.

"You said you want to come to a place that's a world away from where you're at? Come to Jemez."

Would I be interested, he asked, in a teaching job on one of New Mexico's 19 Pueblo reservations? I would work with high school and middle school students. I would mentor them as they prepared for college, counsel them about friendships, teach them in a classroom and talk about different careers. I still could write, my friend said, for a newspaper in the community. Or maybe I could run my own journalism program.

That was the clincher.

Within 30 days, I boxed up my life, glanced in the rear-view mirror and bid farewell to the Fog City.

***

The giggles finally subsided. I explained to Tamara Colaque, a fifth-grader at the Jemez Day School, why it's important to believe in things.

"Because," I said, "then you can express them through writing, through art, through drawing. If you're writing for a newspaper, those are called editorials. In an editorial, you have something important to say, and you write about it. You can make a living that way."

She stared back at me, in that wide-eyed, bewildered way only a 10-year-old can. Feeling I was losing her, I launched into a story about how I used to make a living. I shared anecdotes about my interviews with charming everyday people, countless weirdoes and academic geniuses. I told her about the angry bridal-shop owner who ran for mayor because the city allowed a huge wedding store to move into town. I told her about reporting on the Columbine High School tragedy, about covering riots at my college campus, about a tiny Bay Area Indian tribe stripped of its land and federal status and the government failing to live up to its promises to help the tribe reach self-sufficiency. I talked to Tamara about stories of young lives lost before they have a chance to start. I told her about being denied access to the secret room at the baseball park where souvenirs commemorating Barry Bonds' single-season home-run record were locked up.

"Wow," she said. "Journalism is cool. And you get paid to do that, as an adult?"

"Yes, journalism is cool," I told her. "And yes, you do get paid. Now, that's a whole other story. Let's get back to work."

Tamara's deadline — she was writing about seat-belt safety -- was fast approaching.

My cramped office had been transformed into a mini-newsroom for the first-ever Jemez Pueblo Journalism Camp. My plan was to bring news writing to the Rez, teach the five Ws and the H (who, what, why, where, when and how) and talk about a career and an industry the students know little about. For help, I called on a college classmate, who is Native, and she linked me with another Native professional journalists. The three of us had six days to teach the basics.

From the name of the newspaper to the topics of their stories, the students decided on the content. It was their paper.

They called it The Eagle Eye.

They wanted to write about the proud tradition of distance runners who have come from Jemez Pueblo, the importance of family, farming and nutrition. The stories ran. They also wanted to chronicle tougher issues such as alcoholism, diabetes and domestic violence. The stories ran.

The publication was eight pages and included a photo essay, an opinion page and a creative corner. The work culminated with high-fives and smiles that only a roomful of adolescents can provide.

* * *

Reflecting on our work, I am more proud of that one edition of The Eagle Eye than any publication I've been a part of. In newspapers, the thrill comes the next morning when an article turns out fair and error-free.

Working in education is more of a marathon. Today, my influence comes in a one-on-one meeting with a student, in talking about a research project or in helping with an essay or application. Instead of late nights covering city-planning meetings, I spend evenings in living rooms explaining the nuances of financial aid and college-loan programs.

There is glory in this journey. It happened when students went away for college visits and wrote me e-mails about how big the world is. It happened when two of my most hard-working students got admitted to Dartmouth and UC-Berkeley. It happened when report cards came home. It happened on graduation day.

Yet almost one year into this experiment in career and life, I see similarities, not differences.

Going to work no longer means writing about everyday life. Instead it means being a small chapter in someone's life and perhaps helping to influence his future.

The events, triumphs, tragedies and the mundane -- they're all around us, waiting to be discovered, absorbed and chronicled. That can happen as long as the eyes of the journalist, no matter where they might be, never stop seeing.

Even when dreams take a detour.

Curtis Esquibel, a Summer 1999 Scholar at the Contra Costa Times in Walnut Creek, Calif., is in his second year as a guidance counselor and teacher on the Pueblo of Jemez, 45 miles northwest of Albuquerque, N.M. He can be reached at clesquibel@hotmail.com.

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