Jim Remsen's Blog: The Slave as "Crushed Vegetable'', page 5
January 1, 2015
Red, Black, and Sometimes White
This new group taps into many African Americans' newfound interest in their native roots.
New Year�s Day brought a fascinating article out of Atlanta about black Native Americans. It should be no surprise that the two groups mixed over the centuries. Both were marginalized and persecuted by Europeans, with many American Indians being enslaved along with Africans in the early decades of contact, and with blacks sometimes being enslaved by Native Americans.
In the 1970s I delved into this complicated phenomenon when researching a story about an organization called United American Indians of the Delaware Valley. The coalition, now defunct, was dominated by a North Carolina group known as the Haliwas. Many of its members were triracial � black, white and red. Haliwa is an invented name that refers to the two rural counties, Halifax and Warren, where the group was concentrated. For generations, the Haliwas were what anthropologists term �triracial isolates� � subsisting on a toehold of isolated land, until many of them departed on the Great Migration north after World War I in search of better jobs.
Another triracial isolate group was known as the Jackson Whites. They lived in the remote mountains of northwestern New Jersey as far back as the American Revolution, and were the objects of fear and loathing. As the website Weird N.J. says, the Jackson Whites were �alleged to be comprised of a mongrel hybrid of renegade Indians, escaped slaves, Hessian mercenary deserters, and West Indian prostitutes.�
Most tribes today �have some degree or another of African intermixture,� says J. Cedric Woods, director of the Institute for New England Native American Studies at the University of Massachusetts-Boston. �It may be a single family line. It may be multiple lines. It may be most of the lines in the tribe. It can run the entire spectrum.�
Woods was quoted in the New Year�s Day article in the Atlanta Black Star. The article reported a surge of interest among black people in their native roots, noting that over 400 people attended the inaugural meeting last year of a new group called the National Congress of Black American Indians.
The Black Star article can be found at http://atlantablackstar.com/2015/01/0...
December 20, 2014
Philadelphia's Indian Set-Aside
The listener’s question last week stumped me. “Is it true,” she asked, “that William Penn set aside land in Philadelphia for the Indians’ permanent use?”
At author appearances for Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflict, I’ve welcomed the various questions that have come: Why did I tackle this topic? How does one research it? What are the lessons for today?
But this query, about a possible Indian reservation right in Philadelphia, brought me up short. It came during a talk-back portion of my presentation at the Ethical Society on Philly’s Rittenhouse Square. I responded that it was news to me, though it was plausible given Penn’s early good will toward his indigenous neighbors.
Plausible, but is it true? Afterwards, I did a bit of online research, and soon hit on some good information. On the website hiddencityphila.org is an entry titled “Even Before Old Original Bookbinder’s: An Official Indian Reservation.” Most Philadelphians, and even most tourists, know of Bookbinder’s as the venerable but now-defunct eatery at Second and Walnut Streets in the city’s Old City section.
“Philadelphia may have been the only city in the United States where land was set aside for Indians whenever they visited the city,” author and tour guide Harry Kyriakodis wrote in the October 2013 online article. “This ‘reservation’ – open to any Native group who happened to find themselves in the city – occupied a spot immediately behind Bookbinder’s, along Hancock Street and adjacent to the southeastern edge of the present Welcome Park. The campsite was granted to a group of Native Americans in 1755 by John Penn (1729-1795), grandson of William Penn. John’s uncle, Thomas Penn (1702-1775), had sent his nephew to the province of Pennsylvania in 1752 as a political apprentice to Governor James Hamilton. The young Penn served on the Provincial Council, associated with important Penn family appointees, and dealt with local Indian tribes before returning to England late in 1755.”
In his carefully researched article, Kyriakodis says John Penn presented a wampum gift to the Iroquois envoys to formalize the set-aside arrangement. The envoy who accepted the wampum was the Mohawk chief called King Hendrick Theyanoguin. Reading Hendrick’s name was a small-world moment for me because he is the very chief whom Queen Esther, the protagonist in Visions of Teaoga, cites in her valedictory speech. I have Esther recalling an actual oath that Hendrick declared in the 1754 Albany talks: “We will never part with the land at Shamokin and Wyoming. Our bones are scattered there and on his land there has always been a great council fire.”
The Philadelphia set-aside site became referred to as the Wampum Lot – though there is no indication it was ever actually used as a campground by Indians, Kyriakodis writes. In the modern era, he says, it seems to have had an unseemly fate, as Dumpster storage for Bookbinder’s.
Meanwhile, there may also have been a second Indian set-aside, a small patch of land twelve blocks to the west. This site, bounded by Broad, Juniper, Walnut and Locust Streets, also was said to be reserved for Native delegations to pitch their tents during official visits, although hiddencityphila.org cautions that there is little documentation about it.
To read all about this forgotten past, go to http://hiddencityphila.org/2013/10/be...
At author appearances for Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflict, I’ve welcomed the various questions that have come: Why did I tackle this topic? How does one research it? What are the lessons for today?
But this query, about a possible Indian reservation right in Philadelphia, brought me up short. It came during a talk-back portion of my presentation at the Ethical Society on Philly’s Rittenhouse Square. I responded that it was news to me, though it was plausible given Penn’s early good will toward his indigenous neighbors.
Plausible, but is it true? Afterwards, I did a bit of online research, and soon hit on some good information. On the website hiddencityphila.org is an entry titled “Even Before Old Original Bookbinder’s: An Official Indian Reservation.” Most Philadelphians, and even most tourists, know of Bookbinder’s as the venerable but now-defunct eatery at Second and Walnut Streets in the city’s Old City section.
“Philadelphia may have been the only city in the United States where land was set aside for Indians whenever they visited the city,” author and tour guide Harry Kyriakodis wrote in the October 2013 online article. “This ‘reservation’ – open to any Native group who happened to find themselves in the city – occupied a spot immediately behind Bookbinder’s, along Hancock Street and adjacent to the southeastern edge of the present Welcome Park. The campsite was granted to a group of Native Americans in 1755 by John Penn (1729-1795), grandson of William Penn. John’s uncle, Thomas Penn (1702-1775), had sent his nephew to the province of Pennsylvania in 1752 as a political apprentice to Governor James Hamilton. The young Penn served on the Provincial Council, associated with important Penn family appointees, and dealt with local Indian tribes before returning to England late in 1755.”
In his carefully researched article, Kyriakodis says John Penn presented a wampum gift to the Iroquois envoys to formalize the set-aside arrangement. The envoy who accepted the wampum was the Mohawk chief called King Hendrick Theyanoguin. Reading Hendrick’s name was a small-world moment for me because he is the very chief whom Queen Esther, the protagonist in Visions of Teaoga, cites in her valedictory speech. I have Esther recalling an actual oath that Hendrick declared in the 1754 Albany talks: “We will never part with the land at Shamokin and Wyoming. Our bones are scattered there and on his land there has always been a great council fire.”
The Philadelphia set-aside site became referred to as the Wampum Lot – though there is no indication it was ever actually used as a campground by Indians, Kyriakodis writes. In the modern era, he says, it seems to have had an unseemly fate, as Dumpster storage for Bookbinder’s.
Meanwhile, there may also have been a second Indian set-aside, a small patch of land twelve blocks to the west. This site, bounded by Broad, Juniper, Walnut and Locust Streets, also was said to be reserved for Native delegations to pitch their tents during official visits, although hiddencityphila.org cautions that there is little documentation about it.
To read all about this forgotten past, go to http://hiddencityphila.org/2013/10/be...
December 19, 2014
Philadelphia's Indian Set-Aside
It's believed that the so-called Wampum Lot would have touched on the southern edge of Welcome Park and run toward Bookbinder's, as shown in this photo by Nathaniel Popkin.
The listener�s question last week stumped me. �Is it true,� she asked, �that William Penn set aside land in Philadelphia for the Indians� permanent use?�
At author appearances for Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflict, I�ve welcomed the various questions that have come: Why did I tackle this topic? How does one research it? What are the lessons for today?
But this query, about a possible Indian reservation right in Philadelphia, brought me up short. It came during a talk-back portion of my presentation at the Ethical Society on Philly�s Rittenhouse Square. I responded that it was news to me, though it was plausible given Penn�s early good will toward his indigenous neighbors.
Plausible, but is it true? Afterwards, I did a bit of online research, and soon hit on some good information. On the website hiddencityphila.org is an entry titled �Even Before Old Original Bookbinder�s: An Official Indian Reservation.� Most Philadelphians, and even most tourists, know of Bookbinder�s as the venerable but now-defunct eatery at Second and Walnut Streets in the city�s Old City section.
�Philadelphia may have been the only city in the United States where land was set aside for Indians whenever they visited the city,� author and tour guide Harry Kyriakodis wrote in the October 2013 online article. �This �reservation� � open to any Native group who happened to find themselves in the city � occupied a spot immediately behind Bookbinder�s, along Hancock Street and adjacent to the southeastern edge of the present Welcome Park. The campsite was granted to a group of Native Americans in 1755 by John Penn (1729-1795), grandson of William Penn. John�s uncle, Thomas Penn (1702-1775), had sent his nephew to the province of Pennsylvania in 1752 as a political apprentice to Governor James Hamilton. The young Penn served on the Provincial Council, associated with important Penn family appointees, and dealt with local Indian tribes before returning to England late in 1755.�
In his carefully researched article, Kyriakodis says John Penn presented a wampum gift to the Iroquois envoys to formalize the set-aside arrangement. The envoy who accepted the wampum was the Mohawk chief called King Hendrick Theyanoguin. Reading Hendrick�s name was a small-world moment for me because he is the very chief whom Queen Esther, the protagonist in Visions of Teaoga, cites in her valedictory speech. I have Esther recalling an actual oath that Hendrick declared in the 1754 Albany talks: �We will never part with the land at Shamokin and Wyoming. Our bones are scattered there and on his land there has always been a great council fire.�
The Philadelphia set-aside site became referred to as the Wampum Lot � though there is no indication it was ever actually used as a campground by Indians, Kyriakodis writes. In the modern era, he says, it seems to have had an unseemly fate, as Dumpster storage for Bookbinder�s.
Meanwhile, there may also have been a second Indian set-aside, a small patch of land twelve blocks to the west. This site, bounded by Broad, Juniper, Walnut and Locust Streets, also was said to be reserved for Native delegations to pitch their tents during official visits, although hiddencityphila.org cautions that there is little documentation about it.
To read all about this forgotten past, go to http://hiddencityphila.org/2013/10/be...
December 5, 2014
Preserving Carlisle School's History
You’ve probably heard of Jim Thorpe, the immortal American Indian athlete. Maybe you knew he gained fame a century ago while a student at the Indian Industrial School at Carlisle, Pa. But did you know that in the eyes of many Indians and cultural historians, Thorpe’s fame is easily matched by the Carlisle school’s infamy?
For four decades beginning in 1879, the Carlisle school existed to “civilize” over 10,000 native students--to make them think and act white. Carlisle was one in a network of federally run boarding schools that systematically pulled Indian youngsters from their home reservations, sheared them of their traditional hair, names, language and traditions, and subjected them to a regimen of “total immersion” in European ways. At the time, this was considered a humane alternative to the rabid voices for extermination that were being raised, especially in the West. If you’re a white person you may be somewhat aware of this dubious history, though it’s probably not because you learned it in school.
Now, a coalition of Carlisle descendants and allies is aiming to set up a heritage center where we all might better understand this legacy and reflect on it. Talks are proceeding with the U.S. Army Garrison Carlisle Barracks to house the center in a historic farmhouse that is one of the few physical remnants of the boarding school. The coalition also has set up a “Carlisle Farmhouse Friends” page on Facebook to gather input from tribal representatives, descendants of students, and others.
The Army had planned to raze the farmhouse in 2012 to make way for new housing. Descendants and others rose up in protest, leading to negotiations and a plan designate the building as a national landmark.
According to an article last month in Indian Country Today, the coalition’s preservation plan aims to “tell the story of Carlisle through multiple points of view, including descendants’ voices” as a way to “integrate Native histories into our larger stories of American History in order to have a more richly textured understanding of our shared past.” The center would balance themes of trauma, abuse, neglect, grief and student resistance at Carlisle with more positive themes of school friendships, successful alumni, Indian achievements in society, and the modern native rights movement.
I visited Carlisle in 2006 as part of a long road trip that resulted in Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflicts in the 1700s. In downtown Carlisle is the impressive museum of the Cumberland County Historical Society, which had a large exhibition devoted to the Indian school. I was particularly touched by the story of Angel De Cora, a prominent Indian artist who for a time was able to teach native art styles to the Carlisle students, who had utterly forgotten those skills.
The boarding school was on the edge of town, but as I learned, it’s been all but obliterated. I was directed to the school’s cemetery, which does remain, walled-in and solemn. Graves marked students from distant tribes, or sometimes as “Unknown.” Descendants and others still come to grieve, evident from the amulets placed near headstones and ribbons on overhead branches.
The Carlisle school finally was closed in 1918. Its rise and fall is well-told in a book I purchased at the museum, The Indian Industrial School, by Linda F. Witmer. Like the museum, the book is loaded with vintage photographs of Indian boys and girls in white clothing engaged in “civilized” trades, games, music, theater, and other approved pursuits. They are beyond disturbing, to my eyes.
Witmer explains that Carlisle periodically fell into disfavor for money or management problems. And in the early years of the 20th century, many people were rejecting the approach of school founder Richard H. Pratt. They didn’t object to Pratt’s racial reconditioning – but just didn’t think the schools had to be placed in white areas. “Many policy makers and reformers were convinced,” Witmer writes, “that the reservation was the best place for a massive civilization effort.”
Pratt stuck to his guns, even in retirement. On a return visit in 1914, Witmer writes, he had the students recite the old school pledge, “The way to civilize an Indian is to get him into civilization. The way to keep him civilized is to let him stay.”
The heritage center would be a great way to examine the spoils of that philosophy. To stay abreast of developments, consider joining the Carlisle Farmhouse Friends on Facebook. And take a drive to Carlisle itself. It’s a beautiful town rich in history, for better or worse.
For four decades beginning in 1879, the Carlisle school existed to “civilize” over 10,000 native students--to make them think and act white. Carlisle was one in a network of federally run boarding schools that systematically pulled Indian youngsters from their home reservations, sheared them of their traditional hair, names, language and traditions, and subjected them to a regimen of “total immersion” in European ways. At the time, this was considered a humane alternative to the rabid voices for extermination that were being raised, especially in the West. If you’re a white person you may be somewhat aware of this dubious history, though it’s probably not because you learned it in school.
Now, a coalition of Carlisle descendants and allies is aiming to set up a heritage center where we all might better understand this legacy and reflect on it. Talks are proceeding with the U.S. Army Garrison Carlisle Barracks to house the center in a historic farmhouse that is one of the few physical remnants of the boarding school. The coalition also has set up a “Carlisle Farmhouse Friends” page on Facebook to gather input from tribal representatives, descendants of students, and others.
The Army had planned to raze the farmhouse in 2012 to make way for new housing. Descendants and others rose up in protest, leading to negotiations and a plan designate the building as a national landmark.
According to an article last month in Indian Country Today, the coalition’s preservation plan aims to “tell the story of Carlisle through multiple points of view, including descendants’ voices” as a way to “integrate Native histories into our larger stories of American History in order to have a more richly textured understanding of our shared past.” The center would balance themes of trauma, abuse, neglect, grief and student resistance at Carlisle with more positive themes of school friendships, successful alumni, Indian achievements in society, and the modern native rights movement.
I visited Carlisle in 2006 as part of a long road trip that resulted in Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflicts in the 1700s. In downtown Carlisle is the impressive museum of the Cumberland County Historical Society, which had a large exhibition devoted to the Indian school. I was particularly touched by the story of Angel De Cora, a prominent Indian artist who for a time was able to teach native art styles to the Carlisle students, who had utterly forgotten those skills.
The boarding school was on the edge of town, but as I learned, it’s been all but obliterated. I was directed to the school’s cemetery, which does remain, walled-in and solemn. Graves marked students from distant tribes, or sometimes as “Unknown.” Descendants and others still come to grieve, evident from the amulets placed near headstones and ribbons on overhead branches.
The Carlisle school finally was closed in 1918. Its rise and fall is well-told in a book I purchased at the museum, The Indian Industrial School, by Linda F. Witmer. Like the museum, the book is loaded with vintage photographs of Indian boys and girls in white clothing engaged in “civilized” trades, games, music, theater, and other approved pursuits. They are beyond disturbing, to my eyes.
Witmer explains that Carlisle periodically fell into disfavor for money or management problems. And in the early years of the 20th century, many people were rejecting the approach of school founder Richard H. Pratt. They didn’t object to Pratt’s racial reconditioning – but just didn’t think the schools had to be placed in white areas. “Many policy makers and reformers were convinced,” Witmer writes, “that the reservation was the best place for a massive civilization effort.”
Pratt stuck to his guns, even in retirement. On a return visit in 1914, Witmer writes, he had the students recite the old school pledge, “The way to civilize an Indian is to get him into civilization. The way to keep him civilized is to let him stay.”
The heritage center would be a great way to examine the spoils of that philosophy. To stay abreast of developments, consider joining the Carlisle Farmhouse Friends on Facebook. And take a drive to Carlisle itself. It’s a beautiful town rich in history, for better or worse.
December 4, 2014
Preserving Carlisle School's story
A Carlisle Indian Industrial School student, before and after his assimilation. A coalition of descendants and allies is working to create a heritage center about the controversial school.You�ve probably heard of Jim Thorpe, the immortal American Indian athlete. Maybe you knew he gained fame a century ago while a student at the Indian Industrial School at Carlisle, Pa. But did you know that in the eyes of many Indians and cultural historians, Thorpe�s fame is easily matched by the Carlisle school�s infamy?
For four decades beginning in 1879, the Carlisle school existed to �civilize� over 10,000 native students--to make them think and act white. Carlisle was one in a network of federally run boarding schools that systematically pulled Indian youngsters from their home reservations, sheared them of their traditional hair, names, language and traditions, and subjected them to a regimen of �total immersion� in European ways. At the time, this was considered a humane alternative to the rabid voices for extermination that were being raised, especially in the West. If you�re a white person you may be somewhat aware of this dubious history, though it�s probably not because you learned it in school.
Now, a coalition of Carlisle descendants and allies is aiming to set up a heritage center where we all might better understand this legacy and reflect on it. Talks are proceeding with the U.S. Army Garrison Carlisle Barracks to house the center in a historic farmhouse that is one of the few physical remnants of the boarding school. The coalition also has set up a �Carlisle Farmhouse Friends� page on Facebook to gather input from tribal representatives, descendants of students, and others.
The Army had planned to raze the farmhouse in 2012 to make way for new housing. Descendants and others rose up in protest, leading to negotiations and a plan designate the building as a national landmark.
According to an article last month in Indian Country Today, the coalition�s preservation plan aims to �tell the story of Carlisle through multiple points of view, including descendants� voices� as a way to �integrate Native histories into our larger stories of American History in order to have a more richly textured understanding of our shared past.� The center would balance themes of trauma, abuse, neglect, grief and student resistance at Carlisle with more positive themes of school friendships, successful alumni, Indian achievements in society, and the modern native rights movement.
I visited Carlisle in 2006 as part of a long road trip that resulted in Visions of Teaoga, my historical novel about Indian-settler conflicts in the 1700s. In downtown Carlisle is the impressive museum of the Cumberland County Historical Society, which had a large exhibition devoted to the Indian school. I was particularly touched by the story of Angel De Cora, a prominent Indian artist who for a time was able to teach native art styles to the Carlisle students, who had utterly forgotten those skills.
The boarding school was on the edge of town, but as I learned, it�s been all but obliterated. I was directed to the school�s cemetery, which does remain, walled-in and solemn. Graves marked students from distant tribes, or sometimes as �Unknown.� Descendants and others still come to grieve, evident from the amulets placed near headstones and ribbons on overhead branches.
The Carlisle school finally was closed in 1918. Its rise and fall is well-told in a book I purchased at the museum, The Indian Industrial School, by Linda F. Witmer. Like the museum, the book is loaded with vintage photographs of Indian boys and girls in white clothing engaged in �civilized� trades, games, music, theater, and other approved pursuits. They are beyond disturbing, to my eyes.
Witmer explains that Carlisle periodically fell into disfavor for money or management problems. And in the early years of the 20th century, many people were rejecting the approach of school founder Richard H. Pratt. They didn�t object to Pratt�s racial reconditioning � but just didn�t think the schools had to be placed in white areas. �Many policy makers and reformers were convinced,� Witmer writes, �that the reservation was the best place for a massive civilization effort.�
Pratt stuck to his guns, even in retirement. On a return visit in 1914, Witmer writes, he had the students recite the old school pledge, �The way to civilize an Indian is to get him into civilization. The way to keep him civilized is to let him stay.�
The heritage center would be a great way to examine the spoils of that philosophy. To stay abreast of developments, consider joining the Carlisle Farmhouse Friends on Facebook. And take a drive to Carlisle itself. It�s a beautiful town rich in history, for better or worse.
November 20, 2014
Chewing on Thanksgiving
Here comes another Thanksgiving. May your celebration be bright and family-friendly. At the same time, bear in mind that many American Indians scorn the common belief that the original feast in was a kumbaya moment between Europeans and Natives.
“For the most part, Thanksgiving itself is a day of mourning for Native people” today, says Tim Turner, a Cherokee man who runs the Wampanoag Homesite at the Plimouth Plantation in Massachusetts, where that first feast took place in 1621.
Turner recounted the Thanksgiving story in an interview with Indian Country Today. After the Pilgrims suffered through their first winter in Massachusetts, Turner said, the Indian known as Squanto mercifully showed them how to plant corn and fish and gather berries and nuts. That led to a treaty of mutual protection between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags.
The Pilgrims’ harvest that autumn was a success. In gratitude, they organized a feast -- for themselves -- and shot off their weapons in celebration. The gunfire alarmed the Wampanoags, who sent a party of men to offer aid.
Only at that point were the Indians invited to join in. Seeing there was not enough food for the 90 Wampanoags, the braves returned with five deer to add to the communal table. Turkey and pumpkin were possibly included, but as two items on a menu that also featured seafood, waterfowl, maize, and a variety of squashes.
“It was nothing at all like a modern Thanksgiving,” Kathleen Wall, a colonial-foodways culinarian at Plimoth Plantation, told Indian Country Today.
The National Museum of the American Indian, on the Mall in Washington, has a study guide titled “Beyond the Thanksgiving Myth” that explains: “Contemporary celebrations of the Thanksgiving holiday focus on the idea that the ‘first Thanksgiving’ was a friendly gathering of two disparate groups—or even neighbors—who shared a meal and lived harmoniously. In actuality, the assembly of these people had much more to do with political alliances, diplomacy, and an effort at rarely achieved, temporary peaceful coexistence.”
Rarely achieved is right. The guide goes on to say that within a few years, the peaceful relations established by the Wampaoags “were often strained by dishonest, aggressive, and brutal actions on the part of the colonists.”
History records the unjust desserts the continent’s Indians ultimately got for saving the early European settlers from starvation. So yes, while Thanksgiving may be a favorite holiday for most of us, it’s anything but for many of our first peoples.
Knowing this, and recognizing that Thanksgiving falls during Native American Heritage Month, some people have adapted traditional native blessings into their holiday ceremony. Here’s a good one that has found a home on the Internet:
Let us, for this moment, become aware of the beauty of our lives, and the grace that attends to beauty…. Grandfather, we are thankful for the gifts of the Sun, and Grandmother, for the gifts of the Earth … We give thanks for the times of meaning, the times of purposes, our times together…
Let us reflect on our struggles and how they have enabled and ennobled our growth; if we but shut our eyes, even for a moment, we can awaken to wonder;
And then we see with new eyes, the land, the sea, the creatures, one another…
And if we can feel a sense of gratitude, that grace will grow corn in our hearts, then we know beauty, then we know you, O Great Spirit.
“For the most part, Thanksgiving itself is a day of mourning for Native people” today, says Tim Turner, a Cherokee man who runs the Wampanoag Homesite at the Plimouth Plantation in Massachusetts, where that first feast took place in 1621.
Turner recounted the Thanksgiving story in an interview with Indian Country Today. After the Pilgrims suffered through their first winter in Massachusetts, Turner said, the Indian known as Squanto mercifully showed them how to plant corn and fish and gather berries and nuts. That led to a treaty of mutual protection between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags.
The Pilgrims’ harvest that autumn was a success. In gratitude, they organized a feast -- for themselves -- and shot off their weapons in celebration. The gunfire alarmed the Wampanoags, who sent a party of men to offer aid.
Only at that point were the Indians invited to join in. Seeing there was not enough food for the 90 Wampanoags, the braves returned with five deer to add to the communal table. Turkey and pumpkin were possibly included, but as two items on a menu that also featured seafood, waterfowl, maize, and a variety of squashes.
“It was nothing at all like a modern Thanksgiving,” Kathleen Wall, a colonial-foodways culinarian at Plimoth Plantation, told Indian Country Today.
The National Museum of the American Indian, on the Mall in Washington, has a study guide titled “Beyond the Thanksgiving Myth” that explains: “Contemporary celebrations of the Thanksgiving holiday focus on the idea that the ‘first Thanksgiving’ was a friendly gathering of two disparate groups—or even neighbors—who shared a meal and lived harmoniously. In actuality, the assembly of these people had much more to do with political alliances, diplomacy, and an effort at rarely achieved, temporary peaceful coexistence.”
Rarely achieved is right. The guide goes on to say that within a few years, the peaceful relations established by the Wampaoags “were often strained by dishonest, aggressive, and brutal actions on the part of the colonists.”
History records the unjust desserts the continent’s Indians ultimately got for saving the early European settlers from starvation. So yes, while Thanksgiving may be a favorite holiday for most of us, it’s anything but for many of our first peoples.
Knowing this, and recognizing that Thanksgiving falls during Native American Heritage Month, some people have adapted traditional native blessings into their holiday ceremony. Here’s a good one that has found a home on the Internet:
Let us, for this moment, become aware of the beauty of our lives, and the grace that attends to beauty…. Grandfather, we are thankful for the gifts of the Sun, and Grandmother, for the gifts of the Earth … We give thanks for the times of meaning, the times of purposes, our times together…
Let us reflect on our struggles and how they have enabled and ennobled our growth; if we but shut our eyes, even for a moment, we can awaken to wonder;
And then we see with new eyes, the land, the sea, the creatures, one another…
And if we can feel a sense of gratitude, that grace will grow corn in our hearts, then we know beauty, then we know you, O Great Spirit.
November 19, 2014
Chewing on Thanksgiving
The American Indian counter-narrative is writ large on this Thanksgiving protest plaque. Here comes another Thanksgiving. May your celebration be bright and family-friendly. At the same time, bear in mind that many American Indians scorn the common belief that the original feast in was a kumbaya moment between Europeans and Natives.
�For the most part, Thanksgiving itself is a day of mourning for Native people� today, says Tim Turner, a Cherokee man who runs the Wampanoag Homesite at the Plimouth Plantation in Massachusetts, where that first feast took place in 1621.
Turner recounted the Thanksgiving story in an interview with Indian Country Today. After the Pilgrims suffered through their first winter in Massachusetts, Turner said, the Indian known as Squanto mercifully showed them how to plant corn and fish and gather berries and nuts. That led to a treaty of mutual protection between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags.
The Pilgrims� harvest that autumn was a success. In gratitude, they organized a feast -- for themselves -- and shot off their weapons in celebration. The gunfire alarmed the Wampanoags, who sent a party of men to offer aid.
Only at that point were the Indians invited to join in. Seeing there was not enough food for the 90 Wampanoags, the braves returned with five deer to add to the communal table. Turkey and pumpkin were possibly included, but as two items on a menu that also featured seafood, waterfowl, maize, and a variety of squashes.
�It was nothing at all like a modern Thanksgiving,� Kathleen Wall, a colonial-foodways culinarian at Plimoth Plantation, told Indian Country Today.
The National Museum of the American Indian, on the Mall in Washington, has a study guide titled �Beyond the Thanksgiving Myth� that explains: �Contemporary celebrations of the Thanksgiving holiday focus on the idea that the �first Thanksgiving� was a friendly gathering of two disparate groups�or even neighbors�who shared a meal and lived harmoniously. In actuality, the assembly of these people had much more to do with political alliances, diplomacy, and an effort at rarely achieved, temporary peaceful coexistence.�
Rarely achieved is right. The guide goes on to say that within a few years, the peaceful relations established by the Wampaoags �were often strained by dishonest, aggressive, and brutal actions on the part of the colonists.�
History records the unjust desserts the continent�s Indians ultimately got for saving the early European settlers from starvation. So yes, while Thanksgiving may be a favorite holiday for most of us, it�s anything but for many of our first peoples.
Knowing this, and recognizing that Thanksgiving falls during Native American Heritage Month, some people have adapted traditional native blessings for use in their holiday ceremonies. Here�s a good one that has found a home on the Internet:
Let us, for this moment, become aware of the beauty of our lives, and the grace that attends to beauty�. Grandfather, we are thankful for the gifts of the Sun, and Grandmother, for the gifts of the Earth � We give thanks for the times of meaning, the times of purposes, our times together�
Let us reflect on our struggles and how they have enabled and ennobled our growth; if we but shut our eyes, even for a moment, we can awaken to wonder;
And then we see with new eyes, the land, the sea, the creatures, one another�
And if we can feel a sense of gratitude, that grace will grow corn in our hearts, then we know beauty, then we know you, O Great Spirit.
November 8, 2014
Learning, the Native Way
Imagine it. Three thousand hours of American Indian oral recordings, brought out of the archives after decades, digitized, and made available to the public – that means you -- for free. A database of six thousand traditional Iroquois names, now searchable by clan affiliation.
Those and other precious native holdings of the American Philosophical Society have been brought forth for sharing in a respectful new collaboration between that eminent Philadelphia institution and a host of native tribes across North America.
I knew nothing about this remarkable initiative, which was highlighted at a conference organized by the University of Pennsylvania’s Native American and Indigenous Studies program. Looking to attend a good event on November’s Native American Heritage Month calendar, I happily located this one, which showcased what it called “innovative approaches to recovering and engaging with Indigenous knowledge in the classroom and in the field.” As a sign of this native partnership with the academy, a banner displaying the Hiawatha belt was prominent on the stage.
Timothy Powell, who directs the philosophical society’s Native American Project, told the audience how his team has been digitizing and sharing papers and other holdings with more than 100 native communities to help them revitalize their cultures and languages. For instance, a Penobscot dictionary has been disseminated into that community to help members revive and broaden use of their language. Recordings of Tuscarora “wisdom keepers,” made on a defunct wire-spool device in the 1940s, have also been digitized and shared: “from oral to wire to digital to oral again,” Powell remarked.
Similarly, recordings of traditional musicians, recorded generations ago on wax cylinders, are being digitized and shared. Creating the database of traditional names by clan affiliation has been a breakthrough for Iroquois groups, Powell said, because members are traditionally named by clan mothers but awareness of all the traditional names had faded over time.
Powell urged anyone to contact him to get online access to the philosophical society’s vast oral recordings. He’s reachable at tpowell@amphilsoc.org.
The convener of the Nov.7-8 conference, Penn anthropology professor Margaret Bruchac, explained that the university’s minor in Native American and Indigenous Studies has served to bring together the disciplines of anthropology, education, history, law, linguistics, religious studies, art history, folklore and even nursing. (Indeed, Powell said videos of native healers have been used in Penn’s nursing school.)
Bruchac is researching how a predecessor at the University Museum, famed anthropologist Frank Speck, embedded himself with native communities a century ago and was entrusted with masks, wampum belts and other sacred objects. The elders told him to regard every object “as a grandfather and to keep it until it was safe to return it to the community.” Some of the belts and other objects disappeared, however, and Bruchac, an Abenaki Indian, is working hard to track them down. She chronicles her exploits in her outstanding “On the Wampum Trail” blog: http://wampumtrail.wordpress.com/tag/...
Another presenter was Doug George Kanentiio, a Mohawk activist who helped develop the Hiawatha Institute for Indigenous Knowledge, based in Syracuse. The institute is named for the legendary figure crediting with establishing the Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) Confederacy centuries ago. The Hiawatha Institute aims to be a resource center and to ally with schools to offer classes and distance learning in “music, history, law, biology, theater, language and the fine arts, all from a distinctly indigenous perspective.” You can learn more at www.hiawatha.syr.edu.
A new day has dawned in the academy, at least in some corners of higher learning. Over and over the conference’s speakers expressed profound regard for traditional knowledge and cultural patrimony. A guiding principle has been the Iroquois ethic of looking seven generations forward and seven generations back. As Powell said, for something to be of lasting value “it needs to benefit people seven generations in the future.”
Those and other precious native holdings of the American Philosophical Society have been brought forth for sharing in a respectful new collaboration between that eminent Philadelphia institution and a host of native tribes across North America.
I knew nothing about this remarkable initiative, which was highlighted at a conference organized by the University of Pennsylvania’s Native American and Indigenous Studies program. Looking to attend a good event on November’s Native American Heritage Month calendar, I happily located this one, which showcased what it called “innovative approaches to recovering and engaging with Indigenous knowledge in the classroom and in the field.” As a sign of this native partnership with the academy, a banner displaying the Hiawatha belt was prominent on the stage.
Timothy Powell, who directs the philosophical society’s Native American Project, told the audience how his team has been digitizing and sharing papers and other holdings with more than 100 native communities to help them revitalize their cultures and languages. For instance, a Penobscot dictionary has been disseminated into that community to help members revive and broaden use of their language. Recordings of Tuscarora “wisdom keepers,” made on a defunct wire-spool device in the 1940s, have also been digitized and shared: “from oral to wire to digital to oral again,” Powell remarked.
Similarly, recordings of traditional musicians, recorded generations ago on wax cylinders, are being digitized and shared. Creating the database of traditional names by clan affiliation has been a breakthrough for Iroquois groups, Powell said, because members are traditionally named by clan mothers but awareness of all the traditional names had faded over time.
Powell urged anyone to contact him to get online access to the philosophical society’s vast oral recordings. He’s reachable at tpowell@amphilsoc.org.
The convener of the Nov.7-8 conference, Penn anthropology professor Margaret Bruchac, explained that the university’s minor in Native American and Indigenous Studies has served to bring together the disciplines of anthropology, education, history, law, linguistics, religious studies, art history, folklore and even nursing. (Indeed, Powell said videos of native healers have been used in Penn’s nursing school.)
Bruchac is researching how a predecessor at the University Museum, famed anthropologist Frank Speck, embedded himself with native communities a century ago and was entrusted with masks, wampum belts and other sacred objects. The elders told him to regard every object “as a grandfather and to keep it until it was safe to return it to the community.” Some of the belts and other objects disappeared, however, and Bruchac, an Abenaki Indian, is working hard to track them down. She chronicles her exploits in her outstanding “On the Wampum Trail” blog: http://wampumtrail.wordpress.com/tag/...
Another presenter was Doug George Kanentiio, a Mohawk activist who helped develop the Hiawatha Institute for Indigenous Knowledge, based in Syracuse. The institute is named for the legendary figure crediting with establishing the Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) Confederacy centuries ago. The Hiawatha Institute aims to be a resource center and to ally with schools to offer classes and distance learning in “music, history, law, biology, theater, language and the fine arts, all from a distinctly indigenous perspective.” You can learn more at www.hiawatha.syr.edu.
A new day has dawned in the academy, at least in some corners of higher learning. Over and over the conference’s speakers expressed profound regard for traditional knowledge and cultural patrimony. A guiding principle has been the Iroquois ethic of looking seven generations forward and seven generations back. As Powell said, for something to be of lasting value “it needs to benefit people seven generations in the future.”
November 7, 2014
Learning, the native way
The Hiawatha belt, symbol of the Iroquois Confederacy. Each image signifies one of the five tribes.
Imagine it. Three thousand hours of American Indian oral recordings, brought out of the archives after decades, digitized, and made available to the public � that means you -- for free. A database of six thousand traditional Iroquois names, now searchable by clan affiliation.
Those and other precious native holdings of the American Philosophical Society have been brought forth for sharing in a respectful new collaboration between that eminent Philadelphia institution and a host of native tribes across North America.
I knew nothing about this remarkable initiative, which was highlighted at a conference organized by the University of Pennsylvania�s Native American and Indigenous Studies program. Looking to attend a good event on November�s Native American Heritage Month calendar, I happily located this one, which showcased what it called �innovative approaches to recovering and engaging with Indigenous knowledge in the classroom and in the field.� As a sign of this native partnership with the academy, a banner displaying the Hiawatha belt was prominent on the stage.
Timothy Powell, who directs the philosophical society�s Native American Project, told the audience how his team has been digitizing and sharing papers and other holdings with more than 100 native communities to help them revitalize their cultures and languages. For instance, a Penobscot dictionary has been disseminated into that community to help members revive and broaden use of their language. Recordings of Tuscarora �wisdom keepers,� made on a defunct wire-spool device in the 1940s, have also been digitized and shared: �from oral to wire to digital to oral again,� Powell remarked.
Similarly, recordings of traditional musicians, recorded generations ago on wax cylinders, are being digitized and shared. Creating the database of traditional names by clan affiliation has been a breakthrough for Iroquois groups, Powell said, because members are traditionally named by clan mothers but awareness of all the traditional names had faded over time.
Powell urged anyone to contact him to get online access to the philosophical society�s vast oral recordings. He�s reachable at tpowell@amphilsoc.org.
The convener of the Nov.7-8 conference, Penn anthropology professor Margaret Bruchac, explained that the university�s minor in Native American and Indigenous Studies has served to bring together the disciplines of anthropology, education, history, law, linguistics, religious studies, art history, folklore and even nursing. (Indeed, Powell said videos of native healers have been used in Penn�s nursing school.)
Bruchac is researching how a predecessor at the University Museum, famed anthropologist Frank Speck, embedded himself with native communities a century ago and was entrusted with masks, wampum belts and other sacred objects. The elders told him to regard every object �as a grandfather and to keep it until it was safe to return it to the community.� Some of the belts and other objects disappeared, however, and Bruchac, an Abenaki Indian, is working hard to track them down. She chronicles her exploits in her outstanding �On the Wampum Trail� blog: http://wampumtrail.wordpress.com/tag/...
Another presenter was Doug George Kanentiio, a Mohawk activist who helped develop the Hiawatha Institute for Indigenous Knowledge, based in Syracuse. The institute is named for the legendary figure crediting with establishing the Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) Confederacy centuries ago. The Hiawatha Institute aims to be a resource center and to ally with schools to offer classes and distance learning in �music, history, law, biology, theater, language and the fine arts, all from a distinctly indigenous perspective.� You can learn more at www.hiawatha.syr.edu.
A new day has dawned in the academy, at least in some corners of higher learning. Over and over the conference�s speakers expressed profound regard for traditional knowledge and cultural patrimony. A guiding principle has been the Iroquois ethic of looking seven generations forward and seven generations back. As Powell said, for something to be of lasting value �it needs to benefit people seven generations in the future.�
October 27, 2014
Dancing Through Dark Times
If you haven’t experienced an Indian powwow yet, I recommend you seek one out. They’re colorful extravaganzas that occur East and West for much of the year. Every powwow I’ve attended has been welcoming and family-friendly. They tend to be multicultural and intertribal, meaning different styles of drumming and dancing are on display. Don’t be surprised by the rainbow coalition of complexions, too--evidence of the Indians’ complicated history of mixing and mingling with whites and blacks.
I experienced the Indians’ warm ways most recently when I attended a Nanticoke-Lenape powwow in southern New Jersey to sign and sell my new book, Visions of Teaoga, which delves into Eastern Woodlands history of the 1700s. The tribal organizers welcomed me, a white man (a yengwe in the parlance of Visions of Teaoga) to the event, promoted my book to the crowd, and even bought copies for themselves and their bookstore. To top that off, they invited me back to introduce the book to teachers at an educator showcase they held a few weeks later.
This particular group calls itself the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape Tribal Nation. Headquartered in Bridgeton, N.J., the group traces its lineage to the native bands that inhabited New Jersey, Delaware, southern New York and eastern Pennsylvania at the time of “first contact” with the Europeans. The group’s primary base -- South Jersey and Delaware – was peopled by two of the three Lenape (also called Delaware) clans, the Unami and the Unalachtigo. The third clan, the mountaineer Munsee situated farther to the north, is the only Lenape group to figure in the Visions of Teaoga history. That was good enough for the powwow folks, who were happy to have me feature their northern Munsee cousins.
The Nanticoke-Lenape history follows a familiar, painful course across time. In the 1600s, their tidewater homeland was claimed for a colony by Swedish settlers. The Swedish records refer to the Indians they encountered in settled communities as being peaceable, friendly and open to trading. Difficulties set in farther south, however, when the Nanticokes tried to resist colonial intrusion but gradually moved north and united with the Lenapes.
According to the descendant group, the first treaty the U.S. government signed after the Declaration of Independence was with the Lenni-Lenape in 1778. Here’s how the group’s website explains the situation: “The revolutionary government promised that if the ‘Delawares’ helped their fight against the British, they would be given statehood in the future... a promise that was not kept. Because of continuing conflict with European settlers encroaching upon Tribal lands, many of the Tribe's members were killed or removed from their homelands. Some were able to continue to live in the homeland; however, they lived in constant fear. Those who remained survived through attempting to adapt to the dominant culture, becoming farmers and tradesmen.”
What a familiar story. Readers of Visions of Teaoga learn about so-called “remnant bands” of Indians scattered across northern Pennsylvania and New York who had to coalesce and adapt to endure during a desperate era of dispossession. There to the south, in the Delmarva peninsula and South Jersey, the same dystopic pattern was playing out.
For more about the Nanticoke-Lenape story, and to tune in to the group’s powwow schedule, go to nanticoke-lenapetribalnation.org.
I experienced the Indians’ warm ways most recently when I attended a Nanticoke-Lenape powwow in southern New Jersey to sign and sell my new book, Visions of Teaoga, which delves into Eastern Woodlands history of the 1700s. The tribal organizers welcomed me, a white man (a yengwe in the parlance of Visions of Teaoga) to the event, promoted my book to the crowd, and even bought copies for themselves and their bookstore. To top that off, they invited me back to introduce the book to teachers at an educator showcase they held a few weeks later.
This particular group calls itself the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape Tribal Nation. Headquartered in Bridgeton, N.J., the group traces its lineage to the native bands that inhabited New Jersey, Delaware, southern New York and eastern Pennsylvania at the time of “first contact” with the Europeans. The group’s primary base -- South Jersey and Delaware – was peopled by two of the three Lenape (also called Delaware) clans, the Unami and the Unalachtigo. The third clan, the mountaineer Munsee situated farther to the north, is the only Lenape group to figure in the Visions of Teaoga history. That was good enough for the powwow folks, who were happy to have me feature their northern Munsee cousins.
The Nanticoke-Lenape history follows a familiar, painful course across time. In the 1600s, their tidewater homeland was claimed for a colony by Swedish settlers. The Swedish records refer to the Indians they encountered in settled communities as being peaceable, friendly and open to trading. Difficulties set in farther south, however, when the Nanticokes tried to resist colonial intrusion but gradually moved north and united with the Lenapes.
According to the descendant group, the first treaty the U.S. government signed after the Declaration of Independence was with the Lenni-Lenape in 1778. Here’s how the group’s website explains the situation: “The revolutionary government promised that if the ‘Delawares’ helped their fight against the British, they would be given statehood in the future... a promise that was not kept. Because of continuing conflict with European settlers encroaching upon Tribal lands, many of the Tribe's members were killed or removed from their homelands. Some were able to continue to live in the homeland; however, they lived in constant fear. Those who remained survived through attempting to adapt to the dominant culture, becoming farmers and tradesmen.”
What a familiar story. Readers of Visions of Teaoga learn about so-called “remnant bands” of Indians scattered across northern Pennsylvania and New York who had to coalesce and adapt to endure during a desperate era of dispossession. There to the south, in the Delmarva peninsula and South Jersey, the same dystopic pattern was playing out.
For more about the Nanticoke-Lenape story, and to tune in to the group’s powwow schedule, go to nanticoke-lenapetribalnation.org.
The Slave as "Crushed Vegetable''
In researching the Underground Railroad past of my hometown, Waverly, Pa., I came across a fascinating explication of the abolition mission, at least as it was understood by white participants in the
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