I grew up in Gallup, New Mexico in the 1970s, during an era when alcoholism prevailed—with a profound and lasting impact on the Navajo/Diné communities. Gallup, a small city along Route 66, is surrounded by Native American reservations with a railroad cutting the town in half. It  still serves as a commercial epicenter and weekend gathering place. 

“GD,” as it was known, referred to Garden de luxe, a cheap Tokay wine produced by Joe G. Maloof & Gallup sales Co. It was a notorious swill made from the dredges of low-end California wineries and shipped in on tanker trains, only to be bottled and sold regionally. The company produced two main offerings: Garden de luxe and Roma—both potent, inexpensive options widely consumed by street drinkers, many of whom were not welcome in the bars. Garden de Luxe no longer exists, except as bad memories to those who witnessed its wrath.

Those who drank into the cold winters were often referred to as " Popsicles"  as they tragically froze into a cold winter silence. The local police referred to them as 203's.

The alleys, riverbeds, and foothills were littered with empty bottles. Even now, as the sun sets over Gallup, the hills still glitter with broken glass—quietly reminding us of the decades of drinking that took place. Many lives were lost during that time, and sadly, the problem persists today.

In those days, the harshness of it all felt oddly normalized. I’d ride my bike through alleys and  sunburned foothills, past makeshift camps where itinerant drinkers gathered. I spent my childhood going to the movies, hanging out in the parks and watching bats, running shirtless through sprinklers, and watching baseball games. Alcohol seemed so harmless back then.

But later in life, I lost many of my friends and almost all my family members to this disease. 

This painting is my homage to one of the most devastating issues facing Indigenous communities. It speaks not of a “garden,” but of a plague—one that has long defined my hometown, once labeled “the drunk capital ,USA.” And yet, amid this hardship, there is always hope. when visiting the local flea market, you can still catch a moment of burning sage. I often return there for a bowl of stew and Mountain Smokes. It is that scent of sweetgrass and sage,  that reminds me there’s still ceremony—and healing—for those fortunate enough to find recovery.

This painting offers a prayer for those who never made it.

—Tony Abeyta