Stan

During my visit to the Kalispel Reservation yesterday, I had the good fortune to interview tribal elder Stan Bluff. He spoke about the cultural values that have guided his life from his childhood to the present day. What an honor to sit in his presence and learn from his experiences!

Marie

My relative Marie Grant celebrated her 90th birthday yesterday at Northern Quest. She and I both descend from the Chewelah band of the Kalispel Tribe, and from the same common ancestor. We have occasionally collaborated on our family tree, and she has encouraged me in our traditional ways. She is a beautiful woman, a gifted historian, and a cherished elder. I'm proud to know her. 

Hundreds of people honored Marie. 

Several of us were invited to sing an honor song.  

JR Bluff announced the drum as: 

the Frog Island and Miscellaneous Singers. 

Forever

I recently learned a new Spokane word. 

My uncle was talking about a respected family on the reservation. As the various family members aged, they eventually passed away, and when the oldest member of that family reflected on his life, he was all alone - the last of his relatives. My uncle referred to this time in life as: nc'spuleʔxʷ. 

A literal translation: "There are no more people from that family."

I am not sure that an equivalent word exists in the English language. In any case, the term is derived from the root word c'sip, referring to something that is all used up or consumed, with nothing left. The suffix -uleʔxʷ refers to the land. Another translation might suggest that a family was extinguished with no one left upon the land. What a tragic word, both haunting and beautiful in the way it places value on the memory of those who made their journey before us. 

The elders sometimes speak of the grief associated with aging and seeing all their elders, siblings, and friends pass away. I cannot imagine facing the end of my generation, but when my days expire, I pray the new generations will never end - that our lineage will live forever. 

These photographs were taken on January 29.

I wanted to photograph the contrast of artificial light

on the snow-covered trees. 

The tree branches seemed match the theme of this post:

The many branches of our families. 

Ethic of Respect

My coursework at Gonzaga is becoming more meaningful. 

Most recently, I enrolled in a course called 'Feminist Ethics.' Our first assignment was to write a personal manifesto describing our individual ethical stance. Of course, we are required to situate our personal ethics within the context of Western ethical orientations or schools of thought, but at the end of the day, we are free to express an ethical position based upon our own cultural experience. The purpose of the assignment is simply to understand ourselves and others as ethical beings. 

I decided to write my personal ethical statement based upon an indigenous worldview. Obviously, this presents a few challenges. Most significantly, indigenous cultures have been heavily influenced by an overwhelming force of colonization. In particular, both Catholic and Protestant missionaries attempted to extinguish indigenous forms of spirituality while a long series of government policies attempted to eradicate Native cultures by assimilating tribal peoples into the dominant culture. As a result, some now argue that it is nearly impossible to find a 'pure' description of indigenous ethics, untainted by outside influences. 

However, I would argue that our language is the best source of pre-colonial thinking. 

When I recently visited my uncle on the Spokane Reservation, I posed the following question: "In our language, how do we say that something is ethically right or wrong?"

He thought for a moment and said, "I suppose there are many ways to say something is 'right,' but perhaps the easiest way is just to say 'xest' or 'good.' To say something is morally wrong, we would say, 'tam qe nk'ʷulmn,' or in other words, 'That is not our way.'"

His philosophy allows our family or tribe to take a strong ethical position on any subject without necessarily assuming that other practices are 'wrong.' In fact, his answer embodies the Ethic of Respect that I have come to experience across many indigenous cultures. We respect the ways of our own people while allowing others the same privilege. This is a powerful distinction between a traditional indigenous worldview and the ethics of colonization. 

These photographs were taken last Sunday 

when I drove to the Spokane Reservation. 

Immersion

Ever since the Salish Conference in March, I made a commitment to attend the language program on the Kalispel Reservation at least once a week. In particular, I like to attend during the daily immersion when tribal elders speak for one hour in nothing but the language. English goes away for that hour. If the listeners want to participate, they also have to speak Salish. I generally don't understand everything, but my weekly immersion has greatly accelerated my learning process.

When I arrived today for immersion, the group was preparing to leave for a mini-field trip. I had to smile a little because they were planning to dig spring beauties, just as my class had done a few days before. This time, I remembered to take pictures of the beautiful little potatoes. Of course, they are so tiny, I doubt you could get a good meal.

The best part of the immersion is the opportunity to sit at the feet of the elders and to listen to their stories in the language. Over the last few weeks, I have felt truly fortunate.

Big Heart

Dakota organized an amazing fundraiser for his eagle project, but I'll talk more about that soon.

In preparation for the event, I wrote a short prayer in the Spokane language. I had everything planned and translated to English, but I was unsure how to express one certain concept. I wanted to say, "I am proud of my son," so I called two Spokane tribal elders and ultimately received an important lesson in tradition.

The first elder called back and said, "The Spokane Dictionary says that 'pride' is: hi q̓exʷ, but I don't like that word. It sounds like 'arrogance.' In the old way, we should never be proud because we're not better than anyone else."

She suggested two alternatives:

nkʷtnels łuʔ isqʷseʔ x̣ʷl hec čnšitms łuʔ sqelixʷ.

(My son has a big heart because he helps the people).

kʷtunt łuʔ ispuʔus x̣ʷl isqʷseʔ.

(My heart is big for my son).

In the end, my elder said that we should not be 'arrogant' for our children, but rather have hearts that are big with thankfulness and love. This is a critical difference in both culture and language.

A little while later, my other elder called. She also avoided making any reference to pride, but instead suggested another big-hearted idea. She said:

hiqs npúteʔem łuʔ isqʷseʔ.

(I will honor my son).

When I prayed during Dakota's fundraiser, I used both phrases.

*

The concept of big-heartedness runs deep in my memory. It reminds me, for example, of the time I saw my yaya Messie after my parents divorced. I had been away from the reservation for a couple years, and when she saw me again, she dropped everything, wrapped her arms around me, and wept. She showed me a fullness and generosity of spirit that I have only rarely felt since. Her feelings for me harbored no conditions, judgments, or reservations - just pure soul-filled love. Sometimes I imagine that heaven must feel like that.

Ironically, my elders almost never used the word 'love,' but instead they lived it.

When I look at my daughters, I also feel the same big-hearted love. I hope they will always carry my spirit the way I carry the spirit of my elders.

Translation

A friend of a friend recently asked me to write a Salish translation of the Sherman Alexie poem near Spokane Falls. Given my limitations, the project was somewhat daunting, but I accepted the challenge as a way to increase my proficiency in the language.

I was able to make a simple translation based on my own experience and a few words from the Spokane Dictionary, but some phrases were impossible. For example, the poem mentions "unrequited love." No matter how hard I thought, I just couldn't come up with a way to express that exact concept. Maybe someone else could make a better translation, but I had to simplify the core message in order to make it work for me.

Despite the challenges, this project succeeded in expanding my knowledge of the language.

One portion of the poem states, "Coyote, I don't trust you." I wasn't totally sure how to express feelings of trust in Salish, but using the dictionary, I translated that phrase as: "spilyeʔ, tam kʷyec nt'k'ʷelsm."

My grandmother is a fluent speaker, so I called her to confirm the translation. Speaking over the phone, I pronounced the phrase in Salish and she immediately reflected my words into English and said, "Coyote, you're not in my heart." Her words surprised me because the dictionary defines nt'k'ʷels simply as trust (tam nt'k'ʷels would express the opposite), but my grandmother added a much deeper sense of emotion than I expected. We talked about this phrase in its positive and negative forms, and I got the feeling from her tone that this word signifies trust and much, much more. I also got the impression that my grandmother would never use this phrase in a casual or light-hearted manner. When she pronounced these words, the unspoken message was, "I trust you with all my heart; I trust you with my life; you are in my heart."

Salish is a beautiful language. The more I learn, the more my heart opens to the spirit of my ancestors.

*

By the way, Dakota and I recently took this picture of the coyote poem in downtown Spokane. It fits the story, so I am posting it again.

Celebrating Salish

The Celebrating Salish 2011 Conference gathered at the Northern Quest Hotel and Casino in Airway Heights, where more than 300 people represented tribes throughout the Pacific Northwest and Canada. Most of those in attendance are best described as Salish learners with varying degrees of proficiency, but several fluent speakers remain.

During the first session, I attended a storytelling workshop with several fluent speakers, including Kalispel tribal elder Francis Cullooyah. Francis offered a brief introduction to the session in English, but as soon as the doors closed, he addressed us only in Salish. I'm not fluent in the language, but I was able to understand more than half of the words he spoke.

Francis also shared the session with several other speakers.

One man inspired me more than all the others. He mostly spoke about supporting our children in learning the language, but I surprised myself when I was able to translate the majority of his words into English for a friend who sat nearby. I didn't know the man; I only heard that they called him Etwan.

During the second session, I attended a workshop with Spokane tribal elder Pauline Flett. Years ago, I took Pauline's Salish class at Eastern Washington University, so this session was a like a homecoming for me. I always appreciate her humor and warmth as she shares her expertise in the language. I learned several new words tonight, along with a few new stories about familiar places on the Spokane Reservation.

This conference is an inspiration to me. I look forward to all the stories and workshops during the upcoming sessions.

The lobby of the Northern Quest Hotel.

Lucy Finley

The other day, I found an old negative of a picture I took of Lucy Finley back in the mid-1980s. The story behind the photograph is worth telling.

When I was a kid, I attended most of the annual powwows, especially in Wellpinit and Cusick. Like other kids my age, I enjoyed the powwow food and the carnival games, but I spent most of my time in the wardance arena. Sometimes I danced, but most often I sat in the stands and watched the others. 

That was where I first saw Lucy Finley.

Lucy was a traditional dancer with an amazing style. Some traditional women danced with solemn faces and rigid, almost stylized movements, but Lucy could light the floor with her beaming smile and graceful exuberance. She clearly enjoyed the dance, but more importantly, her movements seemed to blend with the spirit of the drum as her presence filled the room. She always smiled and waved her eagle fan in a broad, sweeping motion, as if to offer a blessing to all who saw her.

Even as a child, I loved to see her dance. One time I asked my yaya Messie, "Who is that woman?"

She smiled and said, "Oh, that's my beautiful lady." For years I never even knew her name. If I mentioned the "Beautiful Lady," everyone in my family understood.

Sometime in the mid-1980s, I saw the Beautiful Lady dancing at the Cusick Powwow on the Kalispel Indian Reservation. In many ways, I was a shy and socially awkward kid, but I really wanted to take her picture. I hesitated and started in her direction a dozen times, only to get embarrassed and turn away. I laugh now to think that I fretted most of the afternoon, but I finally worked up the courage to ask.

After I made my request, she actually stopped smiling and said, "I'm really thirsty. Do you see that stand over there? Go buy me a Coke and we'll talk about that picture."

I immediately did as she said, and a few minutes later, I returned with a cold can of Coca Cola. She opened the top and took several drinks in silence. Finally she said, "OK, I'll let you take my picture, but you have to promise that you'll send me a copy." I agreed and wrote down her name and address on a small piece of paper.

As she posed for the picture, her beautiful, radiant smile returned.

Several weeks later I developed the film and sent a copy of this picture to Lucy's address, and then a few weeks after that, I received a card in the mail. Lucy thanked me and said that she didn't actually expect a young teenage boy to fulfill such a promise.

For many years after that first meeting, Lucy remembered me. She sent me Christmas cards and always hugged me when she saw me at powwows and traditional gatherings. She's gone to the other side now, but I will always cherish her memory.

Salish Gathering

My friend Shelly Boyd organized a Salish language gathering at the Louie Longhouse in Inchelium, WA. Fluent speakers from throughout the Salish cultural region gathered to speak the language, to sing, and to tell traditional stories. Young and old alike dressed in traditional clothing and glimpsed an old way of life.

LaRae Wiley sang several songs on the drum.

Arnie Baptiste told coyote stories and sang traditional songs.

In some ways, the event reminded me of my childhood when I used to hear the elders speak at community gatherings. But even more than the past, the Salish event gave me hope for the future. A group of children listened to the stories and spoke to one another in the language.

Samteetsa is an elder from Canada who also told traditional stories in the language.

Andy Joseph and Herman Edward shared their knowledge with the group.

Los Salmones

Los Salmones, originally uploaded by sulustumoses.

During the most recent Ecuador exchange, we visited the salmon hatchery near Leavenworth, Washington. The tour was interesting on many levels, but certainly not the most exciting part of the experience for me personally. Even so, our discussion at the hatchery opened a transformational moment in my life.

Perhaps some background will help make my point.

At the hatchery, we discussed the life cycle of the salmon. The eggs hatch in the gravel at the bottom of cold mountain streams and rivers. The baby salmon, called fry, make their way downstream and finally escape to the sea. They spend five or six years growing in the open ocean until instinct finally calls them back to the river of their birth, and once they start the homeward journey, they stop eating and dedicate every last ounce of physical strength to swimming against the current. They return to the exact location of their birth, where they spawn and subsequently die.

The mention of death jolted many of the youth. "What do you mean they die?" someone asked in disbelief.

"I mean they die."

"But why would do they have to die just as they lay their eggs? Why would they do that?" several of the youth asked. Their faces bore an expression of confusion, as if to suggest the salmon must be crazy to embark upon an obvious suicide mission.

Our guide explained the reason. "They die," she said, "Because they give every last bit of strength to the next generation. They give so much that the flesh literally begins to fall away from their bodies and then the decomposed matter provides nutrients to the river."

Something about this notion did not sit well with the youth, but they nodded and finally seemed to accept the eventual end of the mother and father salmon.

* * *

This simple experience opened the doorway to a major life shift for me.

Throughout the exchange, many of the youth showed signs of of their own life changes, and I found myself taking the role of mentor and elder. As we traveled deeper into spiritual awareness, the young people looked to me for encouragement, mentoring, and guidance.

I have been a teacher for many years, but this was the first time I began to experience myself as a mentor. Where teaching usually involves the transfer of information, mentoring is so much more. It involves creating a relationship where creativity and spiritual growth can occur. I didn't see myself in that role, not at first. It all happened so organically, before anyone noticed the process.

Near the end of the experience it hit me. Suddenly I saw myself at a crossroads of my life, no longer a child who received so much insight, wisdom, and love from the elders. I felt within myself the first longings of my birthstream calling me back where I will one day give all my strength to the following generation.

Then an even deeper awareness opened to my eyes. Every bit of love, courage, strength, trust, teaching, wisdom, ritual, or song that my elders ever gave me was never about ME. They didn't give me anything just because they liked me or thought I was a good person. They gave this offering to the process of life, and I simply carry their offering on my back until it's my turn to pass it on. This realization was like an ego-death, tearful and yet liberating all at once. And one day I will give everything away to my children and grandchildren, and in the end, I will give my own body to the earth.

This is the way it has always been done.

As the exchange drew to a close, I carried this new awareness mingled with sadness and joy. I knew I had to pass this teaching to the kids before they returned to Ecuador, so I gathered together as many as I could and sang a song for their journey home. I told them I would represent the mother salmon and the father salmon and give them my heart as an offering to the process of life.

We shared such powerful and tender moments, and now we are all changed.