Support for Mino Diaz Family

My parents never thought they would have to lay their son, my brother, down into the earth. Neither did we. Of all the things I’ve written, of all the things I’ve managed to find words for, I have no language to carry to you the story of losing my brother. I am afraid finding the correct words will mean it is real. Our little brother, our little king. Our wild beautiful boy, our prince of jokes and laughter. Part storm and thorn, equal measure wing and worry, and always overflowing with generosity, forgiveness, and love. How many nights we all laid in the living room of our dark house—all nine of us, so young back then—brilliantly wishing ourselves into the world—what we wanted for Christmas, what we’d be when we grew up, how we’d never leave each other, how we’d always have each other’s backs, how we’d live in a giant compound of our houses and families. Most of those things came true in our adult lives. We loved each other hard, sometimes too hard. And we were blessed to have stayed together, alongside one another in this living world for as long as we did, longer than most siblings have a chance to. Learning from and teaching one another, shaping our families, rearranging our worlds toward joy in the best ways we knew how.

Belarmino Raul Diaz. “Mino” we called him. We also called him, Hoss or Hossy, Mino the Fish (a name our Great Grandma Lona Barrackman and Aunty Melba gave him because their older Mojave-language shaped ears heard us say “Minnow” instead of “Mino”), Bird, Bull, Nariz. One nickname that stuck was “Mo,” after he came home one day in junior high, peacocking and proud of an arm tattoo his friend gave him which was supposed to say “Mom,” but the second “m” had apparently faded on his way home—“Mo.”

Mino loved everybody. He wanted us all together all the time—everyone was always invited, their drinks and plates were always full, and he never wanted anybody to go home. “Aww come on, you’re not going home yet, are you?” he’d say, “Cheap!” Mino was most happy when he was able to make others happy. His favorite kind of party was one where we’d been on the river all day, or out in the desert dunes, working up an appetite for carne asada on the grill, filling our bellies with food and laughter, late enough into the night or morning that he’d fall asleep on the couch with one of his kids on his belly, while we family and friends sat gathered around him, continuing to tell stories and crack each other up. And that’s where we will always find ourselves now, from this moment on, together, but without him. We lost our brother. My parents lost their son. His children lost their father and his wife lost her husband and best friend. We will stay behind for now, for Mino, for each other, so that he can go on to the next place with grace and swiftness. He left us the gift of his memory and big-big love, and his thousands of stories, not all without tears. Until we see him again, we will do our best to use the gifts he offered—how to forgive, how to gather, how to love unconditionally with fierceness and abundance, which we siblings know is a rare and lucky way to be loved.

Mino left us tragically and unexpectedly in a car accident on Monday, September 25, 2023. He just turned 38 years old in July. He leaves behind his wife, Sarah Diaz 37 years old, and his children Mino Jr. 16, Bella 14, Sophia 11, Jax 10, and Beckham 2. He is the son of Bernadette Diaz (Kenna) and Richard Diaz. He is the brother of Richie Diaz Jr., Nicole Limon, Natalie Diaz, John Diaz, Desirae Carranza, Gabrielle Diaz, Valentin Diaz, and Franki Diaz. He is the grandson of Valentin and Elvera Diaz and Blanche (Vavages) and Frank E Kenna. He is the loving uncle of 37 nieces and nephews. Mino is a member of the Gila River Indian Community and was raised on the Fort Mojave Indian Reservation in Needles, California. He graduated from River Valley High School in Mohave Valley, Arizona, where he met his wife, Sarah. He was a proud Dust Devil, and his son, Mino Jr., now wrestles and plays football for River Valley High School. He served his family and community for 17 years as a member of the Fort Mojave Tribal Police Department and recently transferred to the Bullhead City Police Department.

Our family is strong. We have learned from this life how to move through grief as best we can, alongside one another, both carrying it and fighting it. Even knowing our strengths, the loss of Mino is immense and immeasurable, impossible to fill. Mino was the sole provider for his family. We are asking our community of friends and strangers to help if they can—monetarily, as well as with prayers and good wishes—as we support his wife and kids through this grieving period and as they transition into this next phase of their family without him.