At issue was the purpose of the 10-year-old, 2,400-student, multicampus school. Was it to prepare young Navajos for survival in the white man's society? Or should it direct its energies to preserving the ethnic identity of a proud tribe now numbering 150,000?
The quandary springs from the dismal history of Indian education, which McCabe knows firsthand. His father, he says, was part of the first generation of Indian children "kidnapped by the BIA [Bureau of Indian Affairs] and herded off to mission schools in the early part of this century." The elder McCabe became so Americanized he refused to teach his children anything Navajo. "Learning all that is not going to put one slice of bread on your table," he'd say. Most of the young McCabes (eight boys, three girls) dutifully set off for college degrees.
But Navajo Community College was founded in different times—the "flower child era when black was beautiful and red was even better," says McCabe. "Every federal agency was throwing money into ethnic things, and if you were an Indian they smothered you in it." The result was educational disaster at NCC where, McCabe now marvels, "the only requirements were three credit-hours of Navajo language and six of Navajo history—no social studies, math, science." Students graduated from the junior college after amassing 64 hours, but discovered that other schools refused to accept their credits.
McCabe stiffened academic programs ("our meat and potatoes"), but, attempting a balance, maintained Navajo studies ("the salt and pepper"). "Students should know the values that made the Navajos great and develop that strength of character here."
A much-decorated Army sergeant in World War II (he fought at Bastogne in the Battle of the Bulge) and Korea, McCabe postponed his college days until he was married and had gone through a series of jobs. Finally, in 1965 at the age of 40, he entered the University of New Mexico and went on to be the first Indian to graduate from the UNM business school. His doctorate was in education administration.
With wife Florence and daughter Patricia, 14 (son Bill, 18, will be a Stanford junior in September), McCabe lives in a four-bedroom home which, like almost every other structure on the spacious campus, is octagonal-shaped, like a Navajo hogan. "We love the dust, sagebrush, everything," they declare, though sometimes they feel an urge to drive four hours to Albuquerque for pizza and Chinese food.
On occasions, too, McCabe finds the job of a college president frustrating. Trustee and faculty meetings at NCC tend to be rancorous, and his $30,000-a-year job always seems to be in jeopardy. Still, he projects a profound inner calm. "I used to have a hair-trigger temper, but I found that doesn't pay," he says. "If you lose control of yourself, you've already lost the battle."
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