Growing Up Native American (9 page)

He then showed us a more wonderful thing than all the others that he had brought. It was a paper, which he said could talk to him. He took it out and he would talk to it, and talk with it. He said, “This can talk to all our white brothers, and our white sisters, and their children. Our white brothers are beautiful, and our white sisters are beautiful, and their children are beautiful! He also said the paper can travel like the wind, and it can go and talk with their fathers and brothers and sisters, and come back to tell what they are doing, and whether they are well or sick.”

After my grandfather told us this, our doctors and doctresses said,—

“If they can do this wonderful thing, they are not truly human, but pure spirits. None but heavenly spirits can do such wonderful things. We can communicate with the spirits, yet we cannot do wonderful things like them. Oh, our great chieftain, we are afraid your white brothers will yet make your people's hearts bleed. You see if they don't; for we can see it. Their blood is all around us, and the dead are lying all about us, and we cannot escape it. It will come. Then you will say our doctors and doctresses did know. Dance, sing, play, it will do no good; we cannot drive it away. They have already done the mischief, while you were away.”

But this did not go far with my grandfather. He kept talking to his people about the good white people, and told them all to get ready to go with him to California the following spring.

Very late that fall, my grandfather and my father and a great many more went down to the Humboldt River to fish. They brought back a great many fish, which we were very glad to get; for none of our people had been down to fish the whole summer.

When they came back, they brought us more news. They said there were some white people living at the Humboldt sink. They were the first ones my father had seen face to face. He said they were not like “humans.” They were more like owls
than any thing else. They had hair on their faces, and had white eyes, and looked beautiful.
^*

I tell you we children had to be very good, indeed, during the winter; for we were told that if we were not good they would come and eat us up. We remained there all winter; the next spring the emigrants came as usual, and my father and grandfather and uncles, and many more went down on the Humboldt River on fishing excursions. While they were thus fishing, their white brothers came upon them and fired on them, and killed one of my uncles, and wounded another. Nine more were wounded, and five died afterwards. My other uncle got well again, and is living yet. Oh, that was a fearful thing, indeed!

After all these things had happened, my grandfather still stood up for his white brothers.

Our people had council after council, to get my grandfather to give his consent that they should go and kill those white men who were at the sink of Humboldt. No; they could do nothing of the kind while he lived. He told his people that his word was more to him than his son's life, or any one else's life either.

“Dear children,” he said, “think of your own words to me;—you promised. You want me to say to you, Go and kill those that are at the sink of Humboldt. After your promise, how dare you to ask me to let your hearts be stained with the blood of those who are innocent of the deed that has been done to us by others? Is not my dear beloved son laid alongside of your dead, and you say I stand up for their lives. Yes, it is very hard, indeed; but, nevertheless, I know and you know that those men who live at the sink are not the ones that killed our men.”

While my grandfather was talking, he wept, and men, women, and children, were all weeping. One could hardly hear him talking.

After he was through talking, came the saddest part. The widow of my uncle who was killed, and my mother and father
all had long hair. They cut off their hair, and also cut long gashes in their arms and legs, and they were all bleeding as if they would die with the loss of blood. This continued for several days, for this is the way we mourn for our dead. When the woman's husband dies, she is first to cut off her hair, and then she braids it and puts it across his breast; then his mother and sisters, his father and brothers and all his kinsfolk cut their hair. The widow is to remain unmarried until her hair is the same length as before, and her face is not to be washed all that time, and she is to use no kind of paint, nor to make any merriment with other women until the day is set for her to do so by her father-in-law, or if she has no father-in-law, by her mother-in-law, and then she is at liberty to go where she pleases. The widower is at liberty when his wife dies; but he mourns for her in the same way, by cutting his hair off.

It was late that fall when my grandfather prevailed with his people to go with him to California. It was this time that my mother accompanied him. Everything had been got ready to start on our journey. My dear father was to be left behind. How my poor mother begged to stay with her husband! But my grandfather told her that she could come back in the spring to see her husband; so we started for California, leaving my poor papa behind. All my kinsfolk went with us but one aunt and her children.

The first night found us camped at the sink of Carson, and the second night we camped on Carson River. The third day, as we were travelling along the river, some of our men who were ahead, came back and said there were some of our white brothers' houses ahead of us. So my grandfather told us all to stop where we were while he went to see them. He was not gone long, and when he came back he brought some hard bread which they gave him. He told us that was their food, and he gave us all some to taste. That was the first I ever tasted.

Then my grandfather once more told his people that his paper talked for him, and he said,—

“Just as long as I live and have that paper which my white brothers' great chieftain has given me, I shall stand by them, come what will.” He held the paper up towards heaven and kissed it, as if it was really a person. “Oh, if I should lose
this,” he said, “we shall all be lost. So, children, get your horses ready, and we will go on, and we will camp with them tonight, or by them, for I have a sweetheart along who is dying for fear of my white brothers.” He meant me; for I was always crying and hiding under somebody's robes, for we had no blankets then.

Well, we went on; but we did not camp with them, because my poor mother and brothers and sisters told my grandfather that I was sick with crying for fright, and for him not to camp too close to them. The women were speaking two words for themselves and one for me, for they were just as afraid as I was. I had seen my brother Natchez crying when the men came back, and said there were white men ahead of us. So my grandfather did as my mother wished him to do, and we went on by them; but I did not know it, as I had my head covered while we were passing their camp. I was riding behind my older brother, and we went on and camped quite a long way from them that night.

So we travelled on to California, but did not see any more of our white brothers till we got to the head of Carson River, about fifteen miles above where great Carson City now stands.

“Now give me the baby.” It was my baby-sister that grandpa took from my mother, and I peeped from under my mother's fur, and I saw some one take my little sister. Then I cried out,—

“Oh, my sister! Don't let them take her away.”

And once more my poor grandfather told his people that his white brothers and sisters were very kind to children. I stopped crying, and looked at them again. Then I saw them give my brother and sister something white. My mother asked her father what it was, and he said it was
Pe-har-be
, which means sugar. Just then one of the women came to my mother with some in her hand, and grandpa said:—

“Take it, my child.”

Then I held out my hand without looking. That was the first gift I ever got from a white person, which made my heart very glad.

When they went away, my grandfather called me to him, and said I must not be afraid of the white people, for they are very good. I told him that they looked so very bad I could not help it.

We travelled with them at that time two days, and the third day we all camped together where some white people were living in large white houses. My grandpa went to one of the houses, and when he came back he said his white brothers wanted him to come and get some beef and hard bread. So he took four men with him to get it, and they gave him four boxes of hard bread and a whole side of beef, and the next morning we got our horses ready to go on again. There was some kind of a fight,—that is, the captain of the train was whipping negroes who were driving his team. That made my poor grandfather feel very badly. He went to the captain, and told him he would not travel with him. He came back and said to his people that he would not travel with his white brothers any farther. We travelled two days without seeing any more of my grandfather's white brothers. At last we came to a very large encampment of white people, and they ran out of their wagons, or wood-houses, as we called them, and gathered round us. I was riding behind my brother. I was so afraid, I told him to put his robe over me, but he did not do so. I scratched him and bit him on his back, and then my poor grandfather rode up to the tents where they were, and he was asked to stay there all night with them. After grandpa had talked awhile, he said to his people that he would camp with his brothers. So he did. Oh, what nice things we all got from my grandpa's white brothers! Our men got red shirts, and our women got calico for dresses. Oh, what a pretty dress my sister got! I did not get anything, because I hid all the time. I was hiding under some robes. No one knew where I was. After all the white people were gone, I heard my poor mother cry out:—

“Oh, where is my little girl? Oh, father, can it be that the white people have carried her away? Oh, father, go and find her,—go, go, and find her!” And I also heard my brothers and sister cry. Yet I said nothing, because they had not called me to get some of the pretty things. When they began to cry, I began crawling out, and then my grandfather scolded me, and told me that his brothers loved good children, but not bad ones like me. How I did cry, and wished that I had staid at home with my father! I went to sleep crying.

I did not forget what had happened. There was a house near
where we camped. My grandfather went down to the house with some of his men, and pretty soon we saw them coming back. They were carrying large boxes, and we were all looking at them. My mother said there were two white men coming with them.

“Oh, mother, what shall I do? Hide me!”

I just danced round like a wild one, which I was. I was behind my mother. When they were coming nearer, I heard my grandpa say,—

“Make a place for them to sit down.”

Just then, I peeped round my mother to see them. I gave one scream, and said,—

“Oh, mother, the owls!”

I only saw their big white eyes, and I thought their faces were all hair. My mother said,—

“I wish you would send your brothers away, for my child will die.”

I imagined I could see their big white eyes all night long. They were the first ones I had ever seen in my life.

I
n
Night Flying Woman,
Ignatia Broker (Ojibway) lovingly recounts the life of her great-great-grandmother, Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe. This is a story rich in Ojibway traditions and lifeways that moves from a life of precontact peace and contentment to the disruption and displacement caused by white settlers. In Broker's own words, it was a time of “great chaos and change
.”

The following passage tells the story of a family's refusal to capitulate to government demands that they be placed on a reservation, their subsequent flight from white encroachment, and the sorrow and desolation of leaving playmates and loved ones behind, perhaps never to be seen again
.

Ignatia Broker was an Ojibway elder and storyteller. Over the course of her life she worked to educate the public about Native American people. She was involved with the Upper Midwest American Indian Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and founded the Minnesota Indian Historical Society. She died in 1987
.

 

N
I-BO-WI-SE-GWE IS A GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER TO MANY
people of the Wolf and Fish clans, and in our family we speak of her with pride. She was a great and unusual woman, and there are many stories told of her life and ways.

As it is told, many of the events and circumstances pertaining to Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe were unusual, even from the time before her birth. Her father, Me-ow-ga-bo (Outstanding), and mother, Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe (Round Earth), were young, healthy,
and strong. Usually such Ojibway couples have children early in marriage, and often they have at least five. But it was not so with this young couple. They had been three years together, a long time, and they had not had a child. The people of their village began to wonder and feel a sadness for the young couple. After the third year, Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe was born, and she was the only child.

The time of her birth was after the blueberry gathering and before the wild-rice harvesting. The day began bright and sunny, and it was so when Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe felt the first pangs of birth. Just before the sun was high in the sky, at the exact time of birth, the sun and moon crossed paths and there was a pitch darkness. In this darkness the first wail of the child was heard, and because of this her parents knew that the tiny girl would be different. But they felt it was good because she was born of love and joy.

So out of the darkness, called the eclipse, was born a person who became strong and gave strength, who became wise and lent this wisdom to her people, who became part of the generation of chaos and change.

Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe were happy, for it was a time of plenty. The velvet of the forest shone as soft and bright as the love they had for Tiny Girl. They had waited a long time for their child. Now that they were fulfilled, they would fill the life of their child with all that was necessary to honor her and thus the people and the Gitchi Manito, the Great Spirit.

Three weeks after birth, according to the custom of the people, came the time when the naming must be planned. The spirit of every person must be honored with a name, a song, and an animal. Tiny Girl must be given a name, and she must be given in honor to her grandparents.

Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe consulted with Grandfather and Grandmother and decided that A-wa-sa-si (Bullhead) should be the namer, for A-wa-sa-si was old and wise and good. A-wa-sa-si was the storyteller, and when she placed her hands on the heads of the children, their crying and fears were stilled. The family lit a pipe and offered it to the Gitchi Manito. Then they sent Tiny Girl's cap with a bag of
kin-nik-a-nik inside to old A-wa-sa-si. If A-wa-sa-si accepted the cap and smoked the kin-nik-a-nik it meant that she would, indeed, be the namer.

A-wa-sa-si took the cap and smiled, for it pleased her to be the namer. First she went into the forest to choose the medicine for the animal bag that she would make and give to the baby. Then she visited the child and returned to the forest to meditate and to choose an animal and a song. She visited Tiny Girl again. A day was set for the naming feast, and the family sent kin-nik-a-nik to all the people in the village to let them know that they were to come.

The family began to prepare the feast for the naming ceremony. There would be much food, for it was after the ricing time when food was stored and buried. Acorns were roasted. Hazel nuts were ground and mixed with dried berries to make small cakes. Ma-no-min, the precious wild rice, was popped and mixed with si-s-sa-ba-gwa-d, the maple sugar. There would be fish, deer, and rabbit for all, but the heads of the bear and buffalo were reserved for the Old Ones of the Mi-de-wi-wi-n.

The ceremony and feast were held in the beautiful autumn season. Although the days were cooling, they were yet sunny. The green of the forest was turning to orange, gold, and brown; this orange, gold, and brown fell and cushioned the earth and reflected the glory of the trees.

All the people of the village arrived bringing gifts. They came to hear the honor of the name given to the child of Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe, for by honoring a child the people also honored the Gitchi Manito. A-wa-sa-si had chosen the name Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe, which means Night Flying Woman, because Tiny Girl had been born during the darkness of the day. A-wa-sa-si said that the shadows when the sun left the earth and the shadows when the day began would be the best time for her. But because Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe was such a long name for tiny tongues, the child was soon called Oona, for her first laughing sound.

Oona's first months were like those of all Ojibway children. The Ojibway know that a learning process begins at birth and that a baby's first learning experience is watching. So, as soon as possible, Oona was laced into a cradleboard and placed where
she could see her family at work and at play. She watched Grandmother lacing muk-kuk-ko-ons-sug, the strong birch-bark containers, or winding wi-go-b, the tough string made from the bark of trees. People talked to her about things they saw and did. Oona was happy. She would look into the shadows in the lodge and smile, and the people would remember the time she came.

Being strapped in the cradleboard was also the beginning of her experience in restraint. She began to learn this in the customary way. At certain times when she cried, a brushy stick was scraped across her face and her lips were pinched. These actions would be repeated if the family needed to make a silent journey; then Oona would know she must not cry. It was a matter of survival, especially if there were enemies in the forest.

During the first year of Oona's life the winter white piled high around the lodges, but she did not know this for inside the lodge all was warm and snug. The fire in the middle of the lodge leaped and shone and made patterns that made Oona laugh and coo. Many times old A-wa-sa-si would be in the lodge with Grandmother, for these two watched over Oona. Mother would go about her work, and often she would stop and whisper softly to Oona. Sometimes she made tiny clothes when she sat watching the meat roast over the fire. Father would come in blowing cold air and smiling, his strength and presence making everyone feel that all was well.

When the winter white turned to water, Oona, still in the cradle, went to the maple-sugar bush with the family. In the summer Oona tasted berries fresh from the bush. She walked her first steps in the fall at ricing time. For five years Oona's cycle of life was the same. Summer camp to ricing camp to winter village to sugar bush to planting time to summer camp. These years were filled with love and laughter and this cycle was the cycle of life of our people, the Ojibway.

 

It was the beautiful spring season. The days now were warm and clear and the sun shone through the new green of the trees. The stately birch, which had looked ghostly all through the winter, was sprinkled with the green. Once again it offered its
yearly gift of bark to the forest people. Pale flowers, the violet and the crocus, lifted their faces and lent their fragile scent to the forest air, blending with the village smell of the wood fires and burning cedar leaves. The waters in the brooks whispered back and forth with the trees. Squirrels came out from their winter homes and they too chattered back and forth, holding their tails up high. This was a sign foretelling warmth for the coming days. Other Forest Brothers were standing, lean but shining, ready for another cycle of birth and life. Everything was so new, fresh, and good.

There was much excitement in the Ojibway village and the children felt it. It made them fearful. A do-daim, or clansman, from the east was visiting and the people held a feast in his honor. After the feast, in the evening, the people met in council to hear the news of the do-daim. He told of a strange people whose skins were as pale as the winter white and whose eyes were blue or green or gray.

“Yes,” said A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g (Warm Sky), the village leader, “I have seen these strangers.”

“I also,” said others.

“These strangers,” said the do-daim, “are again asking the Ojibway to mark a paper. All the leaders of the A-sa-bi-ig-go-na-ya, the Nettle Fiber People, are to do this. The Ojibway to the east have made the mark, and now they are on the big water where they must stay forever. The strangers promised never to enter their forests but they came anyway to trade for the coats of the Animal Brothers. I have a muk-kuk they gave me, and I will leave it to you. It sits right on the fire and does not crack. It is called iron kettle, and the strangers have promised many of these when the papers are marked.”

“Have you studied these strangers well? Are they good people, or are they those who will be enemies?” asked A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g.

“Some are kind. Others speak good. Others smile when they think they are deceiving,” replied the do-daim. “Many of the Ojibway have stayed with these people, but soon our people had great coughs and there were bumps on their skins, and they were given water that made them forget.”

“I have seen these strangers before. They have come into the
forests many times,” said Grandfather. “I know that they desire the furs of our animal friends and wish to give us the strange things.”

“Yes,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are asking the Ojibway to trap the Animal Brothers. They give a stick that roars and that can kill faster than an arrow.”

“Also,” said Grandfather, “I have seen the men with the long dress. They speak many words about Gitchi Manito, the Great Spirit. And I have seen the men with the fire sticks. They have followed the Chi-si-bi (Mississippi) to its source.”

“But now,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are many. They intend to stay, for they are building lodges and planting food. Far to the east, the forests of the Eastern Keepers have been ripped from the face of the earth and the doors of the longhouses have been sealed.

“These strangers fight among themselves. They fought and killed each other for the land of the Mo-wi-ga-n (Mohegan) and now again they are fighting in the land of the Che-ro-ki (Cherokee).

“Our kinsmen, the O-ma-no-ma-ni-g (Menominee), the Wild Rice People, are crowded at the edge of the big water, and the O-da-wa (Ottawa) have crossed the big water. The O-bo-da-wa-da-mi-g (Potawatomi) have gone south, many of them. The Mi-s-gwa-ghi (Fox) are shivering with cold and hunger now. They are but a handful in number.

“Down by the Chi-si-bi at the place where the small gulls fly, the forests have become smaller. Strangers are there in great number. All day long they cut the trees and send them down the river. Although these strangers have said they will stay to the rising sun, already they are looking this way, for soon there will be no forest where they are now.

“Yes, my brothers,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are looking this way.”

When the do-daim left, the council fires burned. The people discussed what he had said.

A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g, the leader, said, “We cannot escape for long the meeting with these strange people. Our kinsmen on the Chi-o-ni-ga-mig (Lake Superior) have marked the paper and now they must forever stay at O-bi-mi-wi-i-to-n (Grand
Portage), the carrying place. Also, I have been to where the Chi-si-bi and the A-bwa-na-g (Minnesota) waters meet. I have seen the strangers' lodges there. The lodges are many and the men called soldiers are many. They will forever be there, for they plant the corn.”

Oona's grandfather said, “I also have been to the land where the small gulls live, where the strangers push the forest poles into the big river. I have seen their lodges and their planting. Soon all will be planted. But I have also been to the rainy country. The men who desire the furs are few there now. They use the waters only to pass on to the big north country, and this is seldom. The forests are thick there, and beneath the trees the earth is soft and boggy so the planting would not be good, although there are many dry places deep within the bogs. I am thinking that I shall take my family there and maybe escape these strangers for a while.”

“Yes,” said A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g, “we shall do that. Those who wish to go with you will lay a stick in a pile. I shall take the others to the strangers at the Lake of Nettles if this must be so. But we all must move soon in order to plant the seed in our new places and find the ricing beds and the sugar bush.”

The people met and talked for three days on the hill outside the village. They spoke of the many good things that had always been. Of grandfathers and grandmothers who were the dust of the forests. Of those who would be left in the journeying places. The women listened and there was a wailing sound to their voices when they talked together.

On the eve of the third day, the men smoked the pipe of peace in council and passed around the sacred kin-nik-a-nik. The voices of the people became stilled and a quiet purpose was reflected in their faces. The whole forest became silent.

 

Little Oona awoke one bright new day to the busy stirrings of the village. She had felt the excitement of the past few days, and she was fearful. “Bis-in-d-an, listen,” Oona whispered to herself, heeding one of her first lessons. “Listen, and you will hear the patterns of life. Are they the same, or is there a change in the sounds?” So Oona listened. “Something different is hap
pening today,” Oona whispered again to herself. Quickly she rolled out from under the rabbitskin robe, dressed, and went out of the lodge. She saw Grandfather and Grandmother making bundles of food and clothing.