ANISHINAABEK
ABROAD:

LITERAL
AND
LITERARY
INDIGENOUS
JOURNEYS
IN
THE
19TH
CENTURY



By



Nichole
Marie
Keway







































A
DISSERTATION

Submitted
to

Michigan
State
University

in
partial
fulfillment
of
the
requirements

for
the
degree
of



DOCTOR
OF
PHILOSOPHY



English



2012








ABSTRACT



ANISHINAABEK
ABROAD:

LITERAL
AND
LITERARY
INDIGENOUS
JOURNEYS
IN
THE
19TH
CENTURY



By



Nichole
Marie
Keway








The
19th
century
marked
the
first
significant
wave
of
Native
North
American

tribal
peoples
to
gain
spoken
and
written
literacy
in
English.

As
first‐language

speakers
of
their
own
indigenous
languages,
authors
approached
the
learning
and

use
of
written
English
from
dual
positions
of
empowerment
and
subjugation.

Their

compelling
experience
of
the
processes
of
writing
and
publication
underscored
how

English
as
a
spoken
language
displaced
tribal
norms
of
communal
address.


The

implicit
devaluing
of
oral
tradition
undermined
the
established,
place‐sensitive

processes
of
decision‐
and
meaning‐
making.

The
contrast
between
the
heritage
of

interpersonal
council
and
the
introduction
of
non‐placed
authoritative
letters
offers

a
prescient
look
at
contemporary
understandings
of
how
access
is
gained
and

denied
within
the
public
sphere.










The
traditional
industry,
rituals,
and
stories
addressed
in
the
oral
tradition
were

based
on
the
intimacy
and
immediacy
of
communion
with
an
expanded
sphere
of

influence
not
limited
to
the
human.
Direct
interaction
with
fellow
tribal
peoples,

deceased
ancestors,
spirits
of
land,
air
and
water,
as
well
as
the
corporeal
and

spiritual
presences
of
animals
all
contributed
to
the
establishment
of

communicative
cultural
norms.

In
contrast,
a
written
tradition
can
normalize

stepping
away
from
the
immediately
shared
commonalities
of
people
and
place.




The
validity
and
authority
of
this
literate
public
sphere
is
largely
based
upon
racial,

cultural,
and
anthropologic
hierarchies
suited
to
the
exploitation
of
people
and

resources.

The
power
invested
in
face‐to‐face
communication
rests
on
a
foundation

of
the
situated
relationships
among
diverse
life
forces.

In
the
literate
public
sphere,

papers
and
decrees
are
vested
with
an
authority
that
overrules
the
formative

influence
of
place‐based
relationships
steeped
in
the
unifying
eco‐diversity
of
the

commons.

This
dissertation
explores
the
implications
of
this
key
difference
in

expressive
norms
through
the
writings
of
the
several
featured
19th
century

Anishinaabek
authors,
as
well
as
through
the
inclusion
of
pertinent
traditional

stories
that
reflect
how
unbalanced
relationships
between
people,
place,
animals,

and
spirits
are
of
the
highest
moral
and
ecological
consequence.











Copyright
by

NICHOLE
MARIE
KEWAY

2012














































TABLE
OF
CONTENTS



INTRODUCTION

…….……………………………………………………………………………………..


1



CHAPTER
ONE

LANGUISHING
IN
THEIR
LITERACY:


INDIGENOUS
IDENTITY
AND
THE
NOBLE
WHITE

..……………………………………....


21



CHAPTER
TWO

THE
AUTHORITY
OF
ASSOCIATION:

WILLIAM
WARREN
AND
THE
FIRES
OF
HOSPITALITY

………………...…………..……

59



CHAPTER
THREE

INTERROGATING
THE
ARCHIVES:

UNDERSTANDING
THE
LITERACY
OF
THE
HEART

………………………………..………


87



EXCERPT
FROM
“THE
COURT
OREILLES
ORIGIN
MYTH”

……………………………..


112



CHAPTER
FOUR

“I
MUST
SEE
AND
FEEL
THE
BENEFITS”:

ROMANTIC
SAVAGES
AND
SPEAKING
BEYOND
THE
WOODS
…………..……………


114



CHAPTER
FIVE

CURIOUS
PECULIARITIES:

THE
OLD
WORLD
DISPLAY
AND
THE
NEW
WORLD
DISPLACED

…………………




165



EPILOGUE

………………………………………………………………………………………………….



194



ENDNOTES

……………………………………………………………………………………………….





198



BIBLIOGRAPHY………………………………………………………………………………….…………...220





v


Introduction
…all
that
was
crazy,
the
kind
of
old‐time
superstition
the
teachers
at
Indian
school

used
to
warn
him
and
Rocky
about.

Like
the
first
time
in
science
class,
when
the

teacher
brought
in
a
tubful
of
dead
frogs,
bloated
with
formaldehyde,
and
the

Navajos
all
left
the
room;
the
teacher
said
those
old
beliefs
were
stupid.

The
Jemez

girl
raised
her
hand
and
said
the
people
always
told
the
kids
not
to
kill
frogs,

because
frogs
would
get
angry
and
send
so
much
rain
there
would
be
floods.

The

science
teacher
laughed
loudly,
for
a
long
time;
he
even
had
to
wipe
tears
from
his

eyes.

“Look
at
these
frogs,”
he
said,
pointing
at
the
discolored
rubbery
bodies
and

clouded
eyes.

“Do
you
think
they
could
do
anything?

Where
are
all
the
floods?

We

dissect
them
in
this
class
every
year.”



‐Leslie
Marmon
Silko,
Ceremony
1


Of
course,
I
also
have
self‐questions
and
qualms
about
the
extensive
use
of
the

English
language
and
the
Western
cultural
baggage
that
came
with
it...

Using
the

English
language
is
a
dilemma
and
pretty
scary
sometimes,
because
it
means
letting

one’s
mind
go
willfully
–
though
with
soul
and
heart
in
shaky
hand,
literally
–
into

the
Western
cultural
intellectual
context,
a
condition
and
circumstance
that
one

usually
avoids
at
all
costs
on
all
occasions.

Even
though
I
believe
I
did
not
have
any

overt
problems
with
it,
learning
to
speak,
read,
and
write
in
English
was
fraught

with
considerable
tension
for
me.

As
a
result,
years
later
I
admit
I
have
felt
uneasy

and
even
disloyal
at
moments
when
I’ve
found
myself
to
be
more
verbally
articulate

in
the
English
language
that
in
my
own
native
Acoma
language.

I
have
to
honestly

admit
that
there
is
a
price
to
pay
for
selling
your
soul,
if
that’s
what
has
happened.



–Simon
Ortiz,
Speaking
For
The
Generations

2

The
secret,
she
told
me,
was
not
to
pretend,
but
to
see
and
hear
the
real
stories

behind
the
words,
the
voices
of
the
animals
in
me,
not
the
definitions
of
words

alone.

I
lectured
on
tribal
philosophies
at
the
university,
and
what
she
told
me
at

first
might
have
fallen
on
deaf
ears
in
the
classroom.

The
best
listeners
were
shadows,
animals,
birds,
and
humans,
because
their

shadows
once
shared
the
same
stories.

She
said
there
were
tricksters
in
our
voices

and
natural
sounds,
tricksters
who
remembered
the
scenes,
the
wild
visions
in
the

shadows
of
our
words.

She
warned
me
that
even
the
most
honored
lectures
were

dead
voices,
that
shadows
were
dead
in
recitations.

She
said
written
words
were

the
burial
grounds
of
shadows.

The
tricksters
in
the
word
are
seen
in
the
ear
and

not
the
eye.



‐Gerald
Vizenor,
Dead
Voices
3

“Brothers,
I
am
carrying
songs.

I
will
make
a
place
where
you
and
I
can
dance.


When
I’m
finished
making
our
dancing
place,
I’ll
come
and
tell
you,
so
that
we
can

dance
and
have
a
good
time.”



‐Nanaboozhoo,
Hoodwinked
Dancers4




1









To
bring
the
traditional
stories
written
into
the
archives
back
to
life,
it
is
best
to

begin
with
re‐imagining
the
context
in
which
they
were
told.

Ethnographers
and

other
interested
parties
more
often
than
not
came
to
the
indigenous
lands
of
the

story‐tellers,
effectively
becoming
part
of
the
influential
brew
of
a
setting
that

included
people,
trees,
lakes,
birds,
animals,
and
spirits
alike.

These
details
of

context
are
inseparable
to
the
composition
of
each
story’s
contents.
Even
filtered

through
English
and
recorded
onto
the
written
page,
the
narratives
frame
and

highlight
the
moral
codes
imbedded
in
the
surrounding
land
and
the
relationships
of

its
inhabitants.







Variations
on
the
story
of
“Nanaboozhoo
and
the
Ducks”
are
widespread.


In

some
of
these
accounts,
the
action
begins
with
Nanaboozhoo5
trying
to
gain
the

attention
of
some
ducks
and
other
waterfowl
he
comes
across
and
wishes
to
draw

closer
in
hopes
of
a
meal.

He
piques
their
interest
by
claiming
to
have
returned
from

the
south
with
a
bag
full
of
new
songs.

In
this
small
detail,
there
is
a
suggested

parallel
between
the
attempt
to
lure
the
ducks
with
a
new
mode
of
expression
and

the
increasing
presence
of
English
in
the
lives
of
the
people.

To
give
a
hearing

implies
gaining
something
that,
though
previously
unknown
and
therefore
likely

unmissed,
once
present
proves
desirable
and
difficult
to
ignore.
Tellingly,

Nanaboozhoo
uses
the
allure
of
these
new
songs
to
convince
the
ducks
to
come
to

his
place
for
a
dance,
at
which
time
he
insists
they
close
their
eyes
once
he
begins

singing
the
songs.

They
do
so,
and
he
promptly
rings
their
necks.








The
story
continues
with
a
slew
of
misadventures
that
point
to
the
divine




2


retribution
visited
upon
his
misdeeds,
and
frequently
ends
with
both
his
self‐
mutilation
and
the
antidotal
medicine
he
leaves
in
the
wake
of
his
injuries,
this

being
in
the
form
of
the
red
willow
found
throughout
Anishinaabek
homelands.


These
summary
details
offer
a
way
of
reckoning
the
changes
being
experienced
in

the
currency
of
their
telling.

Those
requesting
the
telling
were
typically
literate

white
men,
whom
the
teller
perhaps
thought
might
benefit
by
identifying
both
with

Nanaboozhoo’s
misdeeds
and
his
illuminations.

Further,
the
visual
reminders
in
the

landscape
underscore
and
insist
upon
the
continued
relevance
and
influence
of
all

that
compose
the
scene
of
the
story
and
life
overall.

It
is
a
literacy
based
on
the
land

–
the
careful
observation
of
surroundings
steeped
in
the
ongoing
corporeal,

spiritual,
and
moral
tasks
of
survival.






Contrasting
communication
styles
are
at
the
core
of
the
contact
experience.


Language
and
expressive
conventions
provide
the
intrinsic
details
of
cultural

difference,
while
also
determining
the
process
by
which
mutual
understanding
is

either
reached
or
breached.

Native
North
American
literacy
in
English
is
irrevocably

tied
to
Western
templates
of
education
and
politics,
challenging
past
and
current

indigenous
authors
to
utilize
the
colonizer’s
language
in
a
way
that
advances
efforts

at
physical
and
cultural
survival.
The
troubled
experience
of
gaining
spoken
and

written
literacy
is
a
central
factor
in
pan‐Indian
identity
formation.

Whatever
the

indigenous
language
was,
the
onslaught
of
Old
World
populations
was
accompanied

by
the
onslaught
of
English
as
both
imposed
measure
of
validity
and
the
only

practical
means
of
diplomatic
resistance.

The
implications
and
process
of
English

literacy
is
a
key
factor
in
the
ongoing
tendency
of
diverse
tribal
peoples
to
consider




3


themselves
in
common
with
Indians
across
the
continent.







The
mid‐
19th
century
marks
the
first
significant
wave
of
North
American

indigenous
peoples
to
gain
spoken
and
written
literacy.
The
learning
and
use
of

English
prove
fraught
with
questions
of
loyalty
and
validity.

The
supplanting
of

indigenous
languages
can
undermine
tribal
points
of
view,
as
the
need
for
self‐
representation
in
the
literate
public
sphere
requires
fluency
in
ideological

frameworks
that
assume
the
inferiority
of
the
cultural
alignments
expressed
in
the

original
language.6

Early
(and
contemporary)
authors
illustrate
the
deep
reckoning

of
self
and
community
that
this
tension
between
motivation
and
mode
requires.


Literature
offers
a
way
to
parse
out
these
complex
issues
of
self
and
community.








My
utilization
of
the
term
“public
sphere”
is
intended
to
align
with
the
works
of

Jurgen
Habermas,
who
highlights
the
transformative
effects
of
literacy
upon
societal

self‐identifications
of
the
public
and
private
self;
Michael
Warner,
who
examines
the

characteristic
inaccessibility
of
often
literacy‐based
public
arenas;
and
Hannah

Arendt,
who
considers
how
the
idealized
democratic
milieu
of
the
Greek
town‐
square
might
actually
be
considered
an
early
case
of
the
disintegration
of

individual

agency.

Though
I
do
not
explicitly
revolve
my
work
around
their
collective

scholarship,
it
should
be
noted
that
these
three
authors
inform
my
baseline
view
of

the
“public
sphere,”
which
I
explore
more
directly
through
the
works
of
select

indigenous
authors.

I
find
the
public
sphere
a
very
useful
term
and
concept
that
can

encompass
the
complexities
of
communication
that
have
evolved
in
the
course
of

Western
traditions
of
public
address,
which
can
then
be
contrasted
with
indigenous

traditions
possessing
an
entirely
different
understanding
of
what
exactly
is
the




4


scope
and
implication
of
these
“publics.”

Often
motivated
by
cultural
preservation

to
find
an
audience
among
readers
of
English,
many
soon
found
that
autonomous

loyalty
to
their
own
cultures
was
a
hindrance
to
gaining
the
influential
white

audience
they
often
envisioned.









Language
choice
is
far
from
neutral,
as
attempts
to
bring
a
private
voice
wrought

by
(invalidated)
tribal
influences
to
the
attention
of
the
very
public
decreeing
the

sources
and
stakes
of
validity
and
worth
can
show.

Embedded
as
it
is
with

hierarchies
of
race
and
culture,
the
task
of
gaining
literacy
is
often
fueled
by
the

desire
for
justice,
and
it’s
consort,
retribution.


From
George
Copway’s
calls
for

support
of
an
independent
Indian
nation
to
Winona
LaDuke’s
environmental

advocacy,
indigenous
voices
are
raised
in
response
to
the
dangerous
costs
exacted

by
the
rampant
opportunism
that
threatens
the
survival
of
peoples
and
places.

Once

the
balance
inherited
over
generations
of
vigilance
is
tipped
too
far,
the
mischief
so

clearly
seen
demands
statements
of
dissent.
The
broader,
ongoing
history
of
war,

relocation,
boarding
schools,
reservations,
the
urban
experience,
poverty,

environmental
degradation,
species
loss,
and
so
forth,
attests
to
the
commonality
of

woes
that
the
contact
experience
brought
to
diverse
tribes.






This
broader
applicability
is
well‐served
by
a
keener
focus
on
regional

particularities,
as
the
specific
relationships
between
land
and
people
is
what
lay
the

foundation
for
the
tensions
that
accompany
forays
into
Western
institutions.

In

accord
with
my
interests
and
experiences
as
a
Little
Traverse
Bay
Band
Odawa

Indian
who
was
raised
in
Michigan,
this
project
will
focus
on
Great
Lakes
peoples,

who
may
collectively
be
referred
to
as
Anishinaabek.

A
fellow
LTBB
Odawa
of
the




5


19th
century,
Andrew
Blackbird
(Mack‐e‐te‐be‐nes‐sy),
began
his
History
of
the

Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan
with
a
statement
equal
parts
intent
and

critique.

Musing
on
the
“number
of
writings
by
different
men
who
attempted
to
give

an
account
of
the
Indians,”
he
comments:
“But
I
see
no
very
correct
account
of
the

Ottawa
and
Chippewa
tribes
of
Indians,
according
to
our
knowledge
of
ourselves,

past
and
present.

Many
points
are
far
from
being
credible.
They
are
either

misstated
by
persons
who
were
not
versed
in
the
traditions
of
the
Indians,
or

exaggerated”.7








“Anishinaabek”
is
the
self‐referential
term
used
by
indigenous
peoples
of
the

Great
Lakes
region,
and
is
how
I
prefer
to
self‐identify.

My
intention
is
to
come
from

a
place
of
open
loyalty
toward,
and
investment
in,
the
usefulness
of
the
traditions.


Many
current
indigenous
scholars
seek
to
advocate
for
tribal
ways
of
living
in
a
way

that
can
expose
and
repurpose
the
veiled
ideologies
of
the
“neutral”
academic
voice.


My
efforts
to
do
so
hinge
on
foregrounding
both
the
presence
and
lack
of

interpersonal
communication
within
the
English
public
sphere
as
experienced
by

the
newly
literate
Anishinaabek
of
the
19th
century.

I
propose
that
the
difficulty
of

translating
the
keen
intimacy
of
the
interpersonal
relationships
necessary
to
oral

traditions
into
an
arena
reliant
on
the
changeability
of
authoritative
papers
and

decrees
is
but
one
layer
of
the
deep
irreconcilabilities
of
the
worldviews

represented.

Indeed,
the
communicative
norms
of
the
English
language
used
by
the

pilgrims,
merchants,
politicians
of
America
prove
inextricable
from
policies
that

ignore
entire
ecologies
in
favor
of
the
self‐elected
superiority
of
but
a
(white,




6


landowning,
male,
human)
sliver
of
the
earth’s
population.

In
response
to
the

established
hierarchies
that
imbued
that
conqueror’s
language,
indigenous
people

often
took
their
learning
of
it
on
frequent
journeys
to
directly
confront
the
powers

that
be
in
Washington.

This
attests
to
an
invested
belief
in
the
need
for
council
as

the
perhaps
the
only
sure
way
to
assure
everyone
has
a
voice.

Even
with
the

displacement
of
the
original,
autonomous
language
of
the
ancestors,
these
efforts
at

direct,
face‐to‐face
confrontation
reveal
the
continued
influence
of
interactive

philosophies
based
in
real‐time
and
place.

Still
obliged
to
enter
the
world
of

published
letters
in
the
quest
for
sympathetic
audience,
attempts
at
tribal
advocacy

within
the
literate
public
sphere
marked
a
different
sort
of
journey,
also
fraught

with
issues
of
self‐identification
and
cultural
loyalty.








A
credible
account
of
the
people,
in
accord
with
self‐knowledge
and
independent

identifications,
needs
to
be
at
the
forefront
of
any
literary
or
theoretical

explorations
of
indigenous
writings
in
English.

Cree
scholar
Craig
Womack

summarizes
his
own
endorsement
of
tribally
specific
literary
inquiry
with
the
point

that
“Even
postcolonial
approaches,
with
so
much
emphasis
on
how
the
settler

culture
views
the
other,
largely
miss
an
incredibly
important
point:
how
do
Indians

view
Indians?”
8
Nineteenth
century
archives
not
only
provide
an
idea
of
the

traditions
from
which
newly
literate
authors
are
coming
from,
but
also
evidence

how
the
conventions
of
English,
spoken
and
written,
exact
a
heavy
toll
on
the

retention
of
indigenous
perspectives
and
priorities.






As
with
indigenous
peoples
the
world
over,
the
Anishinaabek
possess
a
diversity

of
motivations
and
strategies
in
relation
to
the
learning
of
English.

Though
there
are




7


certainly
key
differences
of
accessibility
between
learning
to
speak
English
and

learning
to
write
it,
my
primary
interest
is
in
how
both
of
these
markers
of
literacy

can
be
understood
as
conflated
matters
of
an
alien
consciousness
to
those
with
an

indigenous
language
base.

Early
indigenous
experiences
of
literacy
offer
a
logical

point
of
study
for
the
psychological
and
political
concerns
that
characterize
forays

into
the
norms
of
an
English
public
sphere.
For
Native
North
American
peoples,
both

anthropological
interviews
and
education
in
English
were
integral
to
imposing

racial
and
species
hierarchies
that
ultimately
justify
the
taking
of
land
and

resources.








Womack
advances
the
effort
to
determine
“what
can
be
innovated
and
initiated

by
native
people
in
analyzing
their
own
cultures
rather
than
deconstructing
Native

viewpoints
and
arguing
for
their
European
underpinnings
or
even
concentrating
on

white
atrocities
and
Indian
victims”.9

This
requires
that
indigenous
understandings

of
the
land,
its
resources,
and
inhabitants
provide
the
foundation
of
any
subsequent

inquiries
into
the
dynamics
of
contact.

The
specificities
of
place,
flora
and
fauna

determine
the
lifeways
and
languages
of
those
aligned
with
the
benefits
and

consequences
of
this
dependence.

In
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic

Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,
George
Copway
(Kah‐ge‐ga‐gah‐bowh)
concludes
a

story
relating
the
origins
of
the
Midewiwin,
or
Medicine
Worship,
with
the

following:

The
strangers
gave
them
these
words,
and
then
left:

“There
is
not
a
flower
that
buds,
however
small,
that
is
not
for
some
wise

purpose.




8


There
is
not
a
blade
of
grass,
however
insignificant,
that
the
Indian
does
not

require.

Learning
this,
and
acting
in
accordance
with
these
truths,
will
work
out
your

own
good,
and
will
please
the
Great
Spirit.”10


This
decree
provides
the
climactic
conclusion
of
what
is
one
among
many
narratives

focused
on
the
consequences
of
hubristic
imprudence.

In
this
particular
story,

“penalty
followed
transgression”
after
a
member
of
this
earlier
Indian
nation
tried

to
climb
and
then
snapped
a
forbidden
vine
“which
had
before
been
the
ladder
of

communication
between
heaven
and
earth.”11

Disease
and
death
followed,
until
the

“strange
visitants
from
heaven”
who
were
the
“tutelar
gods”
that
had
used
the
vine

to
descend
and
bless
the
people,
eventually
returned
and
“asked
the
nations
what

they
wished
to
tell
the
Great
Spirit
in
their
distress.”12

Requests
for
the
return
of

the
vine,
the
end
of
disease,
the
killing
of
the
one
who
broke
the
vine,
and
for
a
great

deal
of
game
were
bested
by
the
final
petitioner
who
asked
that
“the
Great
Spirit

would
send
them
that
which
would
calm
and
relieve
them
in
distress.”13

The
way

to
relieve
distress
is
to
act
in
accord
with
the
collective
dependence
upon
even
the

smallest
life‐forms.






The
aforementioned
“charter
from
the
Great
Spirit”
was
revealed
following
a
key

transformative
action
in
the
landscape,
in
which
“the
strangers
then
gathered
up
all

the
flowers
from
the
plains,
river
and
lake
sides;
and
after
drying
them
on
their

hands,
blew
the
leaves
with
their
breath,
and
they
were
scattered
all
over
the
earth;

‐‐wherever
they
fell,
they
sprang
up,
and
became
herbs
to
cure
all
disease.”14

The




9


words
spoken
by
the
strangers
provide
a
mere
outline
of
the
benefits
accorded
by

the
tangible
proofs
of
the
Great
Spirit’s
merciful
act.

Surrounded
by
the
healing

herbs,
the
people
are
moved
to
observe
the
truth
of
the
decree.
The
charter
gains

meaning
only
when
the
people
tend
to
and
learn
about
the
leaves
and
herbs.



Significance
and
purpose
is
vested
in
the
continued
cycle
of
growth:
the
words
are

secondary
to
the
actions
surrounding
them.






This
is
just
one
of
many
“clean
slate”
stories
found
in
the
vast
archives
of
the

traditional
Anishinaabek
stories
on
written
record.15

Common,
key
factors
include

the
mortal
threats
wrought
by
transgressions
in
self‐restraint
and
self‐regard,

alongside
the
“second
chance”
afforded
by
the
healing
capacity
of
the
Great
Spirit,
as

it
is
expressed
through
a
renewed
bounty
of
the
land.

The
healing
of
disease,
the

easing
of
fears,
and
the
shame
of
the
transgressing
act,
all
find
relief
through
the
re‐
establishment
of
the
overriding
hierarchy
of
basic
survival:
the
complex
needs
of

humanity,
physical
and
spiritual
and
intellectual
alike,
are
utterly
beholden
to
the

living
land.

The
health
of
the
people
hinges
on
the
earth’s
bounty.

It
is
a
basic
tenet

found
in
the
narratives
that
were
central
to
inter‐generational
teachings,
and
it

provides
the
setting
in
which
early
authors
worked
out
the
process
of
reaching
an

English‐speaking
audience
awash
in
moral
and
ecological
transgressions.








Copway
recalls
a
hunt
in
1837
in
which
the
herd
of
“buffalo
is
very
large,
and

grazing
they
blacken
the
prairie
as
far
as
the
eye
can
reach.”16

Writing
in
1850,
he

states
“the
game
is
being
killed
more
and
more
every
year…
Twelve
years
ago
we

could
go
seventy‐five
miles
west
of
Dubuque,
Iowa
on
the
Mississippi,
for
game
of

every
kind
up
to
buffalo;
now,
I
travelled
last
summer
four
hundred
miles
west
of




10


the
above
mountains
towards
the
Missouri
river,
and
found
no
game
of
any
kind!”
17

The
exclamation
point
underscores
the
almost
unbelievable
nature
of
this
change
in

the
landscape
and
its
inhabitants.

The
prairie
once
blackened
by
buffalo
becomes

eerily
devoid
of
life,
as
“more
and
more
every
year”,
the
new
arrivals
on
the

continent
violate
the
foundational
truths
found
in
the
Midewiwin
charter.

The
Great

Spirit
provides
for
the
people
by
urging
them
toward
the
discipline
and
agency
that

prioritizes
the
wisdom
and
purpose
found
in
even
the
smallest
blade
of
grass.

Those

who
would
defy
this
straightforward
formula
will
only
come
to
know
loss,
disease,

and
distress.






The
dominant
culture’s
tendency
toward
the
shaming
and
ridicule
of
Indian
ways

particularly
focus
on
those
aspects
of
indigenous
culture
that
seem
most
alien
to
an

economy
based
on
the
exploitation
of
resources.

Esteem
for
elders,
dreams,
and

animals
were
targeted
as
childlike,
backwards,
and
superstitious
–
effectively

putting
these
values
at
odds
with
tribal
people’s
need
for
self‐advocacy
within
the

crucially
limited
public
sphere.

This
indicates,
more
or
less
consciously,
systemic

efforts
to
silence
those
intellectual
legacies
that
at
their
core
resist
the
exploitation

of
people
and
of
the
commons.

The
cultivation
of
mindful,
respectful
interactions

with
the
surrounding
ecosystem
figures
into
most,
if
not
all,
indigenous
traditions.


This
viewpoint
needs
unequivocal
support
and
reclamation
by
tribal
people,
who

have
potentially
transformative
legal
claims
to
certain
lands,
and
who
have
been

variously
divested
of
this
baseline
identification
with
the
land.

English
plays
a

complex
role
in
past
and
present
efforts
at
cultural
revitalization.

Indeed,
the

conqueror’s
language
is
both
at
the
root
of
cultural
loss
and
an
integral
means
of




11


revival.






That
we
have
been
divested
of
our
traditional
teachings
is
a
long
story
with

myriad
players.

Education
and
literacy
in
English
has
contributed
to
the
psychology

of
alienation
from
these
teachings,
while
also
becoming
the
language
through
which

statements
of
resistance
are
made.
I
intend
to
advocate
for
the
usefulness,
and

indeed
necessity,
of
traditional
values.

This
calls
for
synthesizing
three

characteristics:

1)
immediacy
of
observation
and
interaction
as
key
to
language
and

interpersonal
and
interspecies
relations,
2)
tensions
inherent
to
entering
a
written

public
sphere
that
encourages
the
forsaking
of
indigenous
identifications,
and
3)
the

demonstrated
ecological
efficacy
that
is
parcel
to
(and
lost
with)
the
maligned

traditions.

Motivated
by
my
sense
of
identity
as
a
Little
Traverse
Bay
Band
Odawa,

this
project
will
be
in
accord
with
the
Biskaabiiyang
approach
to
research.18
As

Wendy
Makoons
Geniusz
states
in
the
introduction
to
her
study
of
botanical

archives:
“Biskaabiiyang
approaches
to
research
begin
with
the
Anishinaabe

researcher,
who
must
look
at
his
or
her
own
life
and
how
he
or
she
has
been

personally
colonized
in
order
to
conduct
research
from
the
standpoint
of

anishinaabe‐inaadiziwin.”19

Rough
translation
of
the
term
inaadiziwin
is
provided

as
“anishinaabe
psychology,
way
of
being.”20






Many
current
scholars
of
Native
American
literatures
strive
to
demonstrate
how

the
available
archives,
inevitably
touched
by
the
hand
of
this
hemisphere's

experience
of
colonization,
are
nevertheless
useable
as
conduits
of
indigenous

knowledge
for
those
seeking
cultural
revitalization.

I
am
interested
in
what
it

means
to
have
an
Anishinaabek
point
of
view
in
both
past
and
present
spheres
of




12


literacy.

How
do
those
motivated
by
cultural
loyalty
and
advocacy
bring
the

philosophic
inheritance
of
language
and
stories
into
a
written
enterprise
that

asserts
its
own
particular
intellectual
alignments
and
cultural
hierarchies?
I

appreciate
the
conceptual
foundation
provided
by
Michael
Warner’s
work
in
the

public
sphere
as
both
the
arena
for
the
democratic
exchange
of
ideas,
and
the
non‐
place
where
core
patterns
of
inaccessibility
lurk.21








My
project
rests
primarily
on
the
works
of
19th
century
first‐language

Anishinaabek
writing
in
English,
with
a
mind
toward
traditional
stories
and

practices.

In
part,
I
seek
to
demonstrate
how
the
written
approach
of
select
19th

century
indigenous
authors
draws
from,
or
is
in
conflict
with,
the
techniques,
and

invested
beliefs,
characteristic
of
traditional
stories.

I
wish
to
consider
how

language
format
affects
and
typifies
ecological
relationships.

Interactions
among

humans
as
well
as
other
species
can
either
be
foundational
to
the
processes
of

narrative
guidance,
or
can
be
sacrificed
to
futile
calls
for
the
objective,
neutral

records
favored
by
officialdom
(i.e.
the
treaty‐makers).





Claims
to
the
validity
of
oral‐based
traditions
are
too
often
co‐opted
by
written

documents
inherently
removed
from
the
real‐time
relationships
that
ultimately

determine
the
stakes
of
survival.
Reckonings
of
truth
expose
basic
differences
in

priorities
‐
differences
that
find
expression
through
alternate
means
of

communication/communion.

On
the
one
hand
is
the
sanctioning
of
the
writ
‐
which

is
accessible
to
those
who
have
the
education
and
means
to
enter
into
a
literate

public
sphere
limited
not
only
socioeconomically
and
racially,
but
also

anthropocentrically.

On
the
other
hand
is
the
determining
power
of
the
observed
–




13


available
to
those
who
interact
with
their
surroundings
with
acquiescence
toward

their
utter
dependence
on
its
continuance.

Natural
law
cannot
be
broken,
but
it
can

be
flouted
without
the
proper
vigilance
that
can
reign
in
hubris.

If
the
English

language
was
born
through
conquest
and
the
processes
of
its
justification,
those

using
English
to
defy
the
consequences
of
conquest
must
work
against
its
power
to

decree
its
own
validity.

The
power
of
papers
(and,
now,
handheld
media
devices)

must
be
subverted,
the
snake
must
eat
its
own
tail,
if
the
ideology
of
distraction
that

relies
on
turning
away
from
the
earth
to
look
for
authority,
validity,
and
truth
in

Washington
or
Hollywood,
or
even
universities,
is
going
to
be
bested.






And
yet,
like
the
routinely
alarmed
nineteenth‐century
Anishinaabek
who
were

inspired
to
learn
and
write
in
English
in
order
to
literally
save
their
people
from
the

legislative
and
popular
pennings
of
their
doom,
here
I
am
writing
a
dissertation
at
a

university
in
order
to
advocate
for
the
traditional
values
their
foresight
partly

helped
preserve.


The
increasing
loss
and
distress
of
the
ongoing
ecological

devastation
is
related
to
Western
priorities
that
encourage
transgressions
against

the
earth,
animals,
and
spirits.

Transgressions
of
the
sort
detailed
in
indigenous

stories,
and
thereby
best
understood
in
relation
to
the
settings
and
themes
featured

as
critical
to
the
practical
responsiveness
of
the
narratives.

These
are
the
same

narratives
that
were
deemed
impediments
to
the
gaining
of
Engish
literacy
and

assimilation
into
the
American
way
of
life.








My
scholastic
means
are
tempered
by
a
long
history
that
equates
academic
rigor

with
the
sort
of
rationality
that
would
refuse
to
even
consider
the
viability
of
the

spirits,
let
alone
name
them
as
active
players.
Handling
the
tension
between
the




14


content
and
the
context
is
a
matter
of
making
tribal
loyalties
and
biases
transparent

and
useable
despite
the
authority
granted
to
academic
neutrality
and
emotional

remove.

Herein
lay
the
possibilities
of
the
Biiskabiiyang
approach,
wherein
the

motivations
of
the
speaker/author
are
inextricable
from
their
experience
of

indigenous
identification
and
colonial
resistance.

As
Jeanette
C.
Armstrong
phrases

the
matter:
“My
writing
in
English
is
a
continuous
battle
against
the
rigidity
in

English,
and
I
revel
in
the
discoveries
I
make
in
constructing
new
ways
to

circumvent
such
invasive
imperialism
upon
my
tongue.”22






Though
I’ve
always
known
myself
as
an
Indian,
it
would
not
be
until
my
young

womanhood
that
my
identity
as
an
Anishinaabek
became
of
deep
and
primary

importance.
Around
the
time
of
my
20th
birthday,
I
took
to
the
habit
of
spending

hours
each
day
in
the
company
of
a
small
pond
and
the
plants
and
animals

surrounding
it.

The
awareness
grew
that
I
was
just
another
living
thing
in

attendance,
no
greater
or
less,
but
able
to
be
accepted
as
part
of
the
scene.

This

realization
lent
me
a
profound
sense
of
humility,
as
well
as
gratitude
for
the

opportunity
to
simply
observe,
appreciate,
and
learn.

In
short,
I
became
acquainted

with
my
humanity
in
a
way
that
resonated
with
the
presence
of
the
turtles
sunning

themselves
on
logs,
the
great
blue
herons
preening,
and
the
crabs
emerging
from
the

mud.







Though
these
daily
meditations
indeed
fit
nicely
into
the
common
experience
of

youthful
idealism,
they
were
nevertheless
very
personal
and
formative,
and

provided
me
with
a
foundation
of
joy
and
loyalty
that
I
draw
upon
still.
I
took
these

feelings
into
libraries,
and
looked
to
learn
more
about
my
ancestor’s
traditions.
I




15


came
away
with
an
intuitive
sense
that
land
and
language
are
inextricably
bound.


This
thought
has
had
a
core
influence
on
my
analysis
of
literature
and
theory.

Independently
sought
knowledge
of
traditional
stories
and
practices
provides
a

frame
of
reference
keenly
suited
to
finding
the
blind
spots
in
the
philosophic

outlook
of
canonical
authors.

This
intellectual
base
supports
my
constant
analysis

of
how
land
(and
creature)
awareness
is
or
is
not
present
in
diverse
literatures.


I

hope
this
frame
of
reference
aligns
my
methodology
with
the
critical
need
expressed

by
Jace
Weaver
in
his
essay
“Splitting
the
Earth:
First
Utterances
and
Pluralist

Separatism.”

He
writes:

Just
as
Native
American
literature
by
definition
can
only
be
produced
by

Native
writers,
so
native
American
literary
criticism
(in
contrast
to
criticism

of
Native
American
literature)
must
be
in
the
hand
of
Native
critics
to
define

and
articulate,
from
resources
we
choose.

It
must
simply
be
a
criticism
of
our

own.

That,
it
seems
to
me,
is
the
essence
of
intellectual
sovereignty.

Mohawk

critic
Gerald
Taiaiake
Alfred
puts
the
matter
succinctly
when
he
notes
“Our

deference
to
other
people’s
solutions
has
taken
a
terrible
toll
on
indigenous

peoples.”
23






My
education
has
been
a
process
of
comparison,
between
the
many
European

works
I
have
encountered
as
an
English
scholar,
and
what
I
understand
to
be
the

core
intention
of
traditional
Anishinaabek
teachings:
the
cultivation
of
mindful,

respectful
interactions
with
the
surrounding
land
and
its
inhabitants.
I
am

motivated
as
an
academic
to
effectively
convey
the
Anishinaabek
perspective
in
its

full
complexity
and
insight
‐
to
liberate
the
indigenous
viewpoint
and
move
beyond




16


the
silencing
labels
of
cliché
and
naïveté.
It
did
not
take
me
long
to
realize
the

consistent
resistance
the
word
"traditional"
can
draw
from
vigilant
academics
ever

on
the
watch
for
essentialism.
Nevertheless,
I
use
it
as
the
term
that
most
readily

indicates
such
stories
that
evolved
from
pre‐contact
times
to
remind
both
young

and
old
how
the
familiar
plants,
places,
animals,
and
phenomena
daily
surrounding

them
contain
the
detailed
lessons
of
survival
and
morality.








I
know
all
too
well
the
accusations
of
purity
and
Romanticism
inspired
by
even

the
word
traditional,
let
alone
the
insistence
that
traditional
stories
and
lifeways

hold
valuable
lessons
beyond
haggling
over
terms.

I
am
fully
willing
to
answer
for

the
usefulness
of
the
designation,
if
only
for
my
certainty
that
other
Anishinaabek

will
know
exactly
what
I
mean
and
accept
the
distinction
as
a
relatively
succinct
way

to
reference
the
old
stories
and
patterns
of
life.

Research
and
writing
should
be

accessible
even
to
those
unable
to
decipher
the
specialized
jargon
of
academia.

My

ideal
audience
includes
anyone
interested
in
how
traditional
teachings
affect
the
use

of
English,
to
further
reveal
the
links
between
ecological
awareness
and

communicative
style.







For
tribal
people
determined
to
prove
themselves
and
their
traditions
alive
and

well,
it
is
necessary
to
figure
out
and
pick
back
up
what
was
left
behind.
Reverence

for
and
reliance
upon
ecological
interconnections
ought
not
be
dismissed
as
a

primitive
vestige
of
pre‐literacy
days,
or
as
pandering
to
stereotypes.

Rather,
the

earth
awareness
evidenced
by
the
traditions
allows
for
relationships
based
on

active
stewardship
and
humble
self‐restraint.
The
written
word
doesn’t
enable

connection
to
other
humans
in
the
same
way
face‐to‐face
contact
does.

At
the




17


cornerstone
of
the
Western
public
sphere,
the
written
can
also
dismally
limit
who

and
what
is
considered
a
player
in
the
ordering
and
balance
of
needs
that
determine

proper
actions
and
moral
codes.

Yet,
if
circumstances
dictate
that
appeals
for
justice

be
made
through
conduits
of
literacy
(be
that
book,
pamphlet,
internet,
or
tweet),

one
ought
do
so
with
full
awareness
of
the
limitations
and
inequities
parcel
to
these

formats.

In
addition
to
the
wealth
of
traditional
stories
available
in
the
archives,

understanding
what
early
indigenous
authors
left
out
of
their
writings
in
hopes
of

gaining
a
wider
audience
can
help
articulate
what
exactly
is
being
reaffirmed
when

one
identifies
as
indigenous,
and
advocates
for
the
revitalization
of
traditional

lifeways.






The
five
chapters
I
have
written
explore
interpersonal
communication
as
a
facet

of
spatial
awareness,
in
relation
to
which
the
written
public
sphere
is
a
necessary

but
flawed
replacement.

Because
this
is
itself
a
written
text,
I
must
rely
on
the

resonance
of
key
images
and
scenes
in
hopes
of
establishing
a
shared
context.

The

smoking
of
the
pipe,
for
example,
encompasses
the
immediacy
of
interaction
and

communal
intent
that
requires
the
actual
presence
of
people,
asemaa
(tobacco),
the

pipe
itself,
and
the
fire
and
breath
that
releases
the
visible
smoke
as
tangible
proof

of
spiritual
petitions
that
are
inseparable
from
decision‐making.

I
wish
to
place
the

burden
of
proof
a
bit
outside
the
academics
of
textual
validation,
and
look
to
the

sensory
story
of
formative
experiences
like
the
pipe,
the
gathering
of
birchbark,
the

long
journey
to
places
unknown,
the
laughter
and
movement
that
surrounds
the

telling
of
stories.

In
accord
with
how
I
understand
the
moral
training
parcel
to

traditional
stories
to
work,
I
insert
various
parts
and
wholes
of
what
I
find
to
be




18


tales
related
to
the
critical
task
at
hand.

However,
I
include
them
without
comment

in
order
to
allow
the
reader
his
or
her
own
freedom
of
interpretation.

This
seems
as

close
as
I
can
get
to
the
spirit
in
which
the
stories
were
shared,
as
the
diverse

audience
to
whom
they
were
traditionally
told
were
not
provided
with
a
summary

lesson
or
moral,
but
rather
expected
and
invited
to
discern
the
significance
in
accord

with
personal
understandings
and
abilities.








Most
of
the
authors
I
have
included
are
Anishinaabek,
though
other
tribal

people’s
voices
that
are
included
reflect
how
spatial
awareness
relates
to
the
scope

and
purposes
of
indigenous
narrative
expression.

In
chapters
one
and
two,
the

writings
of
Blackbird,
Copway,
and
Warren
establish
how
the
role
of
English
in
an

insider’s
game
of
influence
and
prestige
is
intertwined
with,
and
complicates,
the

urge
toward
tribal
self‐identification
and
representation.

Chapter
three
offers
an

analysis
of
a
particular
collection
of
stories
collected
by
Homer
Kidder,
a
white
man,

who
had
access
to
a
group
of
three
elders:
Charlotte
and
Charles
Kawbawgam,
and

Jacques
LePique.

The
interplay
between
the
closely‐held
beliefs
of
the
four
further

highlights
the
connection
between
living
relationships
and
narrative
purpose.

In

chapter
four,
I
approach
the
influence
the
American
Romantics
have
had
in
the

actual
and
written
lives
of
indigenous
people.

Emerson
and
Thoreau
are
considered

in
realation
to
the
documentation
of
their
tribal
contemporaries
whose
struggle
to

find
a
balance
between
tradition
and
modernity
is
touched
by
the
long
shadow
of

Romantic
fictions
of
the
shadowy,
authentic
Indian.

Finally,
in
chapter
five,
the

remarkable
insights
penned
by
Maungwudaus
offer
a
first‐hand
account
of
how

Anishinaabek
sensibilities
can
infuse
an
English
text
and
liberate
the
written
form




19


from
hierarchies
of
exploitation.

His
text
is
an
instrument
of
cultural
loyalty
tied
to

the
emotional,
psychological,
and
philosophic
experience
of
a
place
and
people.






For
19th
century
authors
and,
indeed,
for
those
juggling
such
spheres
today,
the

inherited
knowledge
of
stories
and
the
learned
knowledge
of
the
book
both
aver
to

larger
forces
that
simultaneously
provide
and
limit
the
reckoning
and

communication
of
truth.

The
narrative
arcs
of
traditional
stories,
and
the
word‐by‐
word
narrative
composing
the
language
of
their
original
conception,
are
created
by

lessons
gleaned
experientially
and
observationally
‐
grounded
in
the
immediate

surroundings
of
the
earth’s
complex
of
relationships.

I
would
argue
that
this

awareness
affects
the
dynamics
of
the
written
public
sphere,
to
reveal
how

indigenous
storytellers
and
authors
navigate
the
codes
and
expectations
of
the

publics
encountered.

19th
century
writers
provide
an
experiential
transition
point

between
traditional
stories
and
upbringings
and
the
work
of
contemporary
authors

and
scholars
seeking
to
articulate
and
validate
tribal
identifications.

The

determination
to
express
the
validity
of
tribal
priorities
to
a
potentially
unreceptive

or
judgmental
public
requires
a
keen
sort
of
virtuosity
‐
one
that
adheres
to
a

multifaceted
blueprint
for
survival.




20




Chapter
One.

Languishing
in
Their
Literacy:
Indigenous
Identity
and
the
Noble
White.








In
the
oral
tradition
of
the
Anishinaabek,
literacy
was
largely
a
matter
of

observable
associations
and
consequences,
characterized
by
the
situational

malleability
of
being
spoken
in
real‐time
in
an
intrinsically
illustrative
real
place.

The
Western
brand
of
literacy
required
transference
of
influence
from
the
spoken

word
into
the
seeming
stability
of
the
written.

The
switch
would
have
profound

consequences
in
the
reckoning
of
truth
and
authority.
Gaining
entrance
into

civilization
meant
casting
off
tradition
as
the
primitive,
superstitious
trappings
of

barbarism.







19th
century
Anishinaabek
authors
Andrew
Blackbird
(Mack‐e‐de‐pe‐nes‐sy)
and

George
Copway
(Kah‐ge‐ga‐gah‐bowh)
pursued
education
and
literacy
as
central
to

their
hopes
for
basic
survival.

The
need
to
influence
the
dominant
culture
inspired

political
arguments
and
literary
approaches
in
the
effort
to
be
"heard"
by
an

assumedly
influential
reading
public.
Their
experiences
in
the
written
public
sphere

reshaped
the
priorities
of
these
tribal
peoples,
resulting
in
a
confusion
of
loyalties

and
unsettled
identifications.
As
forebears
of
learned
textuality,
their
struggles,

convictions
and
disappointments
underscore
the
ambiguities
of
achieving
literacy
in

order
to
access
a
mostly
unseen
public.










21


Once upon a time Nanabushu was traveling about the inland.
By and by he came out upon a lake, and so there he saw
numerous Geese. Very keen was his desire to eat them.
Thereupon he said to them: “Look, my little brothers! Hither,
come here!” And although hitherward came the Geese, yet
not so very close did they come. And again he addressed
them, saying: “O my little brothers! Come hither, I want to
kiss you.” They were afraid to come close. At last up inland
went Nanabushu; some osiers he went to get. And when he
had put up a small wigwam, again he spoke to the Geese,
saying: “Come hither, let us play, we will dance!” At last he
persuaded the goslings. And so when they had gone inside of
the little wigwam, thereupon to them spoke Nanabushu,
saying “All shut your eyes when you dance.” And then he
sang:
“A dance with eyes closed to I bring (to you).
A dance with eyes closed do I bring (to you).
A dance with eyes closed do I bring (to you).
A dance with eyes closed do I bring (to you).”
Thereupon they really closed their eyes when they danced.
And when all had closed their eyes, he seized a Goose;
whereupon he broke her neck. 1








Education
was
sought
foremost
as
a
means
of
basic
physical
continuity,
whether

that
meant
remaining
on
ancestral
lands,
improving
quality
of
health
and
life,
or

replacing
traditional
means
of
sustenance.

The
sheer
magnitude
of
the
mortal

uncertainties
found
hopes
for
cultural
identity
and
continuity
more
subtly
advanced,

and
often
qualified
by
stating
the
superiority
of
white
refinements
in
civilization.


Indeed,
tribal
beliefs
and
values
were
typically
abandoned
as
barriers
to
the
aid
and

improvement
deemed
necessary
to
survival.

Examples
of
derogatory
language

aimed
at
traditional
Indians
and
teachings
abound
in
both
author’s
works,

complicating
the
equally
frequent
explanations
of
tribal
understandings
and




22


practices.







A
key
instance
of
this
occurs
early
on
in
The
Life
of
Kah­ge­ga­gah­bowh.
A

Canadian
Ojibwe,

Copway
recounts
his
childhood
days
at
Rice
Lake
that
saw
him

“out
early
and
late
in
quest
of
the
favors
of
the
Mon‐e‐doos
(spirits,)
who,
it
was

said,
were
numerous
–
who
filled
the
air!”2

The
exclamation
point
perhaps
serves

to
second
the
assumedly
scandalized
incredulity
of
his
implied
Christian
reader.


Yet,
his
previous
understanding
of
the
active
spiritual
presence
infiltrating
the

whole
of
his
surroundings
offers
a
key
element
of
Anishinaabek
philosophy,
lending

perhaps
unintended
depth
and
usefulness
to
his
narrative.


Indeed,
the
presence
of

the
Mon‐e‐doos
suggests
the
richness
of
the
surroundings
that
Copway’s
childhood

memories
are
set
against.








It
seems
unlikely
that
the
Mon‐e‐doos
would
inhabit
the
decimated
forests

created
by
the
lumber
barons.

In
terms
of
biodiversity,
one
can
imagine
that
air

filled
with
spirits
was
equally
filled
with
the
birds
so
often
considered
emissaries

and
agents
of
the
spirits.

Understanding
the
great
flocks
as
sources
of
food,

fertilizer,
and
the
means
of
sowing
partially
digested
seeds
all
underscore
the
deep

practicality
of
the
worldview
that
Copway
is
prepared
to
distance
himself
from
as

fancy.
Gaining
the
favor
Mon‐e‐doos
at
the
very
least
involved
a
close
familiarity

with
the
places
they
occupied,
which
according
to
Copway
was
everywhere,
and

ostensibly
at
any
time.

In
Ojibway
Heritage,
Basil
Johnston
makes
the
point
that

“There
is
in
animals
a
unique
capacity
to
sense
the
changes
of
the
world,
the

alteration
of
seasons,
and
the
coming
state
of
things.

Man
does
not
have
the

preknowledge
possessed
by
bluebird,
or
trout,
or
squirrel.

For
man
to
prepare,
he




23


looked
to
his
elder
brothers”
3


As
a
recipe
for
educating
one
to
the
diversity
of
his

surroundings,
and
thereby
the
cycles
and
possibilities
of
sustenance,
the
childhood

Copway
describes
is
unmatched
in
its
knowledge
of
ecological
relationships.

The

spiritual
beliefs
of
the
Anishinaabek
cannot
be
understood
separately
from
the

settings
in
which
they
flourished.



Now, once again was Nanabushu traveling along, when he
then saw some more geese that were in a lake. Thereupon he
spoke to them, saying: “Pray, do you make me look the same
as you.” A long while was he coaxing them. At last, “All
right,” he was told. Accordingly by each one was he given a
feather. And when the number of feathers was enough (to
cover him), then truly like a goose was the look of
Nanabushu. Up he also flew when he went about in company
with the geese. And when it as getting well on towards the
fall, “Therefore now is the time for us to be going away,” he
was told. Thereupon they rose on the wing, as on their way
southward they went, (and) they sang:
“By way of the mountain-ranges do I fly along through
the sky,
By way of the mountain-ranges do I fly along through
the sky,
By way of the mountain-ranges do I fly along through
the sky.”
And then he was told: “Do not look everywhere, but straight
toward the way we are bound do you look. For not far away
do some people dwell in a town who shall be in the way of our
course. Do not for any reason look. Everywhere will be
heard the voices of the people shouting. Do not look at them.”
When they came to where the people lived in a town, already
were the geese seen flying past. “Hey! Just look at the geese!
Truly big is one of the geese!” All sorts of noise did the people
make. At last did Nanabushu look, whereupon he was
accidentally hit on the wing, broken was his wing; and then
down fell Nanabushu.



24


“Hey! One of the geese is falling!” They went after it, they
chased it hither and thither to capture it. And when he was
on the point of being brought to bay, he thereupon rose to his
feet. “Wi’i’i’i’, that was what Nanabushu made himself look
like!” And so they laughed heartily at Nanabushu. 4








Copway’s
determination
to
insert
himself
into
the
belief
systems
of
his
ideal

audience
tints
the
story
of
his
youth
with
an
embarrassment
that
reveals
the
most

obvious
points
of
his
cultural
irreconcilability.

Referring
to
ritual
practices
of
music

and
movement,
he
states:


In
the
days
of
our
ignorance
we
used
to
dance
around
the
fire.

I
shudder

when
I
think
of
those
days
of
our
darkness.

I
though
the
Spirit
would
be
kind

to
me
if
I
danced
before
the
old
men;
and
day
after
day,
or
night
after
night,
I

have
been
employed
with
others
in
this
way.

I
thank
God
that
those
days
will

never
return.
5

Copway
ironically
thanks
God
for
the
loss
of
a
key
cultural
practice
of
unity
and

esteem,
though
one
of
his
stated
intentions
is
“to
devise
some
plan
by
which
we
can

live
together,
and
become
a
happy
people,
so
that
our
dying
fires
may
not
go
out

[our
nation
may
not
become
extinct,]
but
may
be
kindled
in
one
place,
which
will

prove
a
blessing
to
our
children.”6









The
systemic
outlawing
in
1934
of
ritualized
singing
and
dancing
as
perpetuators

of
paganism
and
barriers
to
assimilation
also
happened
to
demoralize
the
spiritually

bereft
nations.

Where
the
tribes
remained
in
any
number
(despite
the
shattering

effects
of
the
Dawes
and
Homestead
Acts,)
such
policies
were
meant
to
assure
that

they
existed
in
body
alone,
denied
access
to
the
means
of
a
unified
indigenous




25


identity.

In
Native
American
Tribalism,
D’arcy
McNickle
provides
the
commentary
of

an
“agent
to
one
of
the
Sioux
tribes
(who)
expressed
the
opinion
that
‘as
long
as

Indians
live
in
villages
they
will
retain
many
of
their
old
and
injurious
habits.


Frequent
feasts,
heathen
ceremonies
and
dances,
constant
visiting
–
these
will

continue
as
long
as
people
live
together
in
close
neighborhoods
and
villages.

I
trust

that
before
another
year
is
ended
they
will
generally
be
located
upon
individual
land

or
farms.

From
that
date
will
begin
their
real
and
permanent
progress.’”
7






Basic
physical
presence
is
intrinsic
to
cultural
identity.

The
community‐building

practices
of
dances,
feasts,
and
visiting
cannot
as
readily
occur
among
populations

separated
by
the
individuating
implications
of
private
property.

As
literate

Anishinaabek,
Copway
and
Blackbird
embraced
education
as
a
remedy
to
the

seeming
futility
of
their
ostensibly
doomed
traditional
upbringings.
Yet
their

attempts
to
actively
engage
the
world
were
arguably
as,
if
not
more,
beholden
in

intent
and
style
to
tribal
philosophy
than
Western
authority.
Copway’s
desire
to
see

his
people
happy
with
their
fires
“kindled
in
one
place”
is
distinctly
at
odds
with
the

vision
of
progress
advanced
by
the
Sioux
agent.

Only
by
“living
together”
can
the

children
be
blessed.

In
other
words,
real
place
and
real
time
interactions
are

necessary
to
the
healthy
continuity
of
the
generations,
both
physically
and

psychologically.

As
is
reflected
in
myriad
stories,
right
action
is
determined
by

observable
phenomena.

Though
his
purposes
lead
him
to
disavow
the
dancing
he

used
to
partake
in,
Copway
retains
enough
of
his
tribal
alignments
to
advocate
for

the
close
communities
that
arise
alongside
the
shared
fireside.








26


Thereupon he abode with them. Now they killed fish there
where they were spending the autumn. In the course of time
(the lake) was frozen over, so thereupon there they spent the
winter. Now they had some children. As tie went on, they at
up (all) their fish. Thereupon this was what (Nanabushu)
said to them with whom he lived: “Now, therefore, we will eat
your fishes first; and then afterwards, when they are gone,
then our fish will we eat.”
And so truly that was what they did. Now, it was true that
they ate the fish of the others. In course of time they at up
(all) the fish. And so after they had eaten up the fish of his
companions, they that were on the opposite side of the (lodge)
fire, then gone were all the fish of the other; thereupon he
became angry at them, and so moved away. Not far away
he made his camp, and so of course thither he took his own
fish. So thereby hungry became the others whose fish he had
eaten up. Now, as for the man (whose fish had been eaten
up), he kept his children alive by means of sweet-brier berries.
So once when home came the man, “Now, I fear that we shall
starve,” he said to his wife.
“I fear so,” he was told. 8








The
norms
of
print
culture
insinuate
an
alien
distance
between
observation

(seeing
and
understanding)
and
declaration
(speaking
and
being
understood).

The

difference
is
conceived
of
and
responded
to
in
a
variety
of
ways
by
the

Anishinaabek.

In
the
early
1890s,
elder
Charles
Kawbawgam
of
Sault
Ste.
Marie

remarked:
“If
the
Indian
had
been
as
wise
as
the
Chinese
or
the
French
or
the

Germans,
our
people
would
have
made
books
so
that
we
should
remember
what

happened
in
ancient
times.

But
all
that
the
Indian
knows
is
that
there
is
a
creator

above,
who
made
the
world
with
everything
in
it
and
gave
the
Indian
a
heart
to

know
the
Great
Spirit”9.

In
Kawbawgam’s
reckoning,
there
is
a
distinction
between





27


the
wisdom
evidenced
through
books
and
the
knowing
acquired
through
the
heart.


Let
us
understand
the
“heart”
in
terms
of
fidelity
toward
the
Great
Spirit,
sustained

by
constant
contact
with
the
works
of
the
“creator
above”.
If
one
understands
the

indigenous
language
as
an
articulation
of
specifically
rendered,
sharable

observations
of
the
creator’s
works,
the
advent
of
written
English
replaces
the

immediacy
of
the
communicative
act
with
a
template
potentially
unrelated
to
the

place
or
people
effected
by
the
consequences
of
the
utterance.








There
is
a
key
difference
of
accountability
here,
as
the
measures
of
validity
are
on

the
one
hand
largely
dependent
on
social
cues
and
shared
experience,
and
on
the

other
hand
favor
codes
of
authority
developed
by
people
in
situations
far
removed

from
the
life
of
the
commons.

For
early
authors
like
Blackbird
and
Copway,
the

foray
into
letters
would
mostly
end
in
disappointment.

In
large
part,
this
is

testament
to
the
difficulty
of
reconciling
the
desire
for
empathetic
communion
with

a
written
model
whose
biased
codes
of
validity
afford
no
certainty
of
a
hearing.








Further,
and
particularly
for
Copway,
the
self‐promotion
required
by
an
often

fickle
public
sphere
of
changeable
tastes
insinuates
a
shift
in
focus
from
the

communal
to
the
individual,
a
prioritizing
that
is
quite
alien
to
traditional
tribal

polities.

Seemingly
firm
moral
motivations
behind
a
given
message
become

susceptible
to
codes
of
transmission
beholden
to
hierarchies
of
representation.

The

danger
of
this
is
being
left
bereft
of
concrete
tribal
relationships
once
public
notice

moves
on
to
the
next
exotic
subject
of
interest
willing
to
bend
to
and
perpetuate
the

commerce
of
worth.

As
Henry
Louis
Gates
suggests,
“literacy…could
be
the
most

pervasive
emblem
of
capitalist
commodity
functions.”10

Limiting
access
to
literacy




28


assigns
contradictory
functions:
to
measure
the
democracy
of
reason
and
also
stand

emblematic
of
white
exceptionalism.

For
the
newly
literate,
these
ingrained
barriers

of
access
amount
to
what
Gates
called
the
“trap”
of
intellectual
indenture
to
White

measures
of
validity.11







Their
expectations
and
experiences
of
literacy
lead
Copway
and
Blackbird
to
exalt

the
idea
of
the
American
public,
only
to
languish
in
the
limitations
of
access
and

esteem
afforded
to
them
as
representatives
of
that
same
public’s
limited
conception

of
their
people.

I
wish
to
consider
these
dynamics
in
relation
to
any
remaining

evidence
of
traditional
alignments
in
order
to
place
these
early
authors
in
the

ongoing
effort
to
assert
tribal
identity
and
autonomy.






Though
the
Waganakising
Odawa
(also
known
as
the
Little
Traverse
Bay
Bands
of

Odawa)
had
interacted
with
the
French
and
the
British
for
well
over
two
hundred

years
of
commerce
and
military
campaigns,
the
arrival
of
the
Americans
following

victories
in
the
War
of
1812
proved
particularly
challenging
to
the
retention
of

cultural
autonomy.

The
Odawa
underwent
long
migrations
in
congruence
with
their

central
role
in
the
French
fur
trade,
traded
for
European
goods
with
major
military

posts
in
need
of
the
sustenance
of
indigenous
gardens
and
harvests,
fought
in

numerous
campaigns
for
both
the
French
and
the
British,
and
were
generally
in
the

thick
of
the
European
presence
within
the
Great
Lakes
region.

In
short,
there
was

already
considerable
cultural
influence
before
the
Americans
ever
arrived
in
the

region
of
the
Waganakising's
primary
village,
already
3000
strong
by
the
mid
18th

century.12













Yet,
the
Odawa
had
in
large
part
kept
to
their
established
seasonal
cycle,




29


following
the
patterns
of
the
fish,
maple
trees,
and
corn
as
they
moved
throughout

their
industrial
year.
Because
it
would
not
be
until
the
1870s
that
the
lumber

companies
began
felling
the
ancient
trees
of
northern
Michigan
in
earnest,
the
lands

surrounding
Little
Traverse
Bay
in
northwest
Michigan
were
still
heavily
forested
in

the
autumn
of
1835,
when
the
boy
Andrew
Blackbird
and
a
"little
chum"
climbed
to

the
top
of
a
notable
“very
large
double
cedar
tree”
to
observe
the
departure
of
their

"people
as
they
were
about
going
off
in
a
long
bark
canoe."13

Their
boyish
climb

and
commanding
view
are
both
made
possible
by
the
forest
that
also
served
as
the

means
of
the
journey
being
undertaken.








The
canoe
was
undoubtedly
fashioned
from
wiigwaas,
birchbark,
one
of
the
single

most
important
components
of
the
Odawa's
livelihood.
The
boys
watching
the
men

would
be
fully
cognizant
of
the
import
of
the
wiigwaas,
it
being,
with
cedar,
one
of

the
two
trees
that
the
botanical
expert,
Ojibwe
medicine
woman,
and
university

professor
Keewadinoquay
taught
as
being
able
to
“provide
for
you
everything
that

you
need
for
survival.”14
Perhaps
they
were
even
witness
or
party
to
the
gathering

of
the
bark,
of
which
Francis
Densmore
wrote:
“In
old
times
the
procuring
of
birch

and
cedar
bark
was
an
event
in
which
all
participated.”15








Taken
as
a
snapshot,
then,
the
imagery
of
the
scene
is
composed
of
elements
long

familiar
to
a
woodlands
people
shaped
by
the
careful
harvest
of
the
surrounding

lands.

Indeed,
the
composition
of
the
scene
approaches
the
idyllic.

There
is
suitable

resonance
for
those
seeking
accounts
of
savage
life
in
its
satisfyingly
picturesque

nobility,
and
also
for
those
seeking
evidence
of
Blackbird's
reliance
on
the
clichés
of

the
dominant
culture
he
is
courting
entrance
to
through
his
literacy.

However,
the




30


fuller
context
does
not
end
with
either
of
these
takes.
The
Odawa
children
and
the

adults
they
observe
are
in
the
midst
of
deep
changes
to
the
knowledge
and
activities

guiding
all
aspects
of
survival.

The
reader
finds
a
different
relationship
to
land
at

the
forefront
of
this
particular
gathering
of
the
peoples,
as
the
birchbark
canoe
is

being
boarded
for
the
purpose
of
"going
to
Washington
to
see
the
Great
Father,
the

President
of
the
United
States,
to
tell
him
to
have
mercy
on
the
Ottawa
and

Chippewa
in
Michigan,
not
to
take
all
the
land
away
from
them."16






To
"take
all
the
land
away"
is
quite
simply
the
merciless
equivalent
of
taking
all.


Taking
the
basis
of
physical
survival,
of
stories,
of
custom,
of
moral
upbringing,
of

aesthetic
pleasure,
of
a
people's
refined
reckoning
of
life's
spiritual
purpose
and

meaning.

Of
this
childhood
era,
Blackbird
asserts
that
"Then
I
never
knew
my

people
to
want
for
anything
to
eat
or
to
wear,
as
we
always
had
plenty
of
wild
meat

and
plenty
of
fish,
corn,
vegetables,
and
wild
fruits.

I
thought
(and
yet
I
may
be

mistaken)
that
my
people
were
very
happy
in
those
days,
at
least
I
was
as
happy

myself
as
a
lark,
or
as
the
brown
thrush
that
sat
daily
upon
the
uppermost
branches

of
the
stubby
growth
of
a
basswood
tree
which
stood
near
by
upon
the
hill
where
we

often
played
under
its
shade..."17

Such
musing
is
not
merely
in
service
to
the

picturesque
litanies
popular
with
a
white
reading
audience:
it
is
a
tally
of
loss

decisively
rendered
in
the
past
tense
of
the
threatened
lifeways
that
motivate
his

written
voice.



After he went ashore, he then left behind all of his
equipments. After he had gone up from the shore, he then



31


truly went walking along. In truth, he was observed by the
Bluejay; as soon as he was seen, the Bluejay was heard calling
out. After he had offered it the oak acorn, it therefore ceased
its cries.
Now again came the other running. “Hist! What is the
matter with you?” he said to the Bluejay.
And this said the Bluejay: “He took from me the oak acorn.”
The Bluejay was told by the other: “Why is he not himself able
to procure the oak acorns?”18







Shaped
by
an
eminently
practical
culture
reliant
on
keen
observation,
the

people's
response
to
the
land
grab
is
one
of
strained
hope
and
conviction
in
the

power
of
earnestly
sought
council.

Literally
surrounded
by
and
traveling
within
the

measure
of
their
utter
reliance
on
the
bounty
of
the
land,
their
journey

acknowledges
the
requirements
of
a
wholly
different,
yet
clearly
decisive,
reckoning

of
its
value.

The
Americans
arrived
with
an
intrinsically
different
measure
of
the

connections
between
life
and
land.

Here
was
the
commodification
of
worth,
that

counts
land
as
property
to
be
parceled
out,
developed,
treated
and
taken
by
virtue
of

powers
and
papers
seated
in
places
far
away.








D’arcy
McNickle
states
the
consequences
of
these
contrasting
views
as
“the

misfortune
of
the
New
World
inhabitants
to
have
been
‘discovered’
at
a
time
when

the
major
European
nations
were
devising
the
strategies
of
colonialism
and
building

the
industrial
machine
that
made
colonial
exploitation
profitable.

The
competition

for
raw
materials
which
characterized
and
indeed
motivated
industrial
growth

allowed
o
latitude
for
concessions
to
humane
principles.

Any
political
power
that

was
not
prepared
to
override
scruple
where
native
people
were
concerned
might





32


find
itself
out
of
the
race
for
pre‐eminence
in
the
market.”19

The
Odawa
travel
into

an
uncertainty
of
locales
and
customs,
the
former
requiring
the
skill
and
courage
to

navigate
extensive
waters,
the
latter
demanding
they
cross
over
into
a
world
where

the
flimsiest
of
papers
can
take
the
very
land
from
out
beneath
their
feet.









And
so
with
his
"little
chum",
still
himself
the
boy
he
refers
to
as
"brought
up
in

pure
Indian
style",
Blackbird
"saw
some
of
our
old
Indian
women
weeping
as
they

watched
our
principal
men
going
off
in
a
canoe.

I
suppose
they
were
feeling
bad
on

account
of
not
knowing
their
future
destinies
respecting
their
possession
of
the

land."20


Because
it
is
a
written
account
after
the
tradition
of
the
English
education

Blackbird
received,
he
could
be
accused
of
lending
some
sentimental
pathos
to
his

crafting
of
the
scene.

But
more
important
is
the
awareness
that
these
elders
were

indeed
mourning
a
departure
into
realms
unknown,
bound
to
the
vicissitudes
of

forces
unseen
and
potentially
unrelatable.

Certainly,
for
the
old
women,
whatever

was
to
come
would
be
accounted
for
in
ways
unreadable.







This
particular
scene
from
Andrew
Blackbird's
youth
underscores
the
political

motivations
of
his
1887
publication
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of

Michigan;
Grammar
of
Their
Language,
and
Personal
and
Family
history
of
the

Author.

To
somewhat
grossly
simplify
matters,
if
the
French
wanted
them
for
their

fur
trade
and
the
British
wanted
them
for
their
might
in
arms,
the
Americans

wanted
the
land,
and
them
out
of
the
way.

It
did
not
take
long
for
the
Anishinaabek

to
realize
the
need
was
now
for
political
interaction,
to
which
the
principal
men's

departure
to
Washington
testifies.

The
journey
also
attests
to
a
recurrent
tendency

of
Anishinaabek
advocates
to
seek
out
face‐to‐face
contact
with
those
in
positions
of




33


power.





And this to her said Nanabushu: “how could it possibly be
that I should be the only (child)? You must be hiding it from
me,” he said to his grandmother. And this now he said: “Why
do you behave in such a way that you should keep form me
that which has happened to us? In spite of all that, not am I
ignorant of what has happened to us.. In existence somewhere
I am sure are my brothers. Please do convey to me the
knowledge of what happened to us.”
Thereupon frightened became the old woman. So this she said
to her grandson: “Well, I will tell you about it. Of a truth
were you not alone at the time when you (and they) were
born. As true as I speak, this was what happened to you (and
them): you (and they) killed your mother at the tie when you
(and they) were born. Verily, had I not carried our the
purpose of my mind, I could never have reared you.”
And this he said to his grandmother: “Oh, so that was the sort
of thing that happened to me when I was born! Why, it was
not I who killed my mother.” Whereupon he there made up
his mind (what to do). “Therefore will I go see them,” he
thought, “those brothers of mine.” Accordingly, then was the
time he said to his grandmother; “Therefore will I go to see
him who made me an orphan.”
“Don’t!” in vain was he told by his grandmother. “what is the
reason of your undertaking that you should go and seek for
him?”
“Nay,” he said to her, “rather am I determined to do it.” So
thereupon he then set to work making some arrows.21 








The
penchant
toward
face‐to‐face
communication
is
a
simple
yet
key
aspect
of
the

interpersonal
dynamics
indigenous
people
brought
into
the
distinctly
literate
public

sphere
of
American
politics.
Education
was
purposely
sought
after
as
a
means
of

gaining
entrance
into
the
political
arena
where
critical
decisions
were
being
made




34


and
writ.

This
motivation
is
in
tension
with
the
difficulties
engendered
by
the
push

for
assimilation.

As
a
key
force
for
assimilation,
English
education
included
the

destabilization
of
family
and
community
connections,
alongside
the
struggle
for
self‐
identification
and
pride
within
systems
of
knowledge
dismissing,
demonizing,
and

ridiculing
indigenous
practices.











19th
century
indigenous
writers
almost
without
exception
gained
education

through
efforts
at
religious
conversion
and
blatantly
assimilatory
educational
goals

that
seem
specifically
tailored
to
the
expunction
of
anything
remotely
resembling

current
notions
of
tribal
nationalism.

Men
like
George
Copway
and
Andrew

Blackbird
may
at
first
glance
seem
wholly
aligned
with
the
underlying
hierarchies
of

such
projects
‐
as
clearly
having
internalized
stereotyped
white
views
of
Indians.



As
Copway
effusively
declares
in
his
classic
1850
publication
The
Traditional
History

and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation:
"Education
and
Christianity
are
to

the
Indian
what
wings
are
to
the
eagle;
they
elevate
him;
and
these
given
to
him
by

men
of
right
views
of
existence
enable
him
to
rise
above
the
soil
of
degradation,
and

hover
about
the
high
mounts
of
wisdom
and
truth."22

The
imagery
of
the
eagle
even

then
was
a
clichéd
referent,
and
Copway's
style
attests
to
his
admiration
of
the

sentimental
turn
of
phrase.







Yet,
looked
at
through
a
lens
that
privileges
Anishinaabek
rather
than
Western

influences,
it
becomes
apparent
how
consistently
efforts
to
master
"new"
expressive

modes
are
shaped
by
political
purpose.

Further,
there
is
the
shadow
story
of
how

increased
reliance
on
the
written
as
the
means
to
political
advocacy
displaced
the

Anishinaabek's
tendency
to
settle
matters
of
import
through
prolonged
councils
of




35


gathered
interests.

Scenes
of
indigenous
orators
speaking
under
the
offices
of
the

pipe
were
more
than
fodder
for
popular
fiction,
but
the
customary
manner
of

assuring
the
group's
intentions
focused
on
truth
and
a
full
hearing.

As
noted
in
Gah­
Baeh­Jhagwah­Buk:
The
Way
it
Happened,
a
1992
publication
by
the
LTBB
Odawa,

“The
Ogemuk
negotiated
settlements
to
disputes
and
held
councils
in
which
all

villagers
spoke
their
opinions.

Important
councils…could
take
days
of
oratory
and

skilled
listening
to
win
a
consensus
of
followers.”23

Compare
this
to
the
American

style
of
governance
favoring
the
representation
of
interests,
where
results
are
made

part
of
official
records
that
may
be
read
but
are
distinctly
difficult
to
challenge
or

change.

Blackbird
succinctly
describes
the
unfortunate
results
of
the
contrast
when

he
states
that
the
"Indian's
oath
and
evidence
are
not
regarded
in
this
country,
and

he
stands
a
very
poor
chance
before
the
law.

Although
they
are
citizens
of
the
State,

they
are
continually
being
taken
advantage
of
by
the
attourneys
of
the
land;
they
are

continually
being
robbed
and
cheated
out
of
their
property,
and
they
can
obtain
no

protection
or
redress
whatever."24







There
is
significant
tension
in
the
need
to
advocate
politically
though
untrusting

or
uncertain
of
one’s
audience.

If
gaining
sympathy
and
advocacy
is
the
goal,
the

vehicle
of
written
English
has
crucial
limitations
regarding
who
speaks,
who
listens,

and
to
what
end.
In
Letters
of
the
Republic,
Michael
Warner
outlines
the
process
and

significance
of
how
18th‐century
print
culture
established
the
authority
of
the

written,
as
sanctioned
by
its
own
vested
worth,
and
apart
from
actual
public

discourse.
In
this
scenario,
the
mystique
of
letters
not
only
disempowers
the





36


illiterate,
but
also
the
literate
who
cannot
count
on
their
lived
experience
to

supersede
the
authority
accorded
to
the
written.

Warner
offers
the
Constitution
as

an
example
of
how
the
“legitimation
of
the
document
itself”
renders
the
“oral

setting…henceforth
secondary.”25

As
seen
in
tribal
people’s
transition
from
council

fire
to
penned
plea,
the
written
word
trumps
human
interchange.

Warner
goes
on

to
provide
his
canny
take
on
the
consequences
of
this
displacement,
wherein
the

Constitution
comes
to
exist
as
a
“written
text
ceaselessly
representing
a
voiceless

people.”26

That
a
document
can
effectively
take
the
place
of
or
silence
dissent
bodes

ill
for
those
who
not
only
lack
representation,
but
whose
needs
are
undermined
by

the
pennings
of
officialdom.









Glaring
example
of
this
is
apparent
in
the
stacks
of
treaties
that
promised
little,

delivered
less,
and
relied
on
vested
authority
while
trying
to
take
all.

Warner

understands
the
19th‐century
as
the
period
when
“a
nationalist
imaginary
and
a

liberal
ideology
of
literature
arose
together,
because
both
divorced
the
public
value

of
printed
commodities
from
the
public
discourse.”27

Real‐time
and
real‐place

voices
are
silenced
by
the
vested
authority
of
written
representation,
and

subordinate
in
the
determination
of
what
specifically
is
American.

It
is
a
recipe
for

reflexive
catchphrases
meant
to
encapsulate
and
validate
an
ideal
America.
Such

rhetoric
was
primed
to
bolster
ongoing
attempts
to
neutralize
the
Indian
Problem

and
thus
gain
the
land.








Two
illustrative
words:
Manifest
Destiny.

America’s
nationalist
imaginary

became
intrinsically
tied
to
the
dual
heroics
and
philanthropy
that
described
the




37


spread
of
civilization.
If
the
written
possesses
a
particular
validity
because
it
is

written,
it
thus
little
requires,
and
is
resistant
to,
alternate
measures
of
veracity.


Indigenous
advocates
and
authors
would
find
themselves
entering
a
realm
where

the
normalized
reification
of
documents
is
in
distinct
conflict
with
direct

interpersonal
exchange.

Americanization
through
education
hinged
on
the
teaching

of
English
literacy.28
Warner’s
work
shows
how
the
instilled
ideologies
effectively

displaced
conversation
with
commodity
–
the
power
of
papers
in
hand.






Copway
makes
crucial
distinctions
concerning
the
value
of
Indian
education,

distinctions
that
hinge
on
the
dynamics
of
interpersonal
exchange.
Situated
human

relationships
fatally
complicate
hopeful
visions
of
literacy’s
boon.
He
insists
that

English
education
must
be
conducted
by
"men
of
right
views
of
existence"
who

themselves
are
not
mired
in
"degradation".

Indeed,
much
of
his
text
credits
Indian

degradation
to
the
influence
of
those
unsuited
to
his
role‐reversing
vision
of
a
noble

white
"society
of
the
good,
religious,
and
refined."29

An
ideal
society
that
falls

neatly
in
line
with
such
values
as
are
espoused
in
the
Constitution,
one
might
add.


Jurgen
Habermas
contends
that
publicity
is
commonly
understood
in
terms
of
“the

public
as
carrier
of
public
opinion”
with
a
“function
as
a
critical
judge.”30
In
The

Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere
he
describes
how
the
notion
of
the

judicious,
influential
ideal
public
is
unfeasible
in
light
of
the
“collapse
of
the
public

sphere”
in
a
classical
Greek
sense,
and
yet
still
holds
a
“peculiarly
normative
power”

as
a
central
ideology
shaping
“intellectual
history.”
31







This
can
be
taken
to
mean
that
the
influential
public
Copway
and
Blackbird
seek





38


to
influence
exists
only
in
the
abstract,
a
“noble
white”
society
that
provides
a

national
imaginary
keenly
suited
to
alternately
ignoring
or
validating
less
savory

realities
such
as
slavery
and
the
Indian
Wars.

Despite
the
complications
of
a

fictitious
public
that
places
what
Habermas
called
“a
final
veil
over
the
difference

between
reality
and
illusion”,
people
with
real
problems
must
nevertheless
try
to

gain
an
honest
hearing
for
their
dissent.32
Thus,
in
spite
of
his
seeming
pandering
to

"Friends,
Christians...
(whose)
love
for
mankind
has
penetrated
the
forests,
and
is

to‐day
shedding
its
holy
influence
on
many
a
happy
group
assembled
around
a

birchen
fire",
Copway
cannot
be
dismissed
as
mere
assimilated
mouthpiece
for
the

dominant
culture;
he
is
far
too
aware
and
critical
of
social
and
political
realities
for

such
a
simplified
view.33







Alongside
(and
in
the
subject
matter
and
motivation
behind
his
writing,

overtaking)
his
romantic,
indeed
fictive,
vision
of
noble
whites
are
the
woes
of

Indian
encounters
with
"the
worst
classes
of
pale
faces":


They
soon
adopt
their
foolish
ways
and
their
vices,
and
their
minds
being

thus
poisoned
and
pre‐occupied,
the
morality
and
education
which
the
better

classes
would
teach
them
are
forestalled.

This
is
not
to
be
wondered
at
when

it
is
generally
known
that
the
frontier
settlers
are
made
up
of
wild,

adventurous
spirits,
willing
to
raise
themselves
by
the
downfall
of
the
Indian

race.

These
are
traders,
spirit‐sellers,
horse
thieves,
counterfeiters,
and

scape‐gallowses,
who
neither
fear
God
nor
regard
the
laws
of
man.

When
the

Indians
come
in
contact
with
such
men,
as
representatives
of
the
American

people,
what
else
could
be
expected
of
them?

It
is
not
strange,
that,
seeing
as




39


he
does
the
gross
immorality
of
the
whites
whom
he
meets,
and
the
struggle

between
the
pale
face
for
wrong
and
the
red
man
for
right,
which
begins

when
they
first
meet,
and
ends
not
until
one
dies,
that
he
refuses
to
follow

the
footsteps
of
the
white
man
in
the
attainment
of
science.34




It
is
important
not
to
read
this
passage
as
a
simple
blame
game,
so
much
as
the

unfortunate
reality
he
undertakes
to
redress.

Face‐to‐face
contact
of
this
sort

undermines
the
prospect
of
literacy
as
a
saving
voice
for
the
people,
and
highlights

how
interpersonal
realities
determine
the
actual
dimensions
of
social
advocacy.



Copway’s
high‐minded
appeals
to
sympathetic
masses
of
literate
whites
are

frustrated
by
the
reality
of
the
less
vaulted
populations
that
have
the
most
influence

on
tribal
circumstances.








Nevertheless,
Copway
is
determined
to
use
his
education
to
somehow
present
the

real
story
in
a
way
that
will
satisfy
what
he
believes
are
the
refined
literary
tastes
of

his
ideal
audience.

He
must
take
a
politically
proactive
position
that
refuses

victimization
but
demands
recognition
of
wrongs
and
subsequent
justice.

Current

critic
Sean
Kicummah
Teuton,
in
his
2008
book
Red
Land,
Red
Power:
Grounding

Knowledge
in
the
American
Indian
Novel,
speaks
of
himself
and
fellow
Indian

scholars
as
"those
challenged
to
test
and
defend
our
ideas
not
only
in
our
literatures

but
also
in
the
world
‐
where,
few
would
disagree,
our
ideas
refer
to
actual
political

realities."35

It
is
significant
that
Copway's
plight
as
an
Indian
scholar
with
only
20

months
of
formal
schooling
in
the
mid‐19th
century
places
him
in
company
with

contemporary
academic
understandings
that
unite
the
intellectual
with
the
political

agenda.

Though
he
was
keenly
certain
that
any
substantial
action
and
change
was




40


dependent
upon
the
concern
of
whites,
it
can
still
be
argued
that
Copway
deserves

to
be
mentioned
as
an
honest
advocate
for
tribal
interests
ultimately
motivated
by
a

belief
in
the
right
to
an
autonomous
existence.





And then they say that he spoke to his father and mother,
saying: “My father,” he said to them, “the time is at hand for
me to go away. – And you, my elder brother, Nanapadam, do
you stay here to watch over them who are here,” he said to
him; “to be ruler over them,” he said to him. “And myself, I
shall go away I wish to seek for my grandmother,” he said to
him. “I had made her a promise,” he said to him. “Anyhow,
we both have not had the same kind of birth, so that we
should ever be together,” he said to him. “You are yourself,
my elder brother, like a real human being; and (as for)
myself, from what was thrown away (at birth) was the source
from which I sprang,” he said to his elder brother….
And so at last he was asked by his elder brother: “O my
younger brother!” he was asked, “what is the reason that you
are not chief over them, you who brought back to life them
that are now alive?” he said to him.
Accordingly Nanabushu gave answer to his elder brother: “O
my elder brother! “ he said to him, “it is you whom I wish to
watch over them,” he said to him.
“Oh!” he was told.36 









So
far
as
Copway’s
immersion
in
the
era's
prevalent
measures
of
civilization

would
allow,
his
attention
to
the
complex
realities
of
sociopolitical
interrelations

perhaps
unexpectedly
aligns
him
with
the
sovereign
interests
of
American
Indian

Literary
Nationalism
coauthors
Craig
Womack,
Robert
Warrior
and
Jace
Weaver.


They
assert
that
"we
remain
committed
to
an
old
and
persisting
dream
in
which

indigenous
groups
in
the
Americas
author
their
own
destinies
as
distinct
peoples




41


with
a
discrete
political
status
in
the
world."37

Complicating
a
direct
correlation,

Copway
does
not
lend
indigenous
groups
primary
authorship
of
their
own
fates,
and

plainly
states
his
motive
in
"thus
giving
a
sketch
of
my
nation's
history...(is
that)
I

may
awaken
in
the
American
heart
a
deeper
feeling
for
the
race
of
red
men,
and

induce
the
pale‐face
to
use
greater
effort
to
effect
an
improvement
in
their
social

and
political
relations."38

Still,
his
was
a
cause
with
an
articulate
and
carefully

detailed
platform,
"stating
that
the
most
requisite
things
for
the
Indian
are
these

three
‐‐
a
mechanical
or
an
agricultural
education,
a
high‐toned
literature,
and
a

rational
moral
training.

Give
him
these,
you
make
him
exalted.

Deprive
him
of
these

‐
you
make
him
degraded."39

The
succinctness
of
his
stated
goals
does
indicate
a

desire
to
author
the
destinies
of
his
people.

Yet,
it
may
be
that
this
dependence
on

whites,
characterized
by
his
faith
in
their
letters,
leads
to
his
disappointing
end.







Copway's
work
is
replete
with
views
that
sometimes
reek
of
a
"kill
the
Indian,

save
the
Man"
mentality.

Though
his
concern
is
the
preservation
of
the
people
in
the

most
basic
sense,
by
placing
the
possibility
for
improvement
firmly
in
the
hands
of

sympathetic
whites,
he
dismisses
the
efficacy
of
the
traditions
to
help
effect
this.

He

writes:

"to
the
Christian
and
Philanthropist,
I
present
in
these
pages
an
account
of

the
rise
and
progress
of
events
which
have
greatly
advanced
the
moral

elevation
of
my
nation.
Should
they
see
in
it
anything
to
stimulate
them
to

greater
action,
now
is
the
time,
now
the
hour
to
act.
It
can
be
proved
that
the

introduction
of
Christianity
into
the
Indian
tribes
has
been
productive
of

immense
good.
It
has
changed
customs
as
old
as
any
on
the
earth.
It
has




42


dethroned
error,
and
has
enthroned
truth.
This
fact
is
enough
to
convince

any
one
of
the
unjustness
and
falsity
of
the
common
saying,
that,
"the
Indian

will
be
Indian
still."40



Though
part
of
The
Traditional
History
is
devoted
to
a
small
grammar
of

Anishinaabemowin
and
meditations
on
its
underlying
indications
of
the
people's

character,
his
more
impassioned,
activist
agenda
leads
him
to
declare
"Our
language

perpetuates
our
own
ideas
of
civilization,
as
well
as
the
old
usages
in
our
nation;
and

consequently,
how
limited
our
field
of
acquiring
knowledge!

On
the
other
hand,
by

giving
them
an
English
education,
you
introduce
them
into
the
endless
field
of

English
literature,
and
from
the
accumulated
experience
of
the
past,
they
might

learn
the
elements
which
would
produce
the
greatest
amount
of
good
to
our

nation."41

Though
his
comments
can
be
interpreted
as
deeply
disloyal
to
the

community
of
Anishinaabemowin
speakers,
his
pro‐English
stance
bespeaks
his

hopes
that
there
will
be
a
future
for
the
Anishinaabek
at
all.
The
point
is
to

understand
the
contradictions
in
terms
of
what
they
reveal
about
the
convictions
he

has
regarding
the
people's
survival,
and
how
that's
related
to
the
options
and

strategies
born
of
his
literacy.







If
he
is
willing
to
sacrifice
the
language,
it
does
not
necessarily
mean
that
he

would
cast
off
any
and
all
intimations
of
a
tribal
worldview.

The
benefits
of
an

English
education
do
not
rest
in
wholesale
assimilation.

The
following
passage

suggests
that
there
is
a
two‐fold
gain:

Much
has
been
lost
to
the
world,
through
a
neglect
of
educating
the
red
men

who
have
lived
and
died
in
the
midst
of
educationary
privileges,
but
have
not




43


been
allowed
to
enjoy
them.

They
hold
a
key
which
will
unlock
a
library
of

information,
the
like
of
which
is
not.

It
is
for
the
present
generation
to
say,

whether
the
last
remnants
of
a
powerful
people
shall
perish
through
neglect,

and
as
they
depart
bear
with
them
that
key...
Give
the
Indian
the
means
of

education
and
he
will
avail
himself
of
them.
Keep
them
from
him,
and
let
me

tell
you
he
is
not
the
only
loser.42


Copway's
vision
of
Indian
education
enables
the
carrying
of
this
symbolic
cultural

key
into
an
idealized,
welcoming
public
sphere.43
That
education
is
so
frequently

cited
as
a
solution
to
tribal
woes
implicates
a
literate
audience,
whether
it
is
a
white

audience
in
a
position
of
power
and
influence
over
Indian
policy,
or
a
future

population
of
literate
Anishinaabek
who
are
invited
to
decide
what
aspects
of
this

legacy
of
literacy
are
to
be
considered
indicative
of
a
nationalist
tribal
identity.








Copway
was
familiar
with
the
disappointments
of
an
education
in
English.

His

writings
are
peppered
with
evidence
of
his
frustration
over
the
good
his
literacy
has

thus
far
afforded
the
plight
of
the
Anishinaabek.

On
the
occasion
of
a
1845
Great

Council
that
assembled
to
address
their
concerns
to
Lord
Metcalf,
Governor
General

of
British
North
America,
Copway
remarks
that
the
petitions
“as
we
learned

afterwards,
were
received
with
a
simple
nod!
of
the
head.
O
mercy!
is
this
for
ever
to

be
our
destiny?
Common
humanity,
at
least,
would
have
induced
his
Lordship
to

speak
a
few
conciliatory
words,
if
nothing
else.
Our
reception
was
both
discouraging

and
chilling.”44







Copway’s
determined
and
effusive
faith
in
the
benefits
of
education
is
tied
to
his

faith
in
the
quality
whites
he
seeks
to
influence.
Yet,
alongside
this
seeming




44


deferential
assimilatory
urge,
Copway
details
who
and
what
is
specifically

responsible
for
the
decline
of
his
nation,
and
insists
that
these
matters

unequivocally
require
judicious
redress.



Again,
such
purposes
place
him
in

company
with
Teuton's
portrayal
of
Red
Power
activists
who
"began
to
see
their

poverty
not
as
the
fitting
consequence
of
their
hapless
lives,
but
as
political

subjugation
enforced
by
an
occupying
power."45
His
dismay
over
what
the

“occupying
power”
has
wrought
encourages
calls
for
mercy
from
more
charitable

whites
at
the
same
time
he
insists
that
the
wrongs
suffered
by
tribal
people
at
the

hands
of
reviled
whites
demand
divine
retribution.

On
the
subject
of
alcohol,

Copway
states:


But
as
soon
as
these
vile
drinks
were
introduced,
dissipation
commenced,

and
the
ruin
and
downfall
of
a
noble
race
has
gone
on
‐
every
year
lessening

their
numbers...
The
ministry
of
this
country,
and
the
sluggards
in
the
cause

of
humanity,
say
now:

There
is
a
fate
or
certain
doom
on
the
Indians,

therefore
we
need
do
nothing
for
them.

How
blasphemous!

First
you
give
us

rum
by
the
thousand
barrels,
and,
before
the
presence
of
God
and
this

enlightened
world,
point
to
God,
and
charge
him
as
the
murderer
of
the

unfortunate
Indians.

"Oh,
Mercy,
oh,
Mercy!

look
down
from
above,
great

Creator,
on
us
Thy
sad
children
with
love."

Yes,
save
us
from
such
orthodoxy!


The
laws
of
nature
deranged
in
the
Indian,
both
morally
and
physically,
has

been
the
consequence
of
his
sinking
condition.46



Here
he
exposes
the
hypocrisy
of
religious
and
political
maneuverings
in
a
manner

reminiscent
of
abolitionist
writers.
In
both
cases,
the
moral
and
intellectual




45


templates
of
the
dominant
culture
are
employed
to
inspire
outrage
at
their
twisting.


Copway's
authorial
intent
is
revealed
through
a
narrative
strategy
that
logically

offers
the
ill
consequences
of
current
policy
in
concert
with
the
fanning
of
affective

flames.

On
the
subject
of
relocation
to
reservations,
he
details
his
doubts
over
"what

sort
of
guarantee
do
they
have
of
their
continuing
on
their
lands
unmolested?"47







He
lays
out
a
path
of
American
encroachment
and
development
that
obliges

further
removal,
that
then
leads
to
tribal
to
reticence
to
lay
roots
in
inevitably

coveted
lands,
thus
encouraging
their
continued
reliance
on
a
hunting
culture

doomed
to
such
scarcity
as
the
wholesale
killing
of
the
Buffalo
creates,
and

eventually
driving
them
to
"live
on
the
cattle
of
the
frontiers
‐
as
soon
as
the
first

bullock
is
killed,
the
cry
will
be
heard,
'The
Indians
are
coming
on
us.'

The
answer

will
be,
'To
arms,
to
arms,'
and
the
soldiery
of
the
United
States
must
be
sent
to
go

and
destroy
a
few
dying
and
gasping
Indians."48


The
closing
image
of
these
gasping

Indians
underscores
the
aforementioned
appeal
to
emotions
and
sentiment,
as

Copway's
language
takes
on
an
increasingly
dramatic
cast.

Yet
for
all
the

grandiloquence
that
elicits
how
"the
boom
of
the
cannon
and
the
rattle
and
peal
of

the
drum
will
sing
the
dirge
of
the
once
free
and
powerful
sons
of
America",
the
very

real
and
ultimately
stark
prospects
of
19th
century
indigenous
nations
remains

chillingly
apparent
in
the
exhortation
"Great
God,
save
us
from
realizing
the
horrors

of
an
exterminating
war!"49







Alas,
wars
there
were,
and
of
such
character
that
the
massacre
of
children
still

resonates
with
the
phrase
"nits
make
lice",
and
a
picture
of
the
frozen
corpses
of

Ghost
Dancers
piled
on
top
of
one
another
at
Wounded
Knee
in
1890
represents
for




46


many
the
end
of
the
military
struggle.

Yet
those
"never
meant
to
survive"
did,
to

confront
an
onslaught
of
federal
policies
designed
to
deal
with
the
Indian
Problem

through
non‐exterminating,
but
nevertheless
destructive,
policies.

Policies
that

included
the
forced
education
of
children
in
residential
schools,
the
consequences
of

which
can
be
understood
to
both
complicate
and
validate
the
belief
in
education
as
a

means
to
survival.







To
return
to
Andrew
Blackbird,
his
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of

Michigan;
A
Grammar
of
Their
Language,
and
Personal
and
Family
History
of
the

Author
was
published
nearly
half
a
century
after
George
Copway's
exhaustive

accounting
of
injustices
and
possible
solutions.

Yet
in
1887,
the
plight
of
the

Anishinaabek
was
such
that
it
still
moved
Ottawa
author
Blackbird
to
declare
"My

own
race,
once
a
very
numerous,
powerful
and
warlike
tribe
of
Indians,
who

proudly
trod
upon
this
soil,
is
also
near
the
end
of
existence."50

He
attributes
their

decline
to
the
familiar
specters
of
disease,
alcohol,
participation
in
white
warfare,

and
the
dubious
legal
wrangling
that
resulted
in
losses
of
property
from
which
"they

can
obtain
no
protection
nor
redress
whatever."
51

Blackbird's
response
to
the

hardships
of
his
people
is
a
determination
to
protect
them
and
seek
redress
‐
a

determination
that
again
hinges
on
using
literacy
and
education
for
cultural
and

political
purposes.







The
cultural
aspect
of
his
project
foregrounds
the
precarious
odds
for
the

preservation
of
such
values
as
are
contained
in
the
language
and
stories.


Highlighting
the
changes
wrought
by
even
just
one
generation's
severance
from

tradition,
he
states:




47


And
now
I
have
four
children,
but
not
one
of
them
can
speak
the
Indian

language.

And
every
one
of
the
little
Indian
urchins
who
are
now
running

about
in
our
town
can
speak
to
each
other
quite
fluently
in
the
English

language;
but
I
am
very
sorry
to
add
that
they
have
also
learned
profanity

like
the
white
children.

For
these
reasons
it
seems
desirable
that
the
history

of
my
people
should
not
be
lost,
like
that
of
other
tribes
who
previously

existed
in
this
country,
and
who
have
left
no
record
of
their
ancient
legends

and
their
traditions.
52







At
the
same
time
he
laments
the
influence
of
outsiders
on
his
children's
severance

from
their
tribal
heritage,
his
preservation
strategy
relies
on
the
written
language
of

the
outsiders.
The
crucial
point
to
realize
is
that
it
is
an
English
language
keenly

purposed
to
his
intentions.

In
this
instance,
to
make
purposeful
record
of
legends

and
traditions
that
reflect
a
time
when
"every
child
of
the
forest
was
observing
and

living
under
the
precept
which
their
forefathers
taught
them,
and
the
children
were

taught
almost
daily
by
their
parents
from
infancy
unto
manhood
and
womanhood,

or
until
they
were
separated
from
their
families."53

In
the
case
of
children
sent
to

boarding
schools,
the
familial
separation
born
of
natural
maturation
is
warped
into

a
forced
physical
and
cultural
upheaval
aimed
at
control.

But
for
Blackbird,

education
is
a
beacon
showing
the
way
out
of
the
morass
of
disadvantageous

treaties.

His
History
devotes
much
space
to
the
saga
of
his
determination
"to
go,
in

defiance
of
every
opposition,
to
seek
my
education",
and
the
application
of
this

education
to
his
political
efforts.54







One
major
project
was
his
advocacy
for
the
right
of
citizenship
in
the
State
of




48


Michigan,
a
cause
for
which
he
trekked
hundreds
of
miles,
undertaking
his
own
epic

journey
in
a
quest
for
parley.
Though
literacy
in
English
grants
access
to
a
reading

public,
Blackbird
and
another
young
Anishinaabek
man
departed
in
the
middle
of

the
winter
to
meet
the
Governor,
until
eventually
a
"clause
was
put
in
the
revised

statutes
of
the
State
of
Michigan,
that
every
male
person
of
Indian
descent
in

Michigan
not
members
of
any
tribe
shall
be
entitled
to
vote."55
The
provision
that

the
Anishinaabek
"renounce
our
allegiances
to
our
chiefs"
reveals
the
difficulty
of

wholly
overcoming
the
legalese
designed
to
strip
sovereign
power
at
the
very
same

time
it
seems
some
benefit
is
being
gained.56

The
dismal
prospects
behind
such

renunciations
serve
to
highlight
the
high
stakes
Blackbird
saw
riding
upon

citizenship,
which
he
thought
would
"be
the
only
salvation
of
my
people
being
sent

off
to
the
west
of
the
Mississippi,
where
perhaps,
more
than
one‐half
would
have

died
before
they
could
be
acclimated
to
the
country
to
which
they
would
be

driven."57

As
with
Copway,
the
motivation
to
achieve
facility
in
the
language
of

white
institutions
partly
lay
in
mortal
fear.







As
mentioned,
Blackbird's
securing
of
his
own
education
involved
considerable

hurdles.

Not
the
least
of
which
was
an
Indian
Agent
set
on
punishing
him
for
an

independently
Republican
vote
in
the
1856
election.

This
was
the
first
general

election
Indians
participated
in
and
one
that
saw
aggressive
efforts
to
influence
and

control
their
votes.

Such
was
their
pressure
that
Blackbird,
who
so
advocated
for

just
such
a
day,
remarks
how
"At
that
time
I
felt
almost
sorry
for
my
people,
the

Indians,
for
ever
being
citizens
of
the
State,
as
I
thought
they
were
much
happier





49


without
these
elections."58

He
credits
his
truncated
stint
at
the
Ypsilanti
State

Normal
School
with
the
small
allowance
afforded
by
the
vengeful
Indian
Agent,
as

the
allocated
funds
were
of
such
a
meager
amount
"I
imagined
I
was
beginning
to
be

sick
on
account
of
so
much
privation,
or
that
I
would
starve
to
death
before
I
could

be
graduated,
and
therefore
I
was
forced
to
abandon
my
studies
and
leave
the

institution."59

The
situation
gave
Blackbird
firsthand
knowledge
of
the
difference

between
the
imaginary
and
the
sensory:
though
he
may
have
pictured
educational

institutions
as
sanctuaries
of
the
just
and
refined,
the
actuality
meant
more

suffering,
seemingly
for
the
reason
of
being
an
Indian.



Thereupon departed Nanabushu, travelling about; when he
was come a certain distance, he saw some young ruffed
grouse in a nest, and very full they filled the place in the nest.
Nanabushu sat down beside them, very tender was his feeling
for them. He counted how many they were; twelve was their
number. And then he spoke to them, asking: “By what name
are you called?”
Naturally afraid were the little ruffed grouse. Not were they
able to speak. One spoke up: “We have no name.”
Nanabushu spoke in an angry way: “How is it possible for
you not to have a name? IF you do not tell me what you are
called, I will club you to death.”
Naturally much did he alarm them; after a long while they
said: “Why, Little Frightener is the name we are called.”
“Oh,” Nanabushu said; “that is it!” Then up to his feet rose
Nanabushu; standing over them with legs spread apart, he
eased himself upon them. (Observing) them suddenly groping
about in the slush, Nanabushu addressed them, saying: “Yes,
you are a little frightener! Phew!” exclaimed Nanabushu,
laughing heartily at them. “Correctly inform your mother
when she arrives.”
60




50









Upon
Blackbird’s
return
"home
I
did
everything
towards
the
welfare
and

happiness
of
my
people",
whom
he
found
in
the
dire
straits
of
increasing
alcohol

use.61

In
moving
example
of
the
autonomous
application
of
the
learned
power
of

the
written
word,
he
"immediately
caused
the
pledge
to
be
signed
in
every
village
of

the
Indians,
in
which
I
was
quoted
successful,
as
almost
everyone
pledged

themselves
never
again
to
touch
intoxicating
drinks."62

His
efforts
would
require

face‐to‐face
appeals,
and
the
communication
of
his
earnest
concern
was
likely

crucial
to
the
success
of
his
“written”
campaign.

Perhaps
inspired
by
such
success,

and
still
smarting
from
his
experience
with
the
Indian
Agent,
Blackbird
also
took
on

his
defining
political
project:
to
gain
tribal
autonomy
over
the
use
of
educational

funds
standing
at
$8,000
per
annum.

Blackbird
"wrote
a
long
article"
contending

that
this
fund
"had
been
handled
and
conducted
for
nearly
twenty
years,
and
yet
not

one
Indian
youth
could
spell
the
simplest
word
in
the
English
language,
and
these

writings
I
had
published
in
the
Detroit
Tribune
for
public
inspection."63

He
adds
his

voice
to
the
public
sphere
of
the
lettered,
betting
on
the
power
and
utility
of
the
very

literacy
he
wants
to
see
passed
on
to
Indian
youth
via
the
liberation
of
the
$8,000.






These
highly
specific
and
proactive
political
motivations
are
necessary
to

understanding
Blackbird's
abiding
faith
in
education
as
more
that
a
parroting
of
the

civilizing
mission.

The
language
is
often
in
the
same
vein,
but
is
presented
with

angry
demands
for
redress
that
overshadow
default
support
for
pure
assimilation

and
charity.

He
states:

But
in
order
that
my
people
can
enjoy
every
privilege
of
civilization,
they




51


must
be
thoroughly
educated;
they
must
become
acquainted
with
the
arts

and
sciences,
as
well
as
the
white
man.

Soon
as
the
Indian
youths
receive
an

education,
they
should
be
allowed
to
have
some
employment
among
the

whites,
in
order
to
encourage
them
in
the
pursuits
of
civilization
and
to

exercise
their
ability
according
to
the
means
and
extent
of
their
education,

instead
of
being
a
class
of
persons
continually
persecuted
and
cheated
and

robbed
of
their
little
possessions...

If
my
plan
could
have
been
adopted,
even

as
late
as
thirty‐two
years
ago,
we
should
have
had,
by
this
time,
many
well‐
educated
Indians
in
this
State,
and
probably
some
good
farmers,
and
perhaps

some
noted
professors
of
sciences
would
have
been
developed,
and

consequently
happiness,
blessings,
and
prosperity
would
have
been

everywhere
among
the
aborigines
of
the
State
of
Michigan.
64







It
can
be
assumed
that
Blackbird
pictured
“every
privilege
of
civilization”
as

something
quite
different
from
the
manual
labor
and
maid
service
into
which
Indian

boys
and
girls
were
most
typically
trained.

Family
members
often
complained
of

the
discrepancies
between
the
promising
visions
tied
to
a
civilizing
education
and

the
actualities
of
overwork,
underfeeding,
poor
health,
and
an
education
that

prepared
their
children
to
fill
only
the
lowest
rungs
of
society.

An
educational

experience
that
saw
hope
turn
to
further
hardship
was
far
more
common
than
the

opening
of
privileged
doors.

Again,
there
is
a
link
here
between
the
idealized,
saving

force
of
beneficent
whites
and
the
idealized,
saving
force
of
a
refining
education.


Neither
one
matched
the
realities
of
race
and
class
that
assigned
Indian
children
to

lesser
roles
before
they
even
step
foot
in
a
classroom.65






52







Blackbird
is
ultimately
unsuccessful
in
his
attempts
to
overhaul
the
handling
of

the
education
fund.

The
defeat
seems
to
have
had
an
effect
on
his
convictions
about

education
as
the
road
to
"happiness,
blessings,
and
prosperity".

The
change

becomes
apparent
in
the
chapter
entitled
"The
Lamentation
of
the
Overflowing

Heart
of
the
Red
Man
of
the
Forest".

In
a
much
different
style
of
prose
than

previously
employed,
his
writing
cries
out
"Oh,
my
destiny,
my
destiny!

How
sinks

my
heart,
as
I
behold
my
inheritance
all
in
ruins
and
desolation",
asserting
that
"The

red
man
will
never
live
happy
or
die
happy
here
anymore."66







Blackbird’s
later,
shorter
1900
publication
The
Indian
Problem,
From
The
Indian's

Standpoint
also
focuses
on
education
reform
and
includes
the
"Lamentation"
in

verse
form.

That
he
maintains
the
conviction
that
there
is
no
longer
to
be
any
happy

living
or
dying
suggests
that
the
civilization
process
thus
far
has
proved
to
be
a

matter
of
bare
survival
rather
than
contentment.

Indeed,
he
has
grown
in
his

awareness
of
how
the
written
functions
in
the
play
of
continued
oppression.

In
a

synopsis
of
the
public
mood
toward
Indians
as
it
is
bolstered
by
the
diffusion
of

letters,
he
writes:

They
might
as
well
die
or
be
killed,
every
one
of
them,
from
the
face
of
the

earth,
for
a
dead
Indian
is
better
than
a
live
Indian.

These
frightful

statements
are
heard
all
over
the
United
States
and
every
Caucasian
child

and
every
Indian
child
that
is
able
to
understand
knows
this
dreadful
feeling

toward
us.

These
statements
are
translated
and
republished
in
foreign

countries,
so
every
foreigner
coming
to
America
comes
with
a
prejudice
and

a
persecuting
spirit
towards
the
aborigines
of
America.

Therefore
there
is
no




53


peace
nor
shelter
for
the
Indians,
from
injustice.67


Published
13
years
after
his
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,

the
author’s
mood
is
bleaker
and
the
solutions
more
extreme
than
what
he
penned

in
his
younger,
ostensibly
more
hopeful
days.








The
first
part
of
The
Indian
Problem
chronicles
the
woes
born
of
interactions
with

unprincipled
whites,
as
well
as
their
influence.

This
includes
entrepreneurs
who

build
"in
this
once
quiet
village"
40
saloons
vs.
9
churches
in
a
stark
example
of

alcohol’s
prevalent
influence,
as
well
as
government
officials
whose
actions
lead

Blackbird
to
declare
"it
is
high
time
that
the
red
flag
or
some
other
danger
signal
be

hung
upon
the
present
Indian
policy,
or
the
Indians
will
all
die
with

'improvements.'"68

Yet
after
attributing
the
dissipation
and
degradation
of
the

people
to
these
encounters,
he
asserts
that
"After
much
study
of
this
subject
I
come

to
this
conclusion:
that
in
order
to
civilize
and
christianize
them,
(and
not
only

Indians,
but
every
nation
on
the
earth),
long
continued
education
is
what
is

required,
even
a
classical
education,
such
as
white
people
have."69

This
seeming

contradiction
could
be
explained
in
part
by
an
adherence
to
a
counter‐fantasy
of
the

noble
white,
ideal
audience.

Blackbird
baldly
states:
"the
cure
of
ignorance
must

come
by
direct
association
with
refined,
intelligent,
well‐cultivated
people,
in
order

to
be
taken
out
of
natural
barbarism
into
true
civilization."70

His
stance
again

underscores
the
tension
that
underlay
visions
of
an
intellectually
vibrant
“direct

association”
with
refined
white
as
the
path
to
refinement,
as
it
contrasts
with
a

reality
that
advanced
Indian
education
as
the
road
to
docility,
composed
largely
of





54


manual
labor.71






Blackbird
seems
to
have
given
up
hope
that
the
tribe
can
improve
its
lot
through

political
autonomy.

In
a
dismal
reckoning
of
the
Anishinaabek
community,
he

dismisses
parents
as
heathens
and
considers
it
positive
that
"after
one
generation

has
passed
away,
eventually
all
the
old
ones
will
be
entirely
gone,
and
consequently

a
new
generation,
who
will
be
civilized,
intelligent
and
cultivated,
will
represent
the

old
race
of
America,
once
the
home
of
their
forefathers."72

Blackbird
gives
over
the

traditions
with
a
readiness
all
the
more
alarming
for
what
he
proposes
as
the
right

strategy
for
attaining
the
promise
of
a
new
generation.

Having
earlier
stated
that

"frauds,
by
the
aid
of
law,
are
continually
perpetrated
against
Indians",
and
despite

having
once
nearly
starved
in
a
university
stint
under‐supported
by
an
Agency

official,
Blackbird
now
urges
that
"our
children's
education
should
remain
in
the

hands
of
the
Government."73


Even
more
disturbing,
he
recommends
that
they

"take
the
small
children,
the
smaller
the
better,
and
distribute
them
in
small
lots,

among
public
institutions
of
the
United
States
to
let
them
be
educated
among

English
speaking
people."74

It
is
difficult
to
imagine
this
stark
method
of

distribution
as
anything
other
than
impersonal
at
best.

In
response
to
likely

objections
to
the
cruelty
of
the
prospect
or
assertions
that
"they
should
be
handled

very
carefully,
and
gradually
and
slowly
brought
into
the
light
of
civilization...
I
say,

cut
at
once
the
right
length.

It
will
be
much
better
than
cutting
by
slow
degrees."75

(18).

The
violence
of
such
cutting
off
is
only
increased
by
the
supplied
metaphor
of

a
dog
being
relieved
of
its
tail.




55




This was he told by his grandmother: “Vast harm have you
wrought upon the living of the future by causing them to do
such a thing. Listen to the reason why I tell you. On account
of that act of yours when you attacked your brother, that by
your attacking him so should the living come to do to one
another, is the reason why I tell you this; the children, I say,
are the ones whom you have harmed. Such, therefore, is the
way I look upon it,” he was told by his grandmother.76









The
total
and
dramatic
severance
proposed
by
Blackbird
in
the
name
of

advancement
through
education
largely
comes
to
fruition.

Yet,
as
numerous

chronicles
of
the
boarding
school
experience
can
attest,
the
experience
was
far
from

a
benign
welcoming
into
the
fold
of
civilized
citizenship.
For
the
two
authors,
their

own
forays
into
the
literate
public
sphere
left
them
disappointed
in
their
agendas

and
seemingly
divested
of
the
faith
they
had
placed
in
education.

Copway’s
final

decade
of
life
was
marked
by
a
steep
descent
in
his
popularity,
a
questionable

mental
state,
and
his
inability
to
revive
public
interest
enough
to
avoid
financial

ruin.

Blackbird
laments
his
financial
losses
in
connection
with
a
post
office
he
was

ordered
to
renovate,
only
to
be
removed
and
left
“penniless
in
a
cold
world,
to
battle

on
and
struggle
for
my
existence;
and
from
that
time
hence
I
have
not
held
any

office,
nor
do
I
care
to.

I
only
wish
I
could
do
a
little
more
for
the
welfare
of
my

fellow‐beings
before
I
depart
for
another
world,
as
I
am
now
nearly
seventy
years

old,
and
will
soon
pass
away.”77







Neither
author
was
able
to
use
the
authority
of
the
written
to
advance
the
plight

of
their
people
as
they
had
envisioned.

They
placed
their
hopes
in
education
and




56


literacy
as
the
way
to
attain
such
refinements,
favors,
and
security
as
their
ideal

white
public
possessed,
to
the
point
of
sacrificing
the
worth
and
potential
support
of

their
own
people’s
traditions.
Yet
both
were
raised
among
those
whose
favored

councils
and
prolonged
decision‐making
aligned
with
Hannah
Arendt’s
contention

that
“men
in
the
plural,
that
is,
men
so
far
as
they
live
and
move
and
act
in
this

world,
can
experience
meaning
only
because
they
can
talk
with
and
make
sense
to

each
other
and
to
themselves.”78

Kah‐ge‐ga‐gah‐bowh
and
Ma‐ce‐te‐pe‐nes‐say

struggled
to
assert
the
meaningfulness
of
what
they
knew
into
a
written
forum

unsuited
to
earnest
appeals
that
might
counter
the
nationalist
fiction
of
America.

Despite
efforts
to
win
over
an
educated
white
audience
through
equal
parts

conviction
and
flattery,
they
would
ultimately
languish
in
their
literacy,
alienated

from
the
power
of
both
the
spoken
and
the
writ.








Nevertheless,
cultural
revitalization
efforts
can
benefit
from
a
backward
glance

meant
to
determine
exactly
what
was
given
up
in
the
struggle
for
basic
survival.


Copway
and
Blackbird
both
placed
their
hopes
for
renewal
in
the
hands
of
the

imagined
noble
white
American
audience
necessary
to
the
authority
of
the
written.

To
align
themselves
with
the
norms
of
the
print
culture
they
sought
entrance
to,

they
were
willing
to
sacrifice
not
only
language
and
moral
teachings,
but
also
the

cultural
continuity
created
by
the
contact
between
younger
and
elder
generations.


In
these
early
forays
into
the
written,
the
Anishinaabek
had
to
somehow
move
past

the
baseline
orality
of
their
previous
interactions.

In
accord
with
the
language
of

literacy
and
educational
advocacy
of
their
day,
their
intentions
demanded
a
switch

in
loyalties
from
their
Anishinaabek
upbringing
to
the
idealized
arena
of
the




57


educated
and
civilized.

Their
efforts
at
inclusion
found
them
bereft
of
solid

community
alignments
within
either
group.

Yet,
in
the
work
of
current
indigenous

scholars,
English‐language
education
ultimately
inspires
a
firm
determination
to

retain
connections
with
and
access
to
the
very
ancestral
identification
from
which

Blackbird
envisioned
a
necessary
separation.

The
challenge
remains:
how
to
use
an

English
education
to
communicate
in
a
manner
that
supports
one’s
identity
as

indigenous?







58






Chapter
Two.

The
Authority
of
Association:
William
Warren
and
the
Fires
of
Hospitality








In
his
1885
text
History
of
the
Ojibwe
People,
Anishinaabek
author
William
Warren

demonstrates
his
awareness
of
the
limitations
of
print’s
veracity
and
accuracy.


Warren
attributes
the
inaccuracies
that
plague
the
majority
of
published

ethnographic
works
to
the
limited
access
frequently
fame‐seeking
authors
actually

had
to
the
inner
workings
of
tribal
life.

His
writing
style
and
authorial
asides

underscore
his
determination
to
set
the
record
straight.

In
this,
he
consistently

favors
the
direct
accounts
of
the
Anishinaabek
elders
he
enjoyed
close
relationships

with,
even
and
especially
when
their
narratives
contradict
what
was
contemporarily

considered
the
authority.









Insofar
as
Warren
works
to
expose
how
the
authority
attached
the
written

undermines
the
process
of
establishing
a
true
history
of
the
people,
I
propose
that

Warren’s
criticisms
offer
a
potential
guide
for
determining
the
usefulness
of
the

available
archives.

This
would
bring
his
writings
into
the
contemporary
academic

scene,
where
author
Craig
Womack
contends
“creating
indigenous
knowledge
is

more
difficult
than
bemoaning
white
hegemony.”1

Scholars
must
able
to
access
the

available
archives
as
more
than
chronicles
of
conquest
which
impose
Western

agendas
and
critical
commentary
upon
indigenous
traditions.
If
the
field
is
to
move

beyond
“a
state
of
constant
lamentation”,
it
is
critical
to
begin
untangling
what




59


might
count
as
specifically
Anishinaabek
insights
from
the
massive
influences
of
the

established,
dominant
mode
of
written
literacy,
and
focus
on
those
perspectives.2







Warren’s
commentary
concerning
the
differences
between
his
information
and

that
gleaned
by
other
authors
illustrates
the
importance
of
respectful,
trusting

interpersonal
exchange,
i.e.
polite
conversation
and
hospitality.
The
interviewer’s

motivations
combine
with
their
conceptions
of
the
“informants”
to
produce
texts
of

greater
and
lesser
accuracy.

Whether
certain
archived
rituals,
stories,
or
aspects
of

the
industrial
year
are
in
fact
useful
to
efforts
at
revitalization
may
ultimately
be
a

question
of
intuition
and
trust
similar
to
what
Warren
credits
as
integral
to
gaining

access
to
the
knowledge
he
did.

Wendy
Geniusz
contends
that
it
is
“important
for

those
working
with
these
texts
to
be
familiar
with
the
backgrounds
of
their
authors

and
the
conditions
under
which
they
were
written
because
this
understanding
can

help
to
explain
the
process
of
this
information
and
can
aid
us
in
reworking
and

decolonizing
it.”3

Warren
foreshadows
this
reworking
when
he
highlights
the

importance
of
familiarity
and
hospitality.

His
observations
can
be
used
to

determine
how
the
interview
process
either
denies
or
acknowledges
the
benefits
of

an
expanded
public
that
includes
the
illiterate,
the
elderly,
women
and
children,
and

perhaps
even
the
non‐human
occupants
of
the
commons.



By this time the oldest brother, the one who had come in from
the north, had filled a pipe and putting fire to it, held it out
to the old man. The others watched to see what the old man
would do; for if he took the pipe, it meant that he had
medicine power and was willing to help them.
He said: “I accept your pipe.”4





60







In
the
preface
to
the
1984
reprint
of
History
of
the
Ojibwe
People
,
Roger
W.

Buffalohead's
assertion
that
the
"primary
question
is
the
reliability
of
the
human

memory"
in
regards
to
the
"validity
of
oral
history"
suggests
that
historical

reliability
is
somehow
cordoned
off
from
the
present
of
its
telling.5

This
fails
to

value
the
potential
lessons
that
reside
in
the
interaction
such
as
it
is;
to
consider
the

"present"
as
a
site
of
reliability
that
is
at
least
as
crucial
as
the
memory.

It
must
be

kept
in
mind
that
the
recounted
histories
and
stories
that
are
currently
received
as

archived
texts
were
only
possible
through
interpersonal
exchanges.

These

dynamics
underscore
the
baseline
truth
that
the
people
in
"contact"
are
specifically

situated.

Interactions
are
characterized
by
both
the
intentions
of
the
visitor
and
by

the
social
conventions
and
understandings
of
Native
peoples
whose
stories,
and

very
language,
are
steeped
in
their
surroundings.

The
infusion
of
land
awareness

into
personal
and
cultural
expression
is
mirrored
by
how
people’s
relationships
are

key
facets
of
the
spatial
scale.









In
her
essay
"Interior
and
Exterior
Landscapes",
Leslie
Marmon
Silko
speaks
to

the
scope
and
nuance
of
such
inclusion:


So
long
as
human
consciousness
remains
within
the
hills,
canyons,
cliffs,
and

the
plants,
clouds,
and
sky,
the
term
landscape,
as
it
has
entered
the
English

language,
is
misleading.

"A
portion
of
territory
the
eye
can
comprehend
in
a

single
view"
does
not
correctly
describe
the
relationship
between
the
human

being
and
his
or
her
surroundings.

This
assumes
the
viewer
is
somehow




61


outside
or
separate
from
the
territory
she
or
he
surveys.

Viewers
are
as
much

a
part
of
the
landscape
as
the
boulders
they
stand
upon.6


The
interplay
between
people
and
space
composed
of
boulders,
animals,
sky,
plants,

etc.,
lends
to
the
meaning
and
purpose
of
any
contingent
utterance.


In
the
written

archive,
variations
in
what
was
told
to
whom,
and
how,
underscore
the
intricacies
of

these
interpersonal,
and
indeed
interspatial,
negotiations.

The
access,
trust,
and

intentions
of
particular
cultural
interviews
and
observations
must
be
viewed
in

relation
to
the
literacy
of
the
place
in
which
they
occurred.

The
influential

significance
of
place
cannot
be
dismissed,
nor
separated
from
the
influential

significance
of
the
people
present.

The
human
relationships
are
but
parcel
to
the

amalgam
of
relationships
that
compose
their
surroundings.

This
more
inclusive

awareness
can
better
reveal
the
functional
significance
of
the
actual
content
shared.


Content
in
the
form
of
stories
that
are
characteristically
malleable
and
open
to

variation
furthers
the
need
to
consider
the
particulars
of
the
"real‐time",
face‐to‐face

communication
in
assessing
the
intended
meanings,
motivations,
and
purposes

behind
any
written
results
that
in
themselves
are
but
the
husks.

On finishing the tale of the Great Skunk and of the Great Bear
of the West, Kawbawgam said: “These things must have
happened before the Flood, for although the bones of
monstrous animals are sometimes found in the ground, no
one knows when these animals lived and there are now no
more of them in the world.”

In other words, if they had lived after the Flood, they would
naturally have left descendents of similar size.




62


I (H.H.K.) answered that I knew it was true as he said, that
once there had been monstrous animals in the world and I
mentioned that their bones had been discovered by scientists.
On hearing this, as interpreted by Jacques LePique,
Kawbawgam smiled and said with his usual gentleness but
with fine scorn: “The scientist thinks he understands these
things, but the man who knows is the Jessakid” – the Indian
soothsayer.7







The
effort
to
compose
a
written
history
of
the
Anishinaabek
found
the
reticence

and
suspicion
of
tribal
leaders
and
elders
a
crucially
limiting
factor
only
gradually

overcome.

The
1847
encounter
between
William
Warren
and
Buffalo,
the
"oldest

living
chief
of
the
tribe,"
affirms
that
the
decision
to
share
the
Ojibway
history
was

minutely
considered.8
Buffalo
considers
the
maturity
of
the
inquirer
and
how
his

ability
"to
write
like
the
whites"
might
be
of
value,
particularly
in
concert
with
the

conclusion
that
"You
understand
what
we
tell
you.

Your
ears
are
open
to
our

words."
9

By
uniting
these
two
features
of
Warren’s
literacy,
Buffalo
demonstrates

how
the
quality
of
the
oral
communication
is
crucial
to
determining
the
quality,
and

even
mere
possibility,
of
a
written
counterpart.

Warren’s
access
to
Buffalo’s

knowledge
depends
on
the
trust
and
familiarity
cultivated
over
generations
of

interaction
and
empathy.

Warren
states
that
through
his
maternal
ancestors,
he
has

“been
in
close
connection
with
this
tribe
for
the
past
one
hundred
and
fifty
years.


Speaking
their
language
perfectly,
and
connected
with
them
through
the
strong
ties

of
blood,
he
has
ever
felt
a
deep
interest
in
their
welfare
and
fate,
and
has
deemed
it

a
duty
to
save
their
traditions
from
oblivion,
and
to
collect
every
fact
concerning




63


them,
which
the
advantages
he
possesses
have
enabled
him
to
procure.”10

Keenly

shaped
by
circumstances,
the
written
and
the
oral
together
effect
his
composition
of

the
people's
history.






The
complexity
of
this
dual
influence
determines
what
sort
of
representation
the

people
receive.

Will
recorded
traditions
come
to
be
interpreted
only
as
static,
dusty

reminders
of
a
doomed
people
and
culture;
or
will
identity
and
tradition
be

expressed
in
such
a
way
as
to
communicate
the
dynamic,
ongoing
person/place

relationships
encased
in
the
words
spoken
and
written?


The
answer
is
largely

determined
by
the
author’s
relationship
to
the
informants.

Are
the
people

interviewed
more
important
than
the
desire
to
be
part
of
the
written
history
that

defines
America,
or
is
the
larger
measure
of
respect
reserved
for
the
authority

bound
up
with
the
created
text?

Warren’s
handling
of
these
questions
shows
how

the
history
of
interpersonal,
cultural
and
ecological
relationships
rests
on
the

elusive
depth
of
the
words
actually
spoken
and
shared.
Both
oral
and
written

narratives
reflect
how
the
traps
of
self‐regard
and
hubris
cloud
right
vision,
hearing

and
action.

The Youngman grew up like others. But he played mostly
with the children and was very quiet for fear he might fall
into some temptation to break the commandments given him
[from] above. That is why he was so much with the children,
even after he grew up. Everybody noticed this and wondered
at it.11









It
is
of
particular
benefit
that
many
written
accounts
of
Anishinaabek
stories,




64


history,
and
traditions
exist.

At
the
same
time
that
policies
of
assimilation
severed

the
traditional
conduits
of
cultural
inheritance,
the
work
of
those
who
had
the

foresight
to
preserve
what
they
could
produced
the
archives
so
often
referenced
by

scholars
and
others
interested
in
cultural
revitalization.

The
urge
towards

preservation
was
born
of
the
alarming
realization
that
so
much
of
interest
and

importance
could
be
lost.

Whether
the
loss
is
measured
by
an
investment
in
the

undergirding
philosophies
of
the
traditions,
or
by
regret
that
America’s
story
would

be
that
much
less
colorful
without
the
Indian
“heritage”
varies.
Regardless,
many
of

those
who
sought
contact
with
the
tribes
concluded
that
a
more
permanent
record

was
needed
to
assure
future
access
to
traditional
knowledge.








Keen
example
of
Warren's
motivation
is
apparent
in
the
statement
that
"a
change

is
so
rapidly
taking
place,
caused
by
a
close
contact
with
the
white
race
that
ten

years
hence
it
will
be
too
late
to
save
the
traditions
of
their
forefathers
from

oblivion."12

He
takes
on
this
task
of
preservation
with
the
caveat
that
"it
cannot
be

expected
that
a
person
who
has
passed
most
of
his
life
among
the
wild
Indians...can

wield
the
pen
of
an
Irving
or
a
Schoolcraft."13

These
opening
comments
yoke
the

asking
of
pardon
for
his
written
project
with
an
urgency
born
of
necessity.

This
is
a

convention
born
out
in
numerous
19th
century
accounts
penned
by
indigenous

authors,
and
in
abolitionist
texts
penned
by
African‐Americans.

There
seems
in
this

a
mixture
of
humility
and
self‐effacement
perhaps
meant
to
appeal
to
an
audience

largely
convinced
of
its
own
superiority.

Yet,
there
is
also
something
subversive
in

the
very
act
of
their
writing,
knowing
the
fact
that
such
spheres
are
considered




65


wholly
outside
their
(often
racialized)
abilities.

Certainly,
there
is
a
root
sense
of

uncertainty
regarding
their
acceptance
into
literate
spheres.

The
standard

invocation
of
the
muse
that
takes
place
in
the
classical
epic
is
here
reversed.

Rather,

the
English
muse
is
dismissed
or
disassociated
from
as
potentially
inimical
to

authorial
intentions
and
success.








This
is
an
interesting
point
of
union
between
the
generations
of
the
literate.


For

many
contemporary
tribal
people,
written
records
of
stories
and
lifeways
would

eventually
provide
key
access
to
the
ancestors.

Yet,
in
Reinventing
the
Enemy's

Language:
Contemporary
Native
Women's
Writings
of
North
America,
Joy
Harjo
gives

a
nod
to
the
stormy
sociopolitical
policies
already
alluded
to
when
she
states
that

"to
write
is
often
still
suspect
in
our
tribal
communities,
and
understandably
so.

It
is

through
writing
that
our
lands
have
been
stolen,
children
taken
away."14
Links
to

land
and
ancestry
are
born
out
through
literary
projects
loaded
in
both
history
and

process.

As
Joseph
Bruchac
states
in
the
preface
to
Survival
This
Way:

Interviews

with
American
Indian
Poets,
"many
of
us
ask
if
the
secret
of
surviving
may
be
found

not
in
the
dreams
of
the
future
but
in
the
lessons
of
the
past."15

Certainly
such

lessons
are
drawn
from
a
multitude
of
angles,
and
it
can
be
a
particular
task
of

literary
criticism
is
to
explore
the
person‐
and
place‐
specific
lessons
that
underlie

the
written
projects
of
the
past.










One
looming
truth:
not
all
written
accounts
are
created
equally.

Of
equal

importance
to
the
informant
is
the
person
acquiring
the
information,
who
as
a

listener
is
part
of
what
Sean
Kicummah
Teuton
refers
to
as
"Native
storytelling...an




66


intrinsically
collective
practice."16

How
the
collective
is
shaped
by
each

participant's
envisioned
role
shows
in
the
details
of
what
eventually
goes
on
record.


The
impact
of
the
sweeping
changes
endemic
to
colonization
is
better

comprehended
using
a
magnifying
lens
at
the
individual
and
interpersonal
level.

Here,
it
becomes
apparent
that
basic
mores
of
hospitality
are
crucial
to
the
success

of
variously
purposed
communications.

Warren
offers
example
of
the
intricate

consequences
related
to
this
interplay
between
social
policy
and
socialization
in
the

following:

The
French
early
gained
the
utmost
confidence
of
the
Ojibways,
and
thereby

they
became
more
thoroughly
acquainted
with
their
true
and
real
character,

even
during
the
comparative
short
season
in
which
they
mingled
with
them

as
a
nation,
than
the
British
and
Americans
are
at
this
present
day,
after
over

a
century
of
intercourse.

The
French
understood
their
division
into
clans,

and
treated
each
clan
according
to
the
order
of
its
ascendency
in
the
tribe.


They
conformed
also
to
their
system
of
governmental
polity,
of
which
the

totemic
division
formed
the
principal
ingredient...

In
this
important
respect

the
British,
and
American
government
especially,
have
lacked
most
woefully.


The
agents
and
commissioners,
and
even
traders
of
these
two
nations,
have

appointed
chiefs
indiscriminately
or
only
in
conformity
with
selfish
motives

and
ends,
and
there
is
nothing
which
has
conduced
so
much
to
disorganize,

confuse,
and
break
up
the
former
simple
but
well‐defined
civil
polity
of
these

people;
and
were
the
matter
to
be
fully
investigated,
it
would
be
found
that





67


this
almost
utter
disorganization
has
been
one
of
the
chief
stumbling‐blocks

which
has
ever
been
in
the
way
of
doing
good
to
the
Indian
race.

This
short‐
sighted
system
has
created
nothing
but
jealousies
and
heart‐burnings
among

the
Ojibways.

It
has
broken
the
former
commanding
influence
of
their

hereditary
chiefs,
and
the
consequence
is,
that
the
tribe
is
without
a
head
or

government,
and
it
has
become
infinitely
difficult
to
treat
with
them
as
a

people.

No
good
has
resulted
from
this
bad
and
thoughtless
policy
even
to

the
governments
who
have
allowed
it
to
be
pursued
by
its
agents.

On
the

contrary,
they
are
punished
daily
by
the
evil
consequences
arising
from
it,
for

in
this
is
to
be
found
the
true
and
first
cause
of
the
complaints
which
are

continually
at
this
day
being
poured
into
the
ears
of
the
"Great
Father"
at

Washington....17







This
excerpt
shows
what
happens
when,
as
Simon
Ortiz
states,
"the
concept
of
the

interdependence
of
the
land
and
people
is
not
always
at
the
forefront
of
discussions

between
Indians
and
non‐Indians,
and
when
Indian
people
do
bring
up
the
matter
of

land
and
people
being
inextricably
bound
together,
the
question
is
often
shunted

aside
as
'an
Indian
cultural
matter.'

If
it
is
not
altogether
dismissed,
it
is
often

regarded
as
beside
the
point
or
not
directly
pertinent."18

On
the
contrary,
as

Warren
points
out,
the
established
clans
and
totems
of
the
people
are
singularly

pertinent
to
personal
and
political
interactions.








The
totemic
divisions
of
the
Anishinaabek's
"well‐defined
civil
polity"
testify
to

their
distinctively
inclusive
reckoning
of
their
role
in
the
whole
of
their




68


surroundings.

The
totemic
system
is
understood
in
relation
to
a
history
that

reaches
as
far
back
as
consciousness
itself,
to
a
time
when
animals
were
relied
upon

to
demonstrate
the
right
manner
of
living
in
accord
with
personal
abilities
necessary

to,
and
wrought
by,
the
demands
of
their
space.

The
totems
are
tied
in
importance

to
the
stories
that
contain
the
lessons
and
traits
particular
to
each
representative

animal.
Gerald
Vizenor
offers
the
following
meditation
to
readily
tie
what
Warren

calls
"the
former
commanding
influence
of
their
hereditary
chiefs"
to
the
totemic

story‐base:


Tribal
leaders
were
dreamers
and
orators,
speaking
in
visual
metaphors
as
if

the
past
were
a
state
of
being
in
the
telling.

Tribal
words
have
power
in
the

oral
tradition,
the
sounds
express
the
spiritual
energies
of
woodland
lives.


The
Anishinaabeg
did
not
borrow
words
from
other
languages
to
speak

about
their
own
dreams
and
lived
experiences
in
the
woodland.

The
words

the
woodland
tribes
spoke
were
connected
to
the
place
the
words
were

spoken.
19

Land,
animals,
language,
and
clan
are
bound
together
in
ways
that
attest
to
the

complex
interworking
of
simultaneous
survival.

The
“mere”
presence
of
an
animal

or
person
or
plant
or
body
of
water
in
a
place
provides
rich
fruits
for
the

contemplative
and
meditative.

The
fruits
offer
sustenance
not
only
to
the
body

through
seasonal
harvests,
but
also
sustain
peaceful
community
through
clan

cohesions
that
reflect
the
preeminence
of
the
animals
to
Anishinaabek
morality.


Vizenor
reminds
us
that
the
woodlands
language
depends
on
the
same
nourishment




69


as
other
living
things:
lands
of
plenty
that
remain
so
through
the
thorough
and

meticulous
acknowledgment
of
their
necessity.



The evidence is strong that the term “dodaem” comes from
the same root as do “dodum” and “dodosh.” “Dodum” means
to do, or fulfill, while “Dodosh,” literally means breast, that
from which milk, or food, or sustenance is drawn. Dodaem
may mean “that form which I draw my purpose, meaning,
and being.”
A legend relates the origin of the totems, six great creatures
emerged from the sea. One exposed to the light and heat of
the sun expired sinking back into the sea. The survivors
came to the shores of the Land of the Anishnabeg by whom
they were welcome.
20









The
decisive
significance
of
the
informant’s
character
and
beliefs
can
hardly
be

overstated.

As
Warren
states:
"Their
innate
courtesy
and
politeness
often
carry

them
so
far
that
they
seldom,
if
ever,
refuse
to
tell
a
story
when
asked
by
a
white

man,
respecting
their
ideas
of
the
creation
and
origin
of
mankind.

These
tales,

though
made
up
for
the
occasion
by
the
Indian
sage,
are
taken
by
his
white
hearers

as
their
bona
fide
belief,
and,
as
such,
many
have
been
made
public,
and
accepted
by

the
civilized
world."21

This
raises
the
familiar
specter
of
authenticity.

Yet
it
is
not
a

matter
of
doubting
the
reliability
of
the
informant
for
reasons
of
assumed
ignorance,

or
the
veracity
of
information
born
out
of
questionable
levels
of
civilization.
Rather,

he
focuses
on
how
the
quality
of
the
interaction
is
indicative
of
the
quality
of
the

information
obtained,
thereby
implicating
two
partners
in
the
dance
of
authenticity.




70


Indeed,
Warren's
stance
on
the
influence
of
these
exchanges
suggests
that
the
way

the
information
is
offered
is
irrevocably
shaped
by
where
events
took
place.

Both

can
provide
understanding
of
the
tribal
character.








How
this
information
is
offered
has
the
subversive
potential
to
undermine
the

written
account
as
the
favored
marker
of
significance
and
validity.

This
recalls

Michael
Warner's
assertion
that
a
"serious
problem
results
from
the
assumption

that
printing
has
an
ontological
status
prior
to
culture."22

Working
from
Warner’s

“premise
that
the
cultural
constitution
of
a
medium
(in
this
case
printing)
is
a
set
of

political
conditions
of
discourse",
the
problem
lay
in
the
obfuscation
of
politically

significant
undertones
in
favor
of
the
printed
word
as
simultaneously
neutral,
valid,

and
normative.23

Warren's
observation
shows
that
the
overlooked
intricacies
of
the

interpersonal
exchange
makes
the
privileged
validity
of
what
is
"made
public
(in)

the
civilized
world"
a
dubious
assumption,
and
thus
undermines
the
reliability
of

written
"bona
fides".
This
intuits
Warner's
stance
on
"the
perception
of
books
as
a

technology
of
power."24

In
either
case,
reflexive
belief
in
the
veracity
of
what
is

written
and
published
reveals
the
nature
and
limits
of
the
power
invested
in
it.


Warren
uses
his
History
of
the
Ojibway
to
repeatedly
call
this
assumed
power
into

question,
and
thereby
reveals
his
own
nuanced
comprehension
of
the
workings

between
the
public
sphere
and
literacy.

For
him,
the
particular
spoken
interactions

of
variously
invested
people
are
what
ultimately
provide
measure
for
the
reliability

of
what
finds
its
way
to
any
written
account.

Finally one man heard a voice say, “Well, well, my uncle;



71


come in if you want to see me. Don’t stand out there.” (This
was the voice of Winabojo.)
The man who heard the voice went and told the rest of the
party. Each had a present for Winabojo. They went into the
lodge and had the presents on their backs and in their arms
and hands. Winabojo shook hands with them and they all sat
down. There was absolute silence.
Beside the door was a stump overgrown with moss. After a
while a voice came from this stump saying, “Why don’t you
speak to your uncle? When we were on earth we talked to
our relations.” (This was the voice of Winabojo’s
grandmother.)
Winabojo replied, “I am just thinking what to say. I will talk
to our relations. If we are to follow the customs of the place
they came form, we must give them food. They must be
hungry.”

25









If,
as
Buffalohead
states
in
the
introduction,
Warren
has
"folded
Ojibway
history

into
an
American
framework",
it
is
not
only
by
highlighting
a
martial
history

congruent
with
popular
images
of
the
fierce
warrior,
but
also
by
the
very
act
of

writing.26

The
intention
of
making
such
a
record
of
the
past
places
the

responsibility
for
cultural
transmission
in
a
methodological
tool
rather
than
in
a

living
exchange
fraught
with
decision,
intention
and
purpose
of
its
own.

Yet,
it
is

important
to
realize
that
the
pattern
of
Warren's
life,
and
the
strategy
of
his
work,

was
wholly
shaped
by
his
familiarity
with
Anishinaabemowin
and
its
speakers.


Recalling
his
youthful
interactions
as
a
mixedblood
among
the
most
traditional

fullblood
Anishinaabek,
he
states
that
"speaking
it
fluently...he
was
always
a





72


welcome
and
petted
guest."27









Warren’s
education
at
these
welcoming
lodge
fires
centered
upon
tribal
stories,
in

addition
to
those
he
knew
from
his
readings.

This
environment
fostered
the
fluency

and
familiarity
that
led
to
his
profession
as
an
interpreter
often
employed,

ironically,
in
the
forging
of
treaties
so
often
distinguished
by
land
loss.

As
stated
by

a
"treaty
man"
of
the
Fond
du
Lac
treaty
of
1847,
Warren's
"command
of
the
English

language,
also,
was
remarkable
‐
in
fact
musical."28

In
that
laurels
of
language

mastery
are
perhaps
best
given
by
first‐language
speakers,
this
same
source
claims

that
"The
Indians
said
he
understood
their
language
better
than
themselves."29


This
suggests
that
bilingualism
enables
a
facility
that
is
somehow
beyond

straightforward
fluency
in
either
language.

The
subtext
is
one
of
privileged
access

to
accuracies
born
of
this
doubling
of
sociolinguistic
viewpoints.

As
Maria
Tymoczo

states,
"multilingual
writing
in
a
postcolonial
text
is
a
means
of
achieving
dense
and

layered
meanings,
how
it
can
convey
multiple
messages
in
coded
and
covert

language
aimed
at
specific
audiences,
and
how
it
can
mobilize
the
precolonial

language
to
escape
the
hegemonic
traps
implicit
in
the
language
of
the
colonizing

power
‐
a
language
that
may
limit
the
terms
of
debate
and
set
a
boundary
on

confrontation."30








The
notion
of
mutual
influence,
where
knowledge
of
Anishinaabemowin
can

serve
to
refine
one's
understanding
of
English,
is
a
possibility
likely
lost
upon

Warren's
literate
(white)
contemporaries.

Yet,
he
repeatedly
posits
the
limitations





73


of
the
written
records
in
common
circulation
in
comparison
to
the
knowledge
he

has
gained
as
an
Anishinaabemowin
speaker
particularly
welcome
among
the
elders

of
tribal
communities.

Returning
to
the
influence
of
the
public
sphere,
it
is

significant
that
Warren
largely
questions
the
accuracy
of
certain
publications

because
they
are
written
accounts,
and
thus
come
with
an
agenda
determined

outside
of,
and
thereby
eclipsing,
what
might
be
learned
through
intimate
inquiry

after
the
spoken
record
of
tribal
experience.








Warren
takes
a
twofold
approach
to
addressing
how
his
History
differs
from

those
typically
consulted.

First,
he
asserts
the
validity
of
his
sources,
and
secondly,

he
outlines
the
logic
behind
doubts
of
the
accuracy
of
written
sources.

The
former

aspect
is
well
illustrated
when
he
moves
his
discussion
to
the
"era
of
their
first

knowledge
of,
and
intercourse
with
the
white
race."31

The
formative
effect
that

differing
measures
of
authority
have
on
his
own
strategy
and
agenda
as
a
writer
is

shown
here
to
be
centered
on
his
very
awareness
of
that
relationship:

So
far
as
their
own
tribe
is
concerned,
the
Ojibways
have
preserved
accurate

and
detailed
accounts
of
this
event;
and
the
information
which
their
old
men

orally
give
on
this
subject,
is
worthy
of
much
consideration,
although
they

may
slightly
differ
from
the
accounts
which
standard
historians
and
writers

have
presented
to
the
world,
and
which
they
have
gleaned
from
the
writings

of
the
enterprising
and
fearless
old
Jesuit
missionaries,
and
from
the

published
narratives
of
the
first
adventurers
who
pierced
into
the
heart
of

the
American
wilderness.

This
source
of
information
may
be
considered
as




74


more
reliable
and
authentic
than
the
oral
traditions
of
the
Indians,
but
as
we

have
undertaken
to
write
their
history
as
they
themselves
tell
it,
we
will
do

so
without
respect
to
what
has
already
been
written
by
eminent
and

standard
authors.

The
writer
is
disposed
to
consider
as
true
and
perfectly

reliable,
the
information
which
he
has
obtained
and
thoroughly
investigated,

on
this
subject,
and
which
he
will
proceed
in
this
chapter
to
relate
in
the

words
of
his
old
Indian
informants.32








That
he
views
his
approach
as
separate
from
that
of
"eminent
and
standard

authors"
indicates
that
theirs
is
a
separate
sphere.

First,
it
is
one
Warren
realizes

"may
be
considered
as
more
reliable
and
authentic",
but
for
his
purposes
is
most

usefully
left
untapped.
Second,
it
is
important
to
note
that
he
says
they
"may
be

considered"
the
superior
source,
not
that
they
actually
are
"more
reliable
and

accurate
than
the
oral
traditions
of
the
Indians."

Warren's
preferred
method,
"to

write
their
history
as
they
themselves
tell
it",
subtly
highlights
how
the
methods
of

the
standard
written
accounts
stake
their
claims
outside
the
intimacies
of
lived

context.

This
calls
to
mind
Michael
Warner's
contention
that
"the
character
of

publication
and
the
character
of
economic
exchange
equally
required
norms
of

interpersonal
relations",
norms
of
a
public
that
he
elsewhere
conceptualizes
as
"an

abstract
public
never
localizable
in
any
relation
between
persons."
33
(Warner's

italics)
What
is
lost
in
the
print
culture's
dis‐privileging
of
located
interpersonal

relations
is
the
ability
to
obtain
and
value
what
Leslie
Marmon
Silko
refers
to
as
"a

communal,
not
an
absolute
truth."34





75







Warren
advances
the
insights
born
of
his
attention
and
access
to
the

Anishinaabek
people’s
autonomous
history.

He
pointedly
does
so
with
full

disclosure
of
the
related
insights
his
project
grants
him
concerning
the
questionable

"absolute"
of
written
English.

In
this
criticism,
he
is
not
shy,
as
is
apparent
in
the

following
rather
scathing
summary
of
the
dubious
assignations
of
fame
in
the

published
world:

Those
who
have
carefully
examined
the
writings
of
the
old
Jesuit

missionaries
and
early
adventurers,
who
claim
to
have
been
the
first

discoverers
of
new
regions,
and
new
people,
in
the
then
dark
wilderness
of

the
west,
or
Central
America,
have
found
many
gross
mistakes
and

exaggerations,
and
their
works
as
a
whole,
are
only
tolerated
and
their

accounts
made
matters
of
history,
because
no
other
source
of
information

has
ever
been
opened
to
the
public...
It
is
a
fact
found
generally
true,
that
the

first
adventurer
who
is
able
to
give
a
flaming
account
of
his
travels,
is
handed

down
to
posterity
as
the
first
discoverer
of
the
country
and
people
which
he

describes
as
having
visited,
when
mayhap,
that
same
region,
and
those
same

people
had
been,
long
previous,
discovered
by
some
obscure
and
more

modest
man,
who,
because
he
could
not
blazon
forth
his
achievements
in
a

book
of
travels,
forever
loses
the
credit
of
what
he
really
has
performed...
It
is

thus
that
a
man
who
travels
for
the
purpose
of
writing
a
book
to
sell,
and

who,
being
a
man
of
letters,
is
able
to
trumpet
forth
his
own
fame,
often

plucks
the
laurels
due
to
more
modest
and
unlettered
adventurers.35






76







It
follows
that
"being
a
man
of
letters"
can
be
characterized
by
a
penchant
to

"trumpet
forth"
at
the
expense
of
a
more
modest
truth.

Certainly,
Warren
witnesses

the
egotistical,
insiders
world
of
publishing
with
equal
parts
frustration
and
disdain.



They went to Winabojo on the following day, and he said,
“You have come to ask favors. I will do what I can for you.”
One man said, “I have come to ask you to give me a life with
no end.” Winabojo twisted him around and threw him into a
corner, and he turned into a black stone. “You asked for a
long life. You will last as long as the world stands.”
Another man gave Winabojo a present and said, “I have once
to ask for unfailing success and that I may never lack for
anything.” Winabojo turned him into a fox, saying, “Now
you will always be cunning and successful.”
The others saw what was happening to these men and they
became frightened. They decided to ask for one thing
together, so they asked that they might have healing power in
their medicine.36









In
that
the
majority
of
written
material
on
the
Anishinaabek
was
published
by

whites,
it
is
useful
to
consider
the
effect
their
"outsider"
status
as
visitors
likely
had.


Warren's
measure
of
the
British
and
American
government's
failure
to
acquiesce
to

established
clan
codes
of
conduct
that
reflected
the
Ojibway's
"real
and
true

character"
convincingly
ties
personal
approach
to
political
outcome.

To
further

explore
such
connections
in
specific
relation
to
letters,
comparing
the
writings
of

Frederick
Baraga
and
Frances
Densmore
can
show
the
relation
between




77


(missionary
and
ethnographic)
interaction
and
subsequently
gleaned
material.








In
the
1847
publication
Chippewa
Indians:
Answers
to
the
Inquiries
respecting
the

History,
present
Condition
and
future
Prospects
of
the
Indian
Tribes
of
the
United

States,
Baraga
directly
states
his
essential
lack
of
interest
in
the
autonomies
of

Anishinaabek
life,
seeing
himself
"now
these
sixteen
years
among
the
Indians,
for

missionary
purposes.

All
my
endeavors
and
labors
during
the
whole
time
of
my
stay

amongst
them
have
indeed
only
tended
to
the
teaching
them
Christianity,
but

occasionally
I
inquired
about
the
topics
mentioned
in
the
"Inquiries",
and
the

observations
I
have
made
myself
during
my
stay
in
the
Indian
country,
I
am
willing

to
communicate."37

His
intention
was
to
remain
essentially
separate;
determined
to

pursue
indoctrination,
but
little
interested
in
communication
as
an
exchange
of

mutual
learning
and
experience.

Not
surprisingly,
for
all
his
years
spent
among
the

people,
his
assessment
of
cultural
particulars
is
typically
superficial,
often

dismissive,
and
sometimes
strikingly
inaccurate.

Asked
about
the
instruction
of

children,
Baraga
offers
the
following
account:

They
have
no
particular
system
of
instructing
their
children
in
their

traditions.
Old
persons
occasionally
in
cold
winter
evenings
relate
what
they

have
heard
of
their
ancestors;
and
the
young
ones,
hearing
so
often
the
same

relations,
retain
them.

They
have
but
a
small
stock
of
moral
doctrine,
which

is
soon
learned.

Their
tales
and
stories
are
related
for
amusement.

They

contain
no
moral
instructions,
but
mere
nonsense;
and
many
of
them
are
bad

stuff.

Grandfathers
and
grandmothers
often
instruct
their
grandchildren,




78


how
to
behave.

There
are
no
privileged
persons
for
relating
tales
and

stories.38
(Baraga's
underline)






Baraga's
intentionally
limited
contact
outside
his
efforts
at
conversion
inspires
a

barely
concealed
distaste
for
his
view
of
tribal
customs
(or,
to
align
more
accurately

with
his
assessment,
the
lack
thereof).
Yet,
he
was
approached
as
someone
with

expertise
on
all
manner
of
cultural
and
intimate
details
concerning
the

Anishinaabek.

The
Chippewa
Indians
Inquiries...,
disseminated
by
Commissioner
of

Indian
Affairs
William
Medill
and
written
by
Henry
Schoolcraft,
were
originally
sent

to
Detroit
Bishop
Peter
P.
Lefevre.
Lefevre
sent
them
to
Baraga,
"whom
he

considered
more
competent
than
himself
to
answer
them."39

It
would
seem
that,
as

commonly
understood,
the
role
of
the
missionary
tempts
the
assumption
that
there

are
congruent
insights
born
of
the
face‐to‐face
nature
of
the
contact.

The
brevity

alone
of
the
above
passage
clearly
suggests
that
mere
presence
(even
16
year's

worth)
is
not
sufficient.

There
must
be
a
willingness
to
exist
in
tandem
with
the

character
of
the
place
as
it
determines
the
character
of
the
people.



And so along the trail the Wolves made in their pursuit was
the way (Nanabushu and the old wolf) went. Now, once
there was sticking out of a tree the tooth of a wolf. “Oh, look!
Your nephew must have stuck the tree accidentally. I say,
pull it out, Nanabushu, carry along your nephew’s arrow!”
“What am I to do with the miserable tooth of a dog, that I
should carry it as I go along?”
“Nanabushu, do not say that.” The old Wolf took it out with
his mouth. Behold, an arrow he took out.



79


40








Under
the
auspices
of
the
Smithsonian
Institution
Bureau
of
American
Ethnology

(a
sponsorship
in
itself
instructive
of
the
shifting
sites
of
officialdom
in
relation
to

tribal
peoples),
the
manuscript
Chippewa
Customs
by
Frances
Densmore
was

published
in
1929.
The
vast
gulf
separating
her
account
from
Baraga's
is
apparent

from
even
the
opening
pages.

Following
an
extensive
table
of
contents
are
four

photographs:
one
showing
a
cedar
mat
part
way
woven
on
a
frame
outside
a
log

home,
another
of
a
woman
outside
weaving
a
rush
mat,
and
the
other
two
portraits

of
her
principle
informants,
Mrs.
Mary
Warren
English,
and
Niskigwun.








These
images
suggest
the
intimate
nature
of
Densmore's
priorities
and
approach:

an
amalgam
of
carefully
noted
details
supported
by
purposeful
inquiry.

In
the

foreword,
she
alludes
to
the
long‐term
nature
of
her
contact,
stating
how
the

"present
work
is
related
in
many
respects
to
material
already
collected
among
the

Chippewa.

The
study
of
tribal
songs
led
to
a
friendliness
with
the
people
and
a

willingness
on
their
part
to
give
information
concerning
their
customs."41
The

Bureau
of
American
Ethnology
had
published
Chippewa
Music
and
Chippewa
Music,

II
in
1910
and
1913
respectively;
both
detailed
bulletins
backed
up
by
wax
cylinder

recordings
that
required
considerable
time
to
collect.

However,
she
does
not
allow

for
her
considerable
skill
and
discipline
as
a
scholar
to
bear
primary
credit
for
the

rich
details
of
her
accounts,
but
foregrounds
the
role
of
the
Chippewa.

The

"friendliness
and
willingness"
she
mentions
were
clearly
a
two‐way
street.








In
conjunction
with
the
portraits,
her
careful
graciousness
is
suggested
by
the




80


statement:
"The
writer
gratefully
acknowledges
the
faithfulness
of
her
Chippewa

friends
and
especially
the
assistance
of
her
principal
interpreter,
Mrs.
Mary
Warren

English,
which
began
in
1907
and
continued
during
the
work
at
White
Earth."42



Densmore's
prioritizing
of,
and
indeed
respect
for,
her
informants
is
further
verified

by
the
list
of
names
immediately
following
the
foreword.

A
total
of
63
names
that

"identify
the
persons
who
chiefly
contributed
to
the
material
herewith"
are
listed.43


Importantly,
that
number
is
nearly
doubled
by
Densmore's
decision
to
give
both
the

name
"by
which
the
person
is
generally
known"
and
the
one
that
is
either
an
English

translation
of
that
name
(Niskigwun
meaning
"Ruffled
feathers"),
or
a
name
in

Anishinaabemowin
that
the
person
is
known
as
in
the
tribal
community
(Mrs.
Star

Bad
Boy
being
Nenakawubikwe,
Woman
who
is
sitting
with
every
other
one).44








In
the
Chippewa
Indians
Inquiries..,
Baraga
only
names
one
name:
"Nicholas
D.

Meniclier,
a
half
breed
from
the
Sault,
who
keeps
constantly
a
great
supply
of

whiskey,
which
he
sells
to
the
Indians."45

The
underlining
indicates
that
this
is
in

the
interest
of
censure
and
indictment
rather
than
specificity.

Aside
from
Meniclier,

in
response
to
questions
about
the
naming
of
children,
he
supplies
"some
specimens

of
Indian
names."46

No
specific
persons
are
alluded
to:

the
Anishinaabemowin

words
are
merely
given
as
generalized
information,
an
attitude
echoed
by
Baraga's

consistent
referents
of
either
"the
Indian"
or
"they"
to
discuss
the
Anishinaabek
he

has
been
commissioned
to
give
detailed
chronicle
of.






The
willingness
and
ability
to
accept
the
Anishinaabek
right
to
autonomous




81


personhood
marks
the
basic
difference
between
the
two
authors.

Approaching

individuals
as
people
rather
than
subjects
requires
gaining
a
familiarity
with
the

details
of
their
existence.
In‐depth
information
thus
acquired
can
be
responded
to

with
interest
rather
than
judgment.

This
interpersonal
variance
has
direct
relation

to
the
quality
of
the
accounts
given.

Lest
it
be
suspected
that
Densmore's
insistence

on
the
word
"friend"
is
self‐assigned
or
a
negligible
significance,
a
picture
of
her

interactive
place
in
the
community
organically
develops
throughout
Chippewa

Customs.

The
contents
of
the
"Government
of
Children"
section,
given
under
the

larger
heading
of
"Life
Cycle",
is
rich
in
details
that
both
directly
contrast
Baraga's

account,
and
reveal
the
extent
of
Densmore's
access
to
the
quiet
intimacies
of

Chippewa
life.








She
states
that
"The
Chippewa
gave
much
attention
to
the
training
of
their

children",
and
goes
on
to
relay
extensive
and
diverse
"information
concerning
the

government
of
little
children"
provided
by
elder
informants
who
stress
methods

derived
to
ensure
self‐control,
obedience,
and
respect
for
elders.47

With
his

preferred
remove
from
all
aspects
of
life
save
the
Christian
conversion
of
the
people,

it
is
inconceivable
that
Baraga
would
be
able
to
provide
the
view
of
the
in‐depth

inner‐workings
of
tribal
life
that
Densmore
does
in
the
following
passage:


When
everyone
had
retired
and
the
camp
was
quiet
an
old
man
walked

around
the
camp
circle,
passing
in
front
of
the
dark
tents.

This
man
was
a

crier
and
he
made
the
announcements
for
the
next
day,
telling
whether
the

people
would
go
hunting
or
what
would
be
done
in
camp.

He
also
gave
good




82


advice
to
the
young
people
who
were
taught
to
respect
him
and
obey
his

words.

Only
a
man
who
was
known
to
embody
in
his
own
life
the
excellent

principles
he
uttered
was
allowed
to
act
as
crier.

He
usually
announced
that

it
was
time
for
the
young
men
who
were
calling
upon
the
young
maidens
to

go
home.

He
spoke
impersonally
of
the
conduct
of
the
young
people,

describing
incidents
in
such
a
manner
that
those
concerned
in
them
would

know
to
what
he
referred.

He
taught
sterling
principles
of
character
and

gave
such
advice
as
he
thought
necessary.48







Recalling
Baraga's
claim
that
"There
are
no
privileged
persons
for
relating
tales

and
stories",
it
becomes
clear
that
the
decisive
impact
that
the
interpersonal

exchange
has
upon
the
accuracy
of
the
information
is
irrefutable.49

One
held
the

position
of
crier
by
virtue
of
reputation:
the
right
to
upon
“sterling
principles
of

character”
was
certainly
accorded
only
to
those
deemed
by
the
community
to
posses

the
same.
In
the
effort
to
determine
the
actual
access
various
record‐keeping

outsiders
were
granted,
it
is
worth
keeping
in
mind
the
long‐term,
group‐sanctioned

nature
of
the
crier’s
position
of
trust.
The
audience,
convinced
of
his
character,

intentions,
and
care,
listen
with
a
willingness
to
take
his
advice
to
heart.








The
narrative
quality
of
Densmore's
prose,
invoking
as
it
does
here
a
subdued

domestic
scene
of
intimate
community,
lends
the
work
important
undertones
of

cultural
respect
that
can
be
understood
in
relation
to
the
crier’s
privileged
access.


Both
the
autonomy
and
the
strength
of
Anishinaabek
customs
are
affirmed
by
an

approach
that
essentially
authenticates
"the
facts"
by
presenting
them
as
parcel
to
a




83


located,
lived
expression.


Joseph
Bruchac's
comments
about
stories
and
place
in
his

book
Roots
of
Survival
apply
to
the
process
and
the
contents
of
the
accounts
under

discussion,
and
to
attitudes
toward
the
people.

Bruchac
writes:
"most
non‐Natives

encounter
such
stories
in
the
pages
of
a
book
rather
than
in
the
natural
setting
of
the

stories,
the
physical
places
and
seasonal
context,
which
help
ensure
that
the
lessons

carried
by
the
stories
are
properly
transmitted,
that
the
stories
are
treated
as
living

things
rather
than
as
cultural
artifacts
or
clever
bits
of
artifice."50

As
the
treatment

of
stories
as
"living
things"
enriches
the
understanding
of
their
meanings
and

applicability,
so
does
the
treatment
of
the
people
and
their
lifeways
as
living
effect

the
observation
and
reckoning
of
what
is
shown
and
shared.







In
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
William
Warren
furthers
the
relationship

between
the
self‐concept
and
intentions
of
the
inquirer
and
the
quality
of
their
work

by
calling
attention
to
possible
perils
within
the
interaction
proper.

He
writes
that

"the
information
respecting
them
which
has
thus
far
been
collected,
is
mainly

superficial.

It
has
been
obtained
mostly
by
transient
sojourners
among
the
various

tribes,
who
not
having
a
full
knowledge
of
their
character
and
language,
have

obtained
information
through
mere
temporary
observation."51


In
this,
he

pronounces
judgment
on
the
methodology
of
the
anthropologists
and
missionaries.


In
short,
theirs
is
a
recipe
for
superficiality
compounded
by
how
the
"Anglo‐
Americans
have
pressed
on
them
so
unmercifully
‐
their
intercourse
with
them
has

been
of
such
a
nature,
that
they
have
failed
to
secure
their
love
and
confidence...
the

heart
of
the
red
man
has
been
shut
against
his
white
brother.

We
know
him
only
by




84


his
exterior."52







There
is
a
rather
meaningful
ambiguity
to
whom
the
final
"we"
refers
to,
and

whether
Warren
is
including
himself
among
the
ranks
of
the
red
men
or
the
white

brothers.

What
is
certain
is
that
when
he
cites
what
credentials
would
make
for
a

richer
account
of
the
Ojibway,
language
and
congenial
familiarity
are
at
the

forefront.

The
way
he
words
his
own
background,
including
the
Lake
Superior/

Upper
Mississippi
location
of
his
upbringing,
his
blood
ties,
and
"speaking
their

language
perfectly"
highlights
both
his
reckoning
of
a
certain
separation
from
who
is

included
in
the
word
"their",
along
with
how
his
sustained
presence
among
the

Anishinaabek
and
his
command
of
the
language
at
least
places
him
more
culturally

inside
the
fold
than
other
authors.

His
access
and
acceptance
among
"their
old
men

and
chiefs
who
are
the
repositories
of
the
traditions
of
the
tribe",
is
the
crucial
factor

in
the
creation
of
a
History
that
"does
claim
to
be
one
of
truth,
and
the
first
work

written
from
purely
Indian
sources
which
has
probably
ever
been
presented
to
the

public."53







This
truth
is
bound
to
his
sources,
the
elders
who
spoke
directly
to
him
in
a

language
bound
to
their
ancestral
lands.

These
acts
of
communication
mirrored
the

characteristics
of
an
indigenous
language
dependent
on
expression
born
of
mutually

affirmed
observations.

The
structure
of
Anishinaabemowin
is
inseparable
from
the

composition
of
the
particular
scene
or
action
being
referenced.

As
my
language

teacher
Helen
Roy
has
observed,
"If
you
think
about
it,
there
aren't
any
mistakes
or

wrong
ways
to
say
something,
if
you
are
careful
to
say
exactly
what
it
is
you
are




85


seeing
or
talking
about."

This
attest
to
the
ample,
even
characteristic,
space
for

nuance,
as
any
articulation
is
tailored
to
the
specific
observation,
interpretation,
and

understanding
of
an
entire
world
of
subject
matter.








Warren's
fluency
in
this
profoundly
interactive
language
forged
his
awareness
of

Anishinaabek
historical
and
cultural
foundations.
An
awareness
at
odds
with
the

dominant
culture's
tendency
to
defer
to
museum‐like
written
collections
of
alleged

authority.

An
authority
that
tends
to
disintegrate
once
exposed
to
the
conclusions
of

someone
outside
the
standard
measures
of
literacy
as
power,
but
experienced
in
the

rich
insights
born
of
(spatially
scaled)
human
interaction.

For
writers
like
Warren

and
Densmore,
the
value
of
the
written
record
perhaps
primarily
rests
in
its
ability

to
refuse
a
hierarchy
that
would
place
the
old
men
and
women
whom
they
listened

to
and
learned
from
at
the
bottom
rung.

The
active
community
underlying
the

printed
word
enables
and
reveals
the
fully
nuanced
significance
of
what
is
being

told.




86


Chapter
Three.



Interrogating
the
Archives:
Understanding
the
Literacy
of
the
Heart






Recalling
the
value
William
Warren
attached
to
his
familiar
presence
as
a
boy
at

the
Anishinaabek
lodge
fires,
I
wonder
whether
the
elder
informants
in
the
text

Ojibwa
Narratives
were
comfortable
enough
with
Homer
H.
Kidder
to
share
the

intimate
details
of
their
beliefs.

Establishing
relationships
based
on
good
feelings

and
mutual
trust
would
require
Kidder
to
prove
himself
friendly
and

straightforward.

Frankly,
I
do
not
want
to
rely
on
the
scholarship
of
someone
who

looked
down
on
the
Anishinaabek
elders,
but
rather
listened
with
real
interest.


What
is
the
likelihood
that
their
interactions
were
characterized
by
a
mutual

investment
in
the
narratives
and
their
worth?
Weighing
the
archives
calls
for
equal

parts
stringency
and
intuition.

The
trained
academic
in
me
worries
over
the
quality

and
usefulness
of
my
sources.

My
ancestral
loyalties
require
evidence
that
the
voice

of
the
people
could
somehow
make
it
through
paternalistic
layers
of
translation
and

textualization.








There
are
promising
signs
that
this
particular
contact
enjoyed
at
least
some

relation
to
natural
conversation.

Kidder’s
translator,
Jacques
LePique,
made
certain

that
the
young
man
approached
Charles
Kawbawgam
with
tobacco
in
hand.

In
a

footnote,
Kidder
indirectly
links
his
success
to
this
custom,
reporting
that

Kawbawgam
“would
always
smoke
in
silence
between
stories.”1

It
isn’t
likely
that

the
stories
would
have
happened
without
the
tobacco,
not
of
the
same
quantity
or





87


quality.

A
picture
forms
of
an
old
man
at
his
ease,
reassured
by
the
presence
of
the

asemaa
(tobacco)
that
his
knowledge
is
being
sought
out
and
heard
with
respect.


Familial
histories
also
bode
well:
H.H.
Kidder
was
not
a
stranger,
but
the
eldest
son

of
Alfred
Kidder,
who
was
himself
acquainted
with
Kawbawgam
and
LePique
and

familiar
with
some
of
the
stories
the
two
old
men
shared
with
his
son.

I
am

reminded
of
William
Warren’s
emphasis
on
his
long‐term
presence
among
the

Anishinaabek
as
crucial
to
the
reliability
of
his
information,
and
I
give
Kidder

another
point
in
his
favor.
It
begins
to
seem
that
he
may
have
been
trusted,
or
at

least
welcomed
with
customary
hospitality.

The
tobacco
and
the
established

connections
would
be
important
to
the
elders,
regardless
of
Kidder’s
awareness
of

their
influence.






Though relegated to a footnote, Homer Kidder’s aside concerning a scene of
Anishinaabek storytelling possesses significant resonance. It reassures me that comments
that seem patronizing or dismissive need not require a total jettisoning of the stories
Kidder gathered. 
His
youth
and
his
ignorance
of
the
life
his
informants
lead
do
not

necessarily
disqualify
him
from
acquiring
a
genuine
sampling
of
Anishinaabek

understandings. The effort to determine the reliability of this particular archive is
seemingly rewarded when Kidder remarks:



The
form
of
these
yarns,
as
told
by
Kawbawgam,
largely
disappears
in
taking

them
down
as
interpreted.

Kawbawgam
more
or
less
acted
out
each
episode

and
the
Indians
present
were
once
or
twice
convulsed
with
laughter,
as
for

example,
when
he
showed
how
Kitchi
Nonan
bent
the
barrel
of
his
gun
to




88


make
it
shoot
in
a
curve,
and
so
killed
all
the
ducks
with
a
single
charge.2




Whether aware of it or not, and despite any internalized hierarchies, Kidder seems to
have gained access to genuine tellings of purposeful narratives. The active telling and
spirited reactions are crucial to the vitality of the stories spoken. The entire body forms
the communication, and success is measured immediately by the visceral response of a
wholly present and involved audience. That Kidder was privy to these aspects suggests
that he gained a true picture of the stories as active agents of community.

There
is
an

intuitive
difference
between
narratives
that
contain
actual
cultural
beliefs
and

histories,
and
those
offered
simply
to
appease,
or
even
expose,
the
curiosity
of
an

interloper.


In
another
footnote
to
a
story
about
Nanabozho,
Kidder
mentions
“The

description
of
this
scene
Kawbawgam
accompanied
with
a
pantomime
which
sent

the
Indians
present
in
a
roar.”3

Considered
alongside
the
movement
and
sound
of

the
spoken
original,
printed
words
become
relegated
to
their
proper
place:
pallid

placeholders
to
the
plenteous
process
of
storytelling
and
storylistening.








I
am
satisfied
that
Kidder’s
intentions
were
primarily
guided
by
his
curiosity
as
a

young
academic,
rather
than
the
wish
to
denigrate
or
assimilate.
He
proved
himself

open
to
timely
suggestions
concerning
cultural
protocol.
Though
unable
to

understand
the
language,
Kidder
was
nevertheless
cognizant
that
the
laughter
was

key
to
the
character
of
Anishinaabek
storytelling.

These
matters
seem
sufficient
to

count
him
as
part
of
a
community
of
listeners,
and
thus
tame
suspicions
that
would

cause
tribal
loyalists
to
resist
or
discount
his
record.

Determining
the
influence
of

the
lived
circumstances
surrounding
the
communication
allows
the
stories
to
be




89


reckoned
on
something
like
their
own
terms.

Akin
to
Wendy
Geniusz’s
unapologetic

contention
that
“degrading
comments
need
to
be
removed”
from
otherwise

informative
documents,
whether
the
limitations
of
the
recorder’s
ingrained

hierarchies
can
be
separated
from
otherwise
faithful
efforts
at
accuracy
needs
to
be

decided.4







The
quest
to
discern
the
original
(pre‐translation,
pre‐written)
spirit
of
the
telling

demands
filling
in
the
sensory
blanks
inherent
to
a
written
piece.

The
effort
must
be

made
to
reanimate
the
storytelling
scene
in
its
active
social
interaction.

In
light
of

Michael
Warner’s
convincing
contention
that
“A
way
of
representing
the
people

constructs
the
people”,
the
challenge
is
to
determine
whether
the
self‐
representation
apparent
in
the
scene
of
the
telling
can
endure
the
demands
of
the

written
project.5

In
other
words,
can
the
dynamics
of
the
oral
exchange
be

reconstructed
such
that
the
intentions
of
the
informants
and
translators
are
not

wholly
minimized
by
print
discourse
“as
an
ideology
of
legitimate
power”?6

Despite

any
patronizing
attitudes
of
superiority
on
the
part
of
the
literate
scribe,
it
is

imperative
to
trust
that
the
stories
possess
their
own
authority.
Distinctly
at
odds

with
print’s
“full
authority
of
representative
legitimacy”,
Kawbawgam
and
LePique’s

legitimacy
rests
in
forthright
communication,
the
immanent
familiarity
of
gestures

and
laughter
that
animated
their
shared
knowledge.7







There
are
several
instances
that
pit
Kidder’s
rational
prejudice
against
the

avowed
experience
and
knowledge
of
his
informants.

I
am
struck
by
the
familiarity





90


of
Kidder’s
patronizing
tone
when
he
expresses
his
doubts
over
traditional

Anishinaabek
beliefs.

(I
recall
once
being
told
by
an
admired
professor
to
“give
him

a
break”
when
I
brought
up
the
widely
accepted
indigenous
belief
that
animals

consent
to
be
hunted
if
the
proper
respect
is
shown.)

But
the
dominant
culture’s

resistance
to
the
originality
and
functionality
of
established
traditions
can

undermine
tribal
people’s
autonomy
and
authority
only
if
they
acquiesce
to
the

outsider’s
myopic
claims
on
reason.

In
the
section
entitled
“Nibawnawbe”,
Homer

H.
Kidder
provides
a
small
narrative
of
his
own,
detailing
a
particular
interaction

between
himself,
his
informants,
and
his
local
library.

His
firm
trust
in
the

preeminence
of
Western,
written
authority
and
influence
comes
clear,
only
to
be

bested
by
the
equally
strong
convictions
the
elders
hold
toward
their
own

traditions.

Kidder
writes:

The
Ojibwas
have
a
conception
apparently
similar
to
those
of
the
mermaid
or

merman
of
European
mythology.

This
was
brought
to
my
notice
last
August

(1894)
in
a
conversation
with
Kawbawgam
about
the
genealogy
of
some
of

his
wife’s
family.

I
had
asked
the
name
of
his
wife’s
grandfather.

The
old

chief
at
once
said,
“Nibawnawbe.”

But
when
I
asked
the
meaning
of
the

name,
Jacques,
who
was
interpreting,
seemed
at
a
loss
how
to
translate
it.


After
some
talk
with
Kawbawgam,
he
said,
“It’s
like
a
man
or
woman
with
the

tail
of
a
fish,”
and
indicated
by
a
gesture
that
these
had
very
long
hair.

In
my
surprise
I
asked
Jacques
whether
he
didn’t
think
the
Indians
must
have

got
the
idea
from
fairy
stories
told
to
them
by
white
people.




91


“Maybe,”
he
said
incredulously;
“but
there
are
Nibawnawbe,
anyway.


Charlotte
saw
one
in
Lake
Superior.”8






This
exchange
illuminates
some
of
the
key
hierarchies
shaping
the
gathering’s

social
dynamics.

For
Kidder’s
part,
it
is
clear
that
Western
culture
is
his
default

mode
of
reference.
His
intellectual
reliance
on
the
authoritative
influence
of
the

more
widely
known
mythology
highlights
the
sense
of
superiority
attached
to

European
traditions.

Indeed,
even
after
listening
to
and
recording
Charlotte’s
and

Jacques’s
accounts
of
their
own
and
other
elder’s
encounters
with
Nibawnawbe,
he

“found
himself
still
doubting
whether
the
Nibawnawbe,
which
seemed
so
like
the

mermaid,
could
really
be
aboriginal
to
America.”9

It
is
only
after
coming
across
a

seemingly
supportive
passage
in
The
Jesuit
Relations
1699­70,
sent
by
Father
Claude

Dablon
to
a
superior,
that
Kidder
is
willing
to
suppose
that
the
Nibawnawbe
familiar

to
the
Anishinaabek
predate
the
arrival
of
any
Europeans.

I
imagine
Kidder
at
the

Marquette
Public
Library,
consulting
the
oracle
of
written
research,
thinking
to

prove
his
old
informant’s
wrongheadedness,
only
to
be
surprised
by
the
archive’s

apparent
corroboration.

His
painstaking
reckoning
of
the
chronologies
supplied
by

the
elders
in
comparison
to
the
dates
in
Dablon’s
report
lead
him
to
conclude
that

“the
story
told
by
Charlotte
Kawbawgam
and
by
Shwonong’s
informant
were

evidently
of
native,
not
old
world,
origin.”10







He
does
not
comment
any
further
about
his
incredulity,
or
about
the
implications

of
this
unexpected
accuracy.

Despite
the
fact
that
his
theory
of
European
influence

was
incorrect,
his
willingness
to
include
these
findings
provides
his
narrative
a




92


different
kind
of
authority.

I
am
further
convinced
that
he
was,
plainly
stated,
not
a

bad
sort.

His
curiosity
is
not
wholly
in
thrall
to
an
agenda
meant
to
belittle
or

minimize
the
beliefs
of
his
informants.

And
if
that
same
curiosity
lacks
some

openness
after
having
been
tempered
by
a
life
spent
convinced
of
the
superiority
of

his
own
civilization,
the
information
he
gleans
still
provides
unexpected,
if
not

wholly
acknowledged,
lessons
to
learn.






This
same
exchange
also
indicates
the
elder’s
firm
belief
in
the
originality
and

veracity
of
their
own
traditions.

Jacques
LePique’s
mildly
acquiescent,
polite

”maybe”
is
distinctly
qualified
by
an
incredulous
tone.

More
importantly,
his

certainty
rests
on
Charlotte’s
first‐hand
experience,
increased
in
weight
by
an

additional
narrative
concerning
an
actual
encounter
with
the
Nibawnawbe.

Both

Charlotte
and
the
boy
who
related
his
story
to
Shawonong,
a
friend
of
LePique’s,

were
dismayed
at
the
sightings,
as
the
Nibawnawbe
portend
bad
luck
and
the
death

of
a
family
member.

She
tells
her
listeners
that
“sure
enough,
her
grandmother
died

within
one
year.”11

Significantly,
her
story
assumes
the
reality
of
the
Nibawnawbe

while
underscoring
the
serious
nature
of
their
presence.

Real
fear
and
grim

consequences
make
the
Nibawnawbe
something
beyond
mythology,
to
place
the

narratives
outside
the
confines
of
fairy
stories
and
within
the
reckoning
of
lived

days.


I
am
reminded
of
Paula
Gunn
Allen’s
contention
that
“the
westerner’s
bias

against
nonordinary
states
of
consciousness
is
as
unthinking
as
the
Indian’s
belief
in

them
is
said
to
be.”12

For
those
whose
consciousness
is
open
to
the
intermingling
of

the
spiritual
and
the
quotidian,
truth
is
witnessed
as
the
shaper
of
lives,
and
not
just




93


the
prize
of
canny
research
and
textual
corroboration.

The
western
grip
on

rationality
gains
much
strength
by
dismissing
anyone
or
anything
that
does
not
fit

neatly
into
the
insular
hierarchy
that
permits
self‐assignations
of
authority.








Here
we
see
the
potency
of
experiences
that
resist
western
logic
by
relying
on

heightened
sensitivity
to
an
expanded
sphere
of
influence.

The
Nibawnawbe
are

familiar
to
Kidder’s
informants
not
because
they
reference
a
recognizable
trope
of

fantasy,
but
because
they
possess
an
experiential
influence
it
would
be
ill‐advised
to

ignore.

It
is
a
critical
challenge
to
grasp
this
key
difference
in
worldviews,
as
our

current
intellectual
age
is
so
far
removed
from
any
intimate
familiarity
with

spiritual
forces
and
beings.

Yet,
as
Kidder’s
narrative
attests
to
with
its
seemingly

inseparable
accounts
of
the
historic
and
the
uncanny,
such
encounters
were
basic
to

Anishinaabek

lives.

Furthermore,
the
spiritual
base
that
remains
vested
in
the

lands
is
central
to
ongoing
efforts
as
cultural
reclamation
and
revitalization.

As

Peter
Nabokov
remarks
in
the
introduction
to
his
excellent
and
accessible
book

Where
The
Lightning
Strikes:
The
Lives
of
American
Indian
Sacred
Places,
there
is
a

“profound
affection
and
affiliation
that
many
Indians
felt
and
still
feel
toward
this

American
earth
and
(he
writes)
to
illustrate
the
persistence
of
those
beliefs,

practices
and
feelings
against
great
odds.”13

Alongside
such
formidable
obstacles
as

relocation
and
the
exploitation
of
resources,
the
default
dubiousness
of
the

dominant
culture
toward
such
affiliations
continues
to
stack
the
odds
against

trusting
to
the
authority
of
spiritual
places
and
beings.







A
similar
clash
of
worldviews
is
apparent
in
an
encounter
between
LePique
and




94


the
elder
Kidder,
Alfred.
Homer
Kidder
reports


My
father
told
me,
some
years
ago,
an
anecdote
that
showed
the
tenacity
of

Ojibwa
concepts
among
the
more
or
less
Christianized
half‐breeds
of
Lake

Superior.

In
his
exploring
trips
in
the
[eighteen]
sixties,
he
often
had
Jacques

LePique
as
cook.

One
morning
late
in
the
winter,
when
they
were
breaking

camp
for
a
long
tramp
along
the
coast,
a
thaw
promised
to
make
for
heavy

snow
shoeing.

Before
they
left,
Jacques
took
some
moist
snow
and
fashioned

a
rabbit
standing
on
its
haunches
on
the
shore
facing
the
north.

The
rabbit
had
an
absurd,
rakish
air,
and
my
father
asked
Jacques
what
it

meant.

Jacques
said
that
the
rabbit
was
intended
to
make
the
north
wind

blow,
for
ka‐bi‐bon‐na‐kay
(the
north
wind)
would
think
the
rabbit
was

making
fun
of
him
and
would
try
to
blow
him
down,
but,
of
course,
the
colder

it
blew
the
harder
the
rabbit
would
freeze.

Captain
Joe
Bridges,
who
was
of
the
party,
asked
Jacques
if
he
really
believed

in
that
nonsense.

Jacques
said:
“Just
wait
and
see.”

As
a
matter
of
fact,
when

they
had
gone
several
miles,
it
came
on
to
blow
from
the
north
and
began
to

freeze.

Jacques
was
elated.

He
said
to
Bridges:
“Didn’t
I
tell
you?

It
never

fails.”

Jacques
afterwards
told
my
father
that
this
was
an
old
practice
with
the

Ojibwas
to
stop
a
thaw
at
sugar
making
time.14







To
begin,
the
limitations
inherent
to
Kidder’s
term,
“concepts’,
should
be
noted.





95


Typically
understood
as
an
idea
or
frame
of
mind,
a
concept
is
more
beholden
to

general
thought
or
sometimes
imagination,
rather
than
being
a
component
of

concrete
reality.

Yet,
the
example
provided
to
illustrate
the
“tenacity
of
Ojibwa

concepts”
relies
on
observable
phenomena
and
purposeful,
specific
action.


Certainly,
I
can
sympathize
with
Kidder’s
reticence
to
accept
the
tale
at
face
value.
I

too
have
been
trained
by
the
stark
allowances
of
Western
logic
and
law
to
categorize

seemingly
irrational
events
as
fancy,
metaphor,
superstition,
or
some
other
label
in

the
litany
of
terms
suited
to
explaining
away
the
unexpected.

But
this
reflexive

tendency
toward
rationalizing
semiotics
belittles
people
and
cultures
that
operate

outside
the
sciences
of
interpretation.
Thus
a
story
like
LePique’s
becomes
a
mere

subject
of
intellectual
interest
open
to
dissection
and
disconnected
explanation.







Accepted
as
an
account
of
actual
events,
however,
the
narrative
illuminates
a

profound
relationship
between
experience
and
subsequent
agency.

LePique’s

experience
of
the
weather
calls
forth
a
plethora
of
cultural
associations
that

engender
his
active,
playful
response.

Encased
in
Kidder’s
seeming
intention
to

expose
the
steadfastness
of
Anishinaabek
fancies
even
among
Christianized
half‐
breeds,
there
is
instead
evidence
pointing
to
the
instrumentality
of
personable,

familiar
interactions
with
the
surrounding
elements.

Not
only
does
the
small

narrative
offer
a
glimpse
of
the
Anishinaabek
cosmology
to
those
acquainted
with

the
language
(the
term
“Ka‐bi‐bo‐na‐kay”
more
specifically
names
Bibon,
the
winter

spirit
residing
in
the
north),
it
also
situates
LePique’s
knowledge
in
the
longstanding

traditions
associated
with
sugarbush.
Though
the
story
is
related
in
English
and

inclined
toward
the
pseudo‐neutrality
of
ethnographic
inquiry,
both
of
these




96


matters
set
the
scene
within
a
context
of
Anishinaabek
practices.
If
LePique’s
direct

experience
is
favored
as
the
more
significant
indicator,
it
allows
the
possibility
that

the
Snow
Rabbit
is
indeed
a
verifiably
effective
solution
to
a
practical
problem,

specific
to
people
and
place.

When
Captain
Joe
Bridges
asks
LePique
if
he
“really

believed
that
nonsense”,
the
question
is
phrased
in
such
a
way
as
to
dismiss
any

explanation
but
the
conceptual
fancy
of
backward
belief
systems.

LePique’s
sound

rejoinder,
that
the
Captain
“Just
wait
and
see”,
places
the
burden
of
proof
with

observable
phenomena,
predictable
and
flexible
to
those
familiar
with
the
character

of
the
land.








Here
is
a
subtle
understanding
of
the
surrounding
ecology
as
simultaneously

independent
and
open
to
intercession.

The
relationship
between
people
and
the

details
of
place
is
shaped
by
mutual
notice
and
interchange,
as
will
and
situation

indicates.

It
is
a
perspective
prone
to
logical
dismissal,
accusations
of
naïve

superstition,
and
open
ridicule
alike.

Accepted
as
true,
it
also
happens
to
be
a
core

relationship
determining
the
ecological
stance
of
a
culture.
Whether
the

intercessions
take
the
form
of
appeasement
and
the
convivial
interaction
of

familiars,
or
of
an
anthropocentrism
that
figures
itself
above
and
apart
from
the

resources
claimed,
depends
on
the
status
granted
to
the
deeper
ecology
of
a
place.


In
other
words,
is
the
earth
primarily
a
material
entity,
tamed
for
the
benefit
and

convenience
of
humanity,
or
is
it
an
interplay
of
elements
and
even
personalities

that
offers
education
and
sustenance
to
those
attuned
to
the
flux?

Nabokov’s

time

spent
among
a
diversity
of
indigenous
peoples
lead
him
to
conclude
that
“Indians

played
a
part
in
the
inner
life
of
the
land,
and
it
responded
as
an
influential




97


participant
in
theirs.”15


Alfred
Kidder
and
Jacque
LePique’s
“exploring
trip”
pits
the

Western
concept
of
exploitable
resources
against
the
Anishinaabek
understanding

of
the
season’s
particular
character.

I
cannot
help
but
join
LePique
in
his
elation

when
a
cold
northern
wind
responds
to
his
attentions.

I
also
regret
that
I
was
not
as

confident
as
he
that
Bibon
would
answer.






Certainly
I
am
aware
of
the
professionally
questionable
realms
into
which
such

assessments
draw
me.

I
want
to
plainly
say
that
I
trust
the
veracity
of
these

accounts
as
stated,
and
do
not
wish
to
explain
away
the
seemingly
extraordinary

features
of
Anishinaabek
experience.

It
may
well
be
inevitable
as
an
academic
to

reach
the
seeming
dead
end
that
demands
the
relinquishment
either
of
one’s
critical

credentials
or
the
possibility
that
the
elders
were
telling
the
truth.

I
am
grateful
to

the
scholarly
example
set
by
Vine
Deloria
Jr.,
ever
a
champion
of
indigenous

perspectives
and
no
apologist
for
using
Western
academic
processes
to
further

tribal
ends.

The
following
meditation
is
near
the
end
of
his
final
publication
titled

The
World
We
Used
to
Live
In:
Remembering
the
Powers
of
the
Medicine
Men.

Concerning
the
past
and
present
skepticism
towards
the
workings
of
the
medicine

men,
he
writes:

Our
expectations
in
life
are
that
events
will
occur
in
a
cause‐and‐effect

universe
in
which
it
is
relatively
simple
to
trace
the
beginnings
and
end
of

any
natural
phenomena.

When
we
experience
an
event
or
feeling
out
of
the

ordinary,
we
tend
to
dismiss
it
as
unreal,
a
fantasy
that
somehow
broke
into

our
consciousness.

We
cannot
explain
what
we
have
experienced
because




98


we
have
only
this
narrow,
materialistic
framework
in
which
to
evaluate
what

has
happened.

In
a
practical
sense,
the
Newtonian
billiard
balls
that
clang

together
creating
events
and
guaranteeing
uniformity
are
sufficient
for
us.


But
what
if
we
learned
to
have
other
expectations?

Suppose
we
were
of
such

a
nature
that
we
could
discern
the
life
force
in
everything
and
were
thus

assured
that
as
we
made
our
way
through
life,
unusual
things
could
happen.


What
if
these
events
gave
testimony
that
the
physical
world
we
know
was

but
a
manifestation
of
a
larger
cosmos
that
was
beyond
our
powers
to

discern
and
was
also
part
of
our
lives.

We
would
then
begin
to
attribute
the

cause
of
some
unusual
events
as
the
intervention
or
intersection
of
unseen

yet
powerful
forces
that
played
a
role
in
our
experience,
even
if
we
could
not

see
them.

In
theory,
but
not
in
daily
practice,
we
do
live
in
such
a
world.16


For
his
purposes,
Deloria
proceeds
to
explore
how
“the
experiences
of
Indian

medicine
men
coincide
with
or
illustrate
the
same
values
and
results
found
in

modern
science”
by
focusing
on
the
malleability
of
substance,
space,
and
time.17

It

is
a
sound
strategy,
considering
the
core
subversion
of
his
subject
matter.

Medicine

men
and
their
doings
are
among
the
first
aspects
of
indigenous
societies
to
be

discounted
as
fraudulent
or
heretical,
yet
he
is
determined
to
not
only
take
them

seriously
but
also
prove
their
effectiveness.







I
wish
to
focus
on
the
implications
of
what
Deloria
calls
“unusual
events
as
the

intervention
or
intersection
of
unseen
yet
powerful
forces
that
played
a
role
in
our

experience,
even
if
we
could
not
see
them.”

As
LePique’s
Snow
Rabbit,
Charlottes




99


Kawbawgam’s
encounter
with
the
Nibawnawbe,
and
the
Kidders’
reactions
to
both

makes
apparent,
it
wasn’t
only
the
medicine
men
who
were
influenced
by
unusual

events.

The
“intervention
or
intersection”
of
the
spiritual
could
occur
on
any
given

day,
to
any
person,
no
less
potent
for
being
formally
unsought.






This
sense
of
intermediation
may
be
key
to
understanding
the
motivations
of

Kidder’s
informants
to
share
their
knowledge
with
a
young
man
so
clearly
outside

their
own
sphere.

I
would
make
the
case
that
the
elders
wished
to
share
their

experiences
and
traditional
beliefs
in
order
to
assert
and
record
their
basic
validity.


Kidder,
who
collected
the
stories
at
such
time
as
he
was
“forced
by
illness
to
leave

college
and
spend
two
years
with
his
father
in
Marquette
and
his
summers
at
the

Huron
Mountain
Club”,
and
went
on
to
graduate
from
Harvard
in
1899,
would
likely

seem
a
paragon
of
Western
education
and
a
master
of
literacy.18

Kawbawgam’s

conception
of
the
difference
between
the
“wise”
cultures
who
“made
books”
and

therefore
“remember
what
happened
in
ancient
times”
and
the
Indian
who
only

knows
“that
there
is
a
creator
above,
who
made
the
world
with
everything
in
it
and

gave
the
Indian
a
heart
to
know
the
Great
Spirit”
underscores
the
cultural
variations

parcel
to
literacy’s
deep‐seated
impact.19






At
first
glance,
it
seems
that
written
accounts
are
considered
superior
aids
to

memory,
and
admirable
vehicles
of
wisdom.

For
many
elders
in
the
19th
century,

the
desire
for
cultural
preservation
was
central
to
their
willingness
to
speak
with

ethnographic
types
soliciting
their
knowledge.
Furthermore,
encounters
with





100


official
papers
such
as
treaties
would
certainly
impact
indigenous
assessments
of

the
steadfast
power
of
the
written.

Yet,
if
one
considers
the
parameters
of
the

written
in
conjunction
with
Deloria’s
assertion
that
“We
cannot
explain
what
we

have
experienced
because
we
have
only
this
narrow,
materialistic
framework
in

which
to
evaluate
what
has
happened”,
having
what
Kawbawgam
calls
“a
heart
to

know
the
Great
Spirit”
can
begin
to
be
seen
as
a
viable,
alternative
literacy
reliant
on

a
different
sort
of
evaluation.








The
gains
in
preservation
that
are
made
by
interacting
with
literate
whites
such

as
Kidder
seem
simultaneous
with
a
cost
to
the
heart
awareness
Kawbawgam

understands
as
central
to
the
Anishinaabek
character.

In
the
course
of
several

stories
that
can
be
counted
as
key
to
the
Anishinaabek
cosmology,
Kawbawgam
and

LePique
remark
on
the
changes
that
have
taken
place
in
more
recent
times.


Kawbawgam
begins
the
story
of
the
“Thunderbirds
and
the
Medicine
Root”
by

stating
that
“In
old
times
the
Indians
believed,
and
they
still
believe,
that
thunder
is

a
bird.

This
is
how
they
came
to
believe
it.”20

He
proceeds
with
the
story
of
a

journey
to
the
Rocky
Mountains
to
obtain
“herbs
and
roots
to
doctor
the
sick”
only

after
first
establishing
his
and
other’s
continued
belief
in
the
reality
of
the
basic

players
and
events
related.21

By
so
doing,
he
underscores
the
role
of
the

community
not
only
in
the
continued
influence
of
key
figures
such
as
the

Thunderbirds,
but
also
in
maintaining
access
to
the
practices
and
knowledge

surrounding
the
events
of
a
given
narrative.








In
the
narrative,
there
is
repeated
mention
of
the
offerings
left
at
the
taking
of
just




101


a
few
roots
from
the
Thunderbirds’
nests,
after
carefully
lifting
out
the
guardian

frogs.

Need,
effort,
care,
and
the
grateful
recognition
of
dependency
combine
to

characterize
human
intercession
in
the
realm
of
these
spirit
animals.

As
a
formula

for
right
interaction,
the
details
of
such
stories
would
come
to
mind
whenever

thunder
was
heard.

Nabokov’s
hope
that
his
book
may
encourage
readers
to

“become
more
respectful
of
the
thousands
of
years
of
human
thought,
prayer
and

ritual
that
have
saturated
the
places
where
they
live”
implicitly
requires
that
the

influence
of
the
land
be
understood
as
foundational
to
any
human
response.?????22


The
sounds,
sights,
scents,
and
shapes
create
the
stories
associated
with
them.

Thus

morality
is
not
limited
to
the
conceptual
mind,
but
hinges
on
the
continued
presence

of
specific
lands
and
phenomena
that
renew
and
remind
human
inhabitants
of
their

dual
dependency
and
responsibility.

To
return
to
matters
of
continuity
and
change,
Kawbawgam
states:

The
men
sometimes
went
there
again
at
that
time
of
year
to
get
some
of
the

medicine
root.

They
would
find
the
birds,
make
an
offering,
and
dig
the

roots.

A
little
of
this
root
made
a
man
safe
in
battle,
so
that
if
he
prayed
to
the

thunder,
he
could
not
be
pierced
or
hurt
by
an
arrow.

But
once,
when
they

went
again,
they
found
that
the
Thunderbirds,
with
the
frogs
and
plants,

were
gone.

The
birds
had
left
that
place
because
it
began
to
be
too
much

visited,
just
as
the
sparrow
hawks,
which
used
to
nest
on
Presque
Isle,
are

gone,
because
there
is
too
much
passing
up
and
down
the
coast.23






102


The
consequential
departure
of
the
Thunderbirds
in
the
story
mirrors
the
absence

of
the
birds
in
Kawbawgam’s
contemporary
experience.

There
are
predictable

consequences
to
trespassing
into
the
sanctuary
of
animals
and
spiritual
beings.
This

disturbance
of
their
peace
significantly
places
them
as
autonomous
beings
with

marked
preferences.

Such
departures
mark
a
distinct
loss
–
whether
it
be
the

absence
of
the
medicine
associated
with
the
Thunderbirds
or
the
perhaps
less

apparent
ecological
implications
of
species
relocation.

It
is
clear
that
while

interspecies
relations
produce
mutual
impact,
when
the
greater
balance
of
benefits

and
consideration
fall
to
the
human
side,
the
burden
of
loss
is
thrust
upon
the

animals
and
places.

This
in
turn
upsets
the
tribal
basis
of
physical
and
spiritual

continuity,
again
underscoring
the
basic
reciprocity
of
the
animated
world.








Coexistence
is
not
only
a
human
concern,
but
requires
consideration
of
myriad

living

forces
as
present
and
influential.

The
loss
or
absence
of
any
member
of
the

surrounding
ecology
is
a
serious
matter
that
demands
explanation.

Unsought
and

unwelcome
changes
to
the
composition
and
inhabitants
of
tribal
homelands
are

often
understood
in
terms
of
human
trespass
and
non‐human
discontent.
In
the

narrative
“Water
Spirits
in
Sable
Lake”,
Kidder
details
a
warning
Jacques
LePique

received
from
Yellow
Beaver
upon
learning
that
LePique
was
set
to
travel
there.

Disappointing
anyone
on
the
lookout
for
picturesque
scenes
of
happy
Natives

among
their
spiritual
brethren,
Yellow
Beaver
warns:
“If
you
are
going
to
Sable

Lake,
you’d
better
keep
your
eyes
open.

It’s
a
dangerous
place
‐
full
of
spirits.”24



Yellow
Beaver
proceeds
with
specific
details
about
the
place,
including
the
location,





103


size,
and
owners
of
various
footprints,
and
the
unpredictability
of
water
levels.

This

information
is
seconded
by
“a
half‐breed
named
William
Holliday”,
who
saw
similar

tracks
and
also
encountered
unusual
serpents.

Kidder
concludes
the
section
with

the
following
summary:

The
Ojibwas
believe
that
this
lake
has
for
ages
been
inhabited
by
these

serpents,
which
are
as
powerful
as
the
Mishi
Ginabig,
though
not
the
same,

and
that
they
own
the
lake
and
the
water.

They
take
the
water
with
them

when
they
leave,
so
that
when
they
are
absent
the
lake
is
low,
and
they
bring

it
back
when
they
return.

Now,
for
a
good
many
years,
the
lake
has
been
very

small,
having
broken
through
the
sand
and
run
off
into
Lake
Superior.

The

Indians
think
that
the
reason
that
the
serpents
have
gone
away
is
that
they

do
not
like
the
whites,
whom
the
serpents
believe
to
be
as
strong
as

themselves.25







Like
the
Thunderbirds
and
the
sparrow
hawks,
the
serpents
of
Sable
Lake
are

displaced.

The
move
is
in
part
voluntary,
as
they
choose
not
to
inhabit
regions

overrun
by
mankind
and
his
occupations.

Yet,
as
with
the
tribal
people
themselves,

the
changes
come
unbidden
and
thereby
compel
the
given
response.

The
animals

and
spirit
beings
depart.

The
Anishinaabek
who
remain
respond
variously.

As

Kidder
states
in
his
introductory
note,
his
“informants
were
all
of
such
advanced
age

that
in
their
youth
Lake
Superior
was
still
a
wilderness
without
a
town,
and
the

Ojibwas,
though
undoubtedly
much
influenced
by
generations
of
contact
with

missionaries,
traders,
and
voyagers,
were
still
comparatively
primitive,
even
at
the




104


eastern
end
of
the
lake,
the
section
of
the
tribe
form
which
all
my
informants

sprang.”26

The
course
of
their
long
lives
saw
a
steady
increase
in
European
settlers

and
their
occupations.

The
wilderness
from
which
the
stories
and
traditions
sprang

steadily
gave
way
to
the
encroachments
that
changed
the
character
of
the
land
and

thereby
the
responses
of
all
its
inhabitants
–
animal,
spirit,
and
human
alike.








Jacques
LePique
has
an
extended
history
of
working
for
the
Europeans,
as
guide

and
cook.27

The
Kawbawgams,
as
Kidder
reports:

were
comparatively
sedentary,
spoke
no
language
but
their
own,
and
to
the

end
of
their
days,
after
the
country
was
settled
by
white
people,
remained

very
Ojibwas
in
their
manner
of
living
and
thinking.

Kawbawgam
was
a

pronounced
conservative
and
lamented
the
transformation
which
had
come

over
his
country
and
the
life
of
the
Indians.

The
stories
he
gave
me,
even

those
that
recite
incidents
in
his
own
experience,
are
uniformly
concerned

with
the
ancient
lore
of
his
people,
in
which
he
retained
unquestioning
faith.


They
represent
a
stage
of
Ojibwa
culture
that
has
now
quite
disappeared
in

that
part
of
the
tribe.

His
wife
was
even
less
influenced
by
the
American
life

that
he.28


Kawbawgam’s
avowed
faith
in
the
traditions
and
his
disappointment
in
the
changes

taking
place
resonate
with
the
familiar
preservationist
agenda.

It
also
suggests
his

desire
to
underscore
at
least
his
own
ongoing
awareness
of
certain
life
forces
that,
at

the
very
least,
retain
influence
through
the
consequences
of
being
ignored.

His




105


uniform
concern
with
the
ancient
lore
indicates
a
purposeful
selection
of
narratives

appropriate
to
the
contemporary
circumstances
of
the
telling.

These
stories
do
not

function
as
nostalgic,
historic
placeholders,
rather
they
conjure
forth
familiar

circumstances
and
truths
at
each
occasion
of
their
telling.

As
Gerald
Vizenor
states

the
matter:


The
woodland
creation
stories
are
told
from
visual
memories
and
ecstatic

strategies,
not
from
scriptures.
In
the
oral
tradition,
the
mythic
origins
of

tribal
people
are
creative
expressions,
original
eruptions
in
time,
not
a
mere

recitation
or
a
recorded
narrative
in
grammatical
time.
The
teller
of
stories
is

an
artist,
a
person
of
wit
and
imagination,
who
relumes
the
diverse
memories

of
the
visual
past
into
the
experiences
and
metaphors
of
the
present.

The

past
is
familiar
enough
in
the
circles
of
the
seasons,
woodland
pales,
lakes

and
rivers,
to
focus
a
listener
on
an
environmental
metaphor
and
an

intersection
where
the
earth
started
in
mythic
time,
where
a
person
or
little

woodland
person
stopped
to
imagine
the
earth.

The
tribal
creation
takes

place
at
the
telling
in
the
oral
tradition;
the
variations
in
mythic
stories
are

the
imaginative
desires
of
tribal
artists.29

This
point
of
view
expands
the
potential
insights
of
any
story.
The
function
is
not

only
to
transfer
a
people’s
moral
and
intellectual
inheritance,
but
to
encourage
a

nuanced
application
of
imbedded
lessons
–
both
to
present
circumstances
and


future
implications.

Certainly,
this
could
be
said
to
apply
to
any
culture’s
morality

tales.
But
the
decision
to
tell
the
stories
from
a
position
at
the
crossroads
between




106


oral
transmission
and
written
preservation
is
in
itself
a
distinct,
significant
factor

that
must
be
figured
into
attempt
to
discern
the
“meaning
“
of
what
is
told.
Kidder’s

conclusion
that
Kawbawgam’s
particular
manner
of
thought
is
“quite
disappeared”

fails
to
consider
the
ongoing
applicability
of
the
information
Kawbawgam
relates,

even
in
the
specific
act
of
speaking
to
Kidder
as
his
listener.
It
would
be
difficult
not

to
assume
that
among
the
changes
Kawbawgam
laments,
the
increasing
number
of

whites
and
the
subsequent
displacement
of
indigenous
inhabitants,
human
and
non‐
human
alike,
is
heavily
figured.

Present‐moment
asides,
such
as
his
mention
of
the

sparrow‐hawk’s
departure,
are
thus
lent
a
particular
poignancy.








Another
instance
of
such
commentary
occurs
at
the
end
of
the
story
“A
Famine

and
How
a
Medicine
Man
Saved
the
People.”

A
medicine
man
named
Nin‐gaw‐bi‐un

accepts
tobacco
and
thereby
the
request
that
he
intercede
on
behalf
of
a
hungry

band
of
Ojibwas
having
an
extended
run
of
bad
luck
hunting
and
fishing.
Nin‐gaw‐
bi‐un
brings
in
a
big
sturgeon
to
feed
the
people
the
next
day,
and
while
they
are

dining
they
see
that
“on
the
ground
beside
Ni‐gaw‐bi‐un
lay
something
about
twice

as
big
as
your
thumbnail.

It
was
the
dried
skin
of
a
little
bird.

He
asked
the
people

what
they
thought
so
small
a
thing
could
do.”30

He
proceeds
to
explain
that
when

he
was
fasting
as
a
youth
the
bird
promised
to
help
him
or
call
the
Thunderbirds
to

do
so.

Through
this
aid,
the
people
end
up
with
plenty
and
there
is
a
tremendous

thunderstorm
in
the
middle
of
winter,
as
predicted
by
Nin‐gaw‐bi‐un.

Kawbawgam

concludes
the
story
by
stating:

I
don’t
believe
that
it
was
the
little
bird
that
did
all
these
wonders,
but
a
spirit




107


that
came
in
that
form.

The
Ojibwas
in
that
camp
must
have
had
great
faith,
for
now‐a‐days
if
you

took
a
hundred
skins
on
the
ice,
you
could
not
get
a
mouthful.31


These
comments
underscore
the
purposeful
nature
of
Kawbawgam’s
motivations
as

a
storyteller.

He
first
establishes
his
unquestioning
belief
in
the
veracity
of
the

events
portrayed.
He
does
not
defend
or
qualify
what
happened,
but
rather
offers

his
own
logical
assessment
of
the
details.

This
stance
provides
contrast
and
censure

to
those
Ojibwa
who
lack
the
faith
required
for
such
things
to
come
to
pass.

It
is
not

a
matter
of
believing
in
the
story,
but
of
believing
in
the
capacity
of
spiritual
powers

to
intercede
in
human
lives.

Such
acts
require
not
only
proper
offerings
and
notice

by
faithful
Ojibwa,
but
also
an
environment
that
is
suited
to
the
workings
of
their

deeds.








This
second
point
can
be
further
understood
through
the
story
of
Iron
Maker,
a

powerful
medicine
man
about
whom
Jacques
LePique
shares
a
story.

When
his

canoe
capsized
late
in
the
fall
“off
Portage
Entry”
he
woke
to
find
himself
naked
and

freezing
and
far
from
home.

He
borrows
the
bodies
of
a
succession
of
animals,
first

having
“thought
of
the
beaver,
whereupon
the
beaver
came
to
him
and
gave
him
his

body.”32


In
this
manner,
Iron
maker
is
able
to
make
it
almost
all
the
way
back

home,
as
when
he
“no
longer
had
power
to
keep
the
shape
of
the
ox,
he
was
pretty

near
his
lodge.”33

LePique
further
explains
that
“the
animals
that
saved
Iron
Maker

by
lending
him
their
forms
were
spirits
that
had
appeared
to
him
when
he
was




108


fasting
in
his
youth.”34

On
the
following
page,
there
is
a
“Note
on
Iron
Maker”,

wherein
Kidder
relates
how
Iron
Maker
turned
Methodist
late
in
life
and
“gave
up

the
practice
of
magic.”35

It
is
further
stated
that:

he
certainly
believed
in
Christ
but
he
still
believed
in
the
old
native
spirits,

too.

He
thought,
said
Jacques,
that
Christ,
being
stronger
than
these,
had

driven
most
of
them
out
of
Lake
Superior
country,
and
that
Christianity
had

destroyed
among
the
Indians
the
faith
that
is
necessary
for
success
in

medicine
operations.
36

Again,
faith
is
deemed
critical
to
maintaining
the
active,
purposeful
ecological

reciprocity
that
begets
the
spiritual
agency
of
both
the
human
and
nonhuman

players.

Iron
Maker
experiences
the
presence
of
Jesus
through
the
departure
and

absence
of
the
elder
powers.

The
previous
balance
is
thrown
off
by
Christ’s

strength,
a
strength
significantly
characterized
by
the
destruction
of
indigenous

faith.

Thus
the
destruction
of
habitats
coincides
with
the
destruction
of
indigenous

spiritual
awareness
and
reciprocity.

The
dangers
inherent
to
certain
places
and

their
spirit
inhabitants
are
in
effect
neutralized
by
the
power
of
the
white
men
and

their
religion
to
threaten
the
understood
order.

Iron
Maker
chooses
to
cultivate
his

relationship
to
Christ,
compelled
by
a
belief
system
that
does
not
differentiate
his

power
from
that
of
the
Thunderbirds
or
Mishi
Bizhi
or
the
Nibawnawbe,
but
rather

sees
and
practically
responds
the
reality
of
the
changes
occurring.








Ironmaker’s
belief
that
the
old
spirits
left
because
Jesus
is
so
strong
shows
how




109


the
details
of
cautious
living
have
changed.

There
is
a
key
difference
in
who
or
what

it
is
that
needs
to
be
appeased
or
avoided.

Warnings
of
the
Thunderbird’s
power
or

the
Nibawnawbe’s
treachery,
once
central
to
the
guidance
vested
in
generations
of

narratives,
are
no
longer
espoused
and
observed
as
important
aspects
of
survival.

Instead,
the
white
man
and
his
religion
house
the
perils
of
power,
displacing
the

attentions
previously
reserved
for
the
inhabiting
spirits
of
the
land.








I
propose
that
this
shift
effectively
upsets
the
bonds
of
humility
and
cautious
self‐
restraint
that
the
old
stories
and
beliefs
cultivated.

The
undoing,
or
uprooting,
of

the
established
moral
compass
explains
Kawbawgam’s
lamentation
at
the
changes

that
have
occurred
in
his
lifetime.
His
existence
largely
became
characterized
by

ongoing
loss.

However,
his
firm
conviction
in
the
efficacy
of
traditional
knowledge

and
practices
continues
to
provide
him
with
a
keen
mind
for
understanding
the

relationship
between
events,
people,
and
place.

In
the
chapter
“Some
Ojibwa

History”,
Kawbawgam
concludes
his
summary
treatment
of
Anishinaabek
military

and
political
interactions
with
the
direct
explanation
that
“The
reason
that
the

Indians
do
not
believe
in
‘papers’
is
that
they
learned
from
these
happenings
that

‘papers’
cannot
be
depended
on,
for
the
promise
signed
by
the
British
in
the
treaty,

agreeing
to
make
presents
to
the
Indians
‘as
long
as
the
sun
rose
and
set’,
was

broken.”37








Having
made
the
decision
to
speak
only
in
his
language
did
not
prevent
the
elder

from
gaining
and
expressing
insight
into
the
workings
of
the
English
language
and

attendant
lifeways
he
refused.

Indeed,
his
determination
to
retain
“his




110


unquestioning
faith
in
the
ancient
lore
of
his
people
and
in
the
stories
he
was

relating”
provided
the
solid
moral
grounding
of
this
keen
social
critic.

Kawbawgam

had
no
illusions
about
the
contemporary
balances
of
power
and
spirituality.

This

same
basic
realism
extended
to
his
handling
of
traditional
narratives,
defusing

tendencies
to
dismiss
the
stories
as
fancy.

In
the
narratives
collected
by
Homer

Kidder,
the
Anishinaabek
elders
tell
a
deep
history
of
unsought
change.

They
do
so

with
the
steadfast
conviction
born
“of
a
heart
to
know
the
Great
Spirit.”




111




From
“The
Court
Oreilles
Origin
Myth,”
told
by
John
Mink:







Wenebojo was coming on the ice across Lake Superior. He saw a
bunch of people and went up to see who they were. When he came
nearer, he saw that they were a pack of wolves. He was surprised
to see them and called them his nephews and asked them what they
were doing. They said they were hunting. Wenebojo said he was
hunting too.
They picked out a place on the edge of the lake to camp.
Wenebojo was cold. There were only two logs for a fire. One wolf
said, as they were sitting there, “What are you going to do for your
uncle? He must be getting hungry.” Another wolf pulled off his
moccasin, tossed it to Wenebojo, and told him to pull out the sock.
Wenebojo looked at it, said he didn’t want any stinking socks, and
threw it back. The wolf said, “You must be awfully particular is
you don’t like this food.” He reached into the sock and pulled out a
deer tenderloin, reached in again and pulled out some bear fat.
Wenebojo’s eyes popped, and he said, “That’s good; give it to me.”
They put it over the fire to roast. Before he started to eat,
Wenebojo took off his old moccasin. He was going to imitate the
wolf. He threw the moccasin at the wolf. The wolf looked into it.
There was only dry hay that he used to keep his feet warm. The
wolf said he didn’t want to eat hay. Wenebojo was ashamed.
They all went to sleep. Te wolves curled up and were warm, but
Wenebojo couldn’t sleep and walked around the fire. At about
daybreak he hollered at the to get up and go hunting. They all
jumped up and went off in different directions; in not time they
were out of sight. One old wolf, the father of the young wolves,
walked along with Wenebojo. Soon they came to some deer tracks,
with wolf tracks following them. One had made awfully long
jumps, another short ones. Wenebojo said, “This is the one who is
going to get the deer; look how far he jumps.” But the old wolf said,
“No, this other one is the fast one. He’ll get the deer.”
Then they came to a place where a wolf had jumped aside and



112


had a shit. The wolf said, “Pick that up. It will make a good
blanket.”
Wenebojo said that he didn’t want any old dog shit and kicked it
aside.
The old wolf picked it up ad shook it, and it turned into a nice
warm tanned wolfskin. Wenebojo wished he could have it. The
wolf gave it to him.
The old wolf said, “It isn’t far. Soon we’ll catch up with them.
They’ve got that deer by now.”
They came to a little rise with a hollow down below. There
Wenebojo saw some blood, and they soon came to the pack of
wolves all lying around asleep with their bellies full. Wenebojo was
mad., because the wolves had been so greedy. He picked up the best
bones he could find, planning to boil them. They went back to
camp. The logs there were burning, just as they’d left them.
The old wolf said to his sons, “Your uncle must be hungry. Give
him some meat to cook.”
One of the wolves came toward Wenebojo belching and
whooping and threw up. A ham came out of his mouth. Another
wolf came and threw up some ribs. Wolves have a double stomach;
they can carry meat home, unspoiled, for their pups. After that,
Wenebojo didn’t have to go out. The wolves hunted for him and
brought home deer, elk, and moose, and Wenebojo would jerk the
meat. He was well fixed there.
Toward spring the old wolf said they’d have to leave, ad
Wenebojo had enough meat to last until summer. Wenebojo didn’t
answer. One of the wolves said, “Maybe Wenebojo doesn’t like that.
He’ll be lonesome.”
The old wolf agreed and said that they’d leave one wolf with
him, the best hunter. Then they left.1




113






Chapter
Four.



“I
Must
See
and
Feel
the
Benefits”:
Romantic
Savages
and
Speaking
Beyond
the

Woods








Generally
speaking,
Romantic
visions
of
indigenous
peoples
past
and
present

tend
to
focus
on
comely,
exotic
aesthetics
and
enviable
spiritual
purity
as
opposed

to
the
intercultural
specifics
of
survival.

The
preference
is
for
Natives
to
maintain
a

perpetual
state
of
imagined
majesty,
snug
in
a
tipi
or
painted
for
the
warpath
‐

immersed
in
a
colorful
vision
of
otherness
symbolic
of
a
brand
of
freedom
that
the

human
collective
is
on
the
brink
of
losing.

Despite
the
allure
of
these
images
that

were
particularly
perpetuated
by
such
authors
as
Emerson,
Thoreau,
and

Hawthorne,
evidence
of
the
necessary
and
active
participation
of
a
people
and
their

language
in
the
political
actualities
of
the
mid‐19th
century
can
be
found.
The

(originally
untitled)
document
"Statement
Made
By
The
Indians":
A
Bilingual
Petition

of
the
Chippewa
of
Lake
Superior
is
a
fascinating
study
of
the
tensions
between
the

Anishinaabek’s
autonomous
values
and
the
insistent
land
encroachment
that
would

uproot
the
established
balances
between
morality
and
survival.







The
introduction
supplied
in
the
1988
publication
by
The
Centre
for
Research

and
Teaching
of
Canadian
Native
Languages
explains
that
the
"Statement"
was

"prepared
in
1864
for
presentation
to
the
Commissioner
of
Indian
Affairs
in

Washington
by
a
delegation
of
chiefs,
headmen,
and
warriors
of
the
Chippewa
of




114


Lake
Superior."1

The
bilingual
structure
of
the
document
provides
vivid
proof
that

Anishinaabemowin
was
fully
employable
in
situations
unrelated
to
the
symbolic.


The
insight
that
"these
documents
indicate
that
literacy
in
Ojibwe
had
been

integrated
into
what
is
now
seen
as
'traditional'
Anishinaabe
society
in
ways
beyond

the
direct
control
of
missionaries",
is
further
applicable
to
its
integration
beyond
the

inscribed
limits
of
Romanticism.2

Comparison
of
the
“Statement”
to
Romantic

conceptions
of
Indian
language
reveals
the
particular
challenge
that
America’s

written
heritage
presents
to
the
airing
of
indigenous
concerns.






The
chapter
“Language”
in
Ralph
Waldo
Emerson's
1849
opus
“Nature”
presents

a
rather
revealing
pairing
of
representative
populations
early
on.

He
writes:

"Children
and
savages
use
only
nouns
or
names
of
things,
which
they
convert
into

verbs,
and
apply
to
analogous
mental
acts."3

The
role
"children
and
savages"
play
in

his
meditations
as
veritable
repositories
of
right
thought
and
living
assures
that

Emerson
intends
admiration
rather
than
insult
in
his
phrasing.
Nevertheless,
the

assertion
is
indicative
of
the
core
problems
his
written
legacy
has
presented
to

indigenous
claims
on
the
functionality
of
language.

The
notion
that
these
languages

hinge
on
"only
nouns
or
names
of
things"
then
wrangled
into
verb‐form
is
provably

inaccurate,
even
by
someone
like
myself
who
is
at
only
a
beginner's
level
of

understanding
Anishinaabemowin.







For
a
fluent
speaker
of
a
distinctively
verb‐based
Algonquian
language
(which

would
include
those
tribes
hailing
from
Emerson's
New
England
homebase),
such
an

assessment
might
seem
laughable
in
comparison
to
their
comprehension
of
a
highly

complex
grammar.

A
comprehensive
ease
instilled
only
by
a
lifetime's
worth
of




115


exposure.

To
a
grammar,
it
might
be
mentioned,
that
flummoxed
many
a
19th

century
linguistic
anthropologist
for
its
singular
dearth
of
static
nouns.

Seemingly

untutored
in
any
of
the
"savage"
languages,
Emerson
values
them
for
the
touchstone

of
simplicity
they
lend
to
his
own
intricate
terms
‐
much
as
children
are
valued
as

reminders
of
the
happy
days
before
adult
responsibility.

Yet,
counter
to
the
rather

carefree
role
assigned
to
the
speaking
"savage",
the
error
of
this
over‐simplification

undercuts
both
his
own
endorsement
of
alternate
language
awareness,
and
strips

actual
speakers
of
any
applicability
outside
the
assigned
spheres
of
simplicity
and

purity.








Emerson's
use
of
indigenous
languages
as
proofs
for
his
theoretic
stance
is

clarified
by
the
claim
that
"savages,
who
have
only
what
is
necessary,
converse
in

figures.

As
we
go
back
in
history,
language
becomes
more
picturesque,
until
its

infancy,
when
it
is
all
poetry;
or
all
spiritual
facts
are
represented
by
natural

symbols."4

Here,
the
utility
of
those
who
"converse
in
figures"
resides
in
associating

them
with
origins
both
murky
and
ostensibly
shared
by
all
of
mankind.

Apparently,

the
idea
and
image
of
"savages,
who
have
only
what
is
necessary"
‐
including
the

requisitely
picture‐able
majesty
of
feathers
no
doubt
‐
is
needed
to
provide
a

desirable
yet
othered
link
to
this
common
linguistic
heritage.








This
is
a
significant
hurdle
to
actual
Indians
who
in
the
19th
century
had

decidedly
concrete
matters
of
import
to
converse
upon.
In
Emerson’s
influential

schema,
tribal
people
are
most
usefully
relegated
to
the
past
as
paragons
of

Romantic
generalities.

The
accorded
role
denies
any
political
applicability
of
their

language
and
understanding
to
the
complications
of
a
Modern
Age
that
Emerson




116


requires
them
to
exist
outside
of.

His
statement
that
the
"immediate
dependence
of

language
upon
nature"
lends
"piquancy
to
the
conversation
of
a
strong‐natured

farmer
or
back‐woodsman,
which
all
men
relish"
again
emphasizes
the
palliative

effect
of
the
nature‐based
language
Emerson
credits
to
his
savages.

Be
it
as
it
may

that
these
languages
are
indeed
profoundly
linked
to
the
place
of
their
evolution,
it

is
necessary
for
speakers
be
allowed
functional
scope
outside
that
which
"depends

on
the
simplicity
of
his
character."5

As
useless
as
the
fact
may
be
to
Emerson's

philosophic
needs,
indigenous
speakers
had
real‐world
concerns
parcel
to
their

existence
beyond
a
theoretical
construction
of
origins.









The
presentation
of
the
"Statement"
in
both
English
and
Anishinaabemowin

invites
comparisons
capable
of
revealing
aspects
of
Anishinaabek
thought
that,

while
perhaps
indicative
of
such
philosophical
and
even
spiritual
differences
as

Emerson
insists
upon,
are
born
out
only
by
the
demonstrable
specificity
he
lacks.


Even
for
those
with
no
knowledge
of
Anishinaabemowin,
the
English
translation

details
the
duplicitous
dealings
and
outright
lies
involved
in
divesting
the
Chippewa

of
their
lands.

As
I
have
tried
to
demonstrate
in
other
chapters,
the
inherent
remove

of
written
English
figures
heavily
into
the
cultural
tensions.

The
“Statement”
was

created
with
the
intention
of
presenting
it
to
a
live
audience;
however,
the

motivating
circumstances
arise
from
the
obfuscated
layers
of
authority
particular
to

written
Western
communications.







The
opening
remarks
in
the
English
translation
read:
“This
Statement
is
made
by

the
Indians
according
to
the
best
of
their
knowledge
in
regard
to
the
promises
made

to
them
while
living
in
peace
among
themselves.

At
a
certain
time
there
came
to
us




117


word
of
our
“great
Father”
calling
us
to
a
Council
to
be
held
at
Prairie
du
Chien.”6


In

the
Interlinear
text,
the
Anishinaabemowin
statements
read
as
follows:

Ezhi‐gikendang
isa
aw
Anishinaabe
iw
owaawiindamaagoowinan,
megwaa

bizaan
namadabipan
anooj
ezhi‐wiinzod
Anishinaabe.

Ningoding
dash

madwe‐giigido
aw
ningichi‐mishoomisinaan,
madwe‐zagaswe’aad
dash
iniw

oniijaanisan
iwidi
Ziibi‐zaagiing.






The
“isa”
works
to
emphasize
“ezhi‐gikendang”,
which
in
the
document
translates

to
“how
he
knows
it”.

The
highlighted
act
of
knowing
is
explained
in
relation
to
the

“owaawiindamaagoowinan/
promises
made
to
him”.
The
linkage
of
intense
knowing

to
the
act
of
promising
indicates
the
core
influence
this
series
of
interactions
has

had
on
the
authors’
sense
of
certainty.

The
meticulous
detailing
of
how
these

promises
have
been
consistently
broken
shows
“ezhi‐gikendang
isa
/how
he
knows

it”,
to
refer
to
the
uncertainty
parcel
to
these
dealings.

The
only
thing
the

Anishinaabe
is
certain
of
is
the
uncertainty
of
promises
not
kept.

Furthermore,
the

designation
“wiinzod
Anishinaabe”
is
refined
by
the
phrase
“namadabipan
anooj/
he

had
sat
various”,
which
illustrates
the
fact
that
more
than
one
tribal
polity
is

concerned,
though
they
are
referred
to
as
a
collective.








In
just
this
opening
sentence,
the
listener/reader
is
presented
with
two
key
facets

of
Indian/white
relations
–
the
contrasts
between
word
and
deed,
and
the
tendency

to
conceptually
group
Indians
into
a
representative
mass.

The
former
underscores

the
gulf
between
the
United
States
government’s
tendency
to
employ
whatever

means
necessary
to
procuring
its
interests,
including
solemn
pledges
never
really

intended
as
binding,
and
the
mores
of
tribal
people
for
whom
one’s
word
is
bound




118


to
the
functionality
of
all
given
relationships.

Without
the
collective
respect
that

sociologically
sanctifies
acts
of
“owaawiindamaagoowininan/promises
made
to

him”,
the
basis
for
sensible,
trustworthy
decision‐making
and
fair
action
is

nonexistent.

The
latter
phrase
suggests
how
amorphous
groupings
of
specific

people
from
specific
places
into
a
nonspecific
collective
allows
for
greater
ease
of

decree‐making,
so
a
plurality
interests
can
be
pursued,
and
resistances
defused,

with
one
wave
of
the
hand.

Or,
as
is
more
likely,
one
flourish
of
the
pen.










Another
crucial
difference
between
Romantic
assignations
and
the
situational

reality
illustrated
in
the
“Statement,”
is
that
the
document’s
purpose
and
intended

audience
required
the
words
be
locatable
and
employable
somewhere
outside
the

analogous
woods.

The
dual
phrasing
“madwe‐giigido
/he
is
heard
speaking”
and

“madwe‐zagaswe’aad
/being
heard
to
call
them
to
council”
together
emphasize
how

the
government’s
petitioning
for
an
audience
came
second‐hand,
but
nevertheless

elicited
an
immediate
cause
for
concerned
response.

The
Chippewa
maintain
a

tenuous
residency
in
the
shrinking
forest
of
their
homelands,
their
lifestyles

indelibly
marked
by
external
interests
pushing
toward
displacement.

The
second‐
hand
quality
of
the
requests
and
demands
from
the
“Great
Father”
is
repeatedly

emphasized,
highlighting
how
this
relationship
was
not
established
through
direct

council
and
appeal,
but
changeable
hearsay.

The
emphasis
is
key
to
understanding

the
normative
value
the
Chippewa
place
on
direct
interchange
–
a
basic
political

formula
that
is
wholly
absent
in
relation
to
the
Great
Father,
or
utterly
exploited
by

Indian
Agents
sent
to
offer
trinkets
and
lies
in
exchange
for
prime
forested
lands.







119







Of
course,
in
Language,
Emerson
does
set
up
a
meeting
between
the
spirit
of

"original
language"
and
the
tumultuous
demands
"in
the
roar
of
cities
or
the
broil
of

politics."7

In
an
ode
to
"the
poet,
the
orator,
bred
in
the
woods"
as
purveyors
of

rustic,
pastoral,
and
we
can
assume,
Native
eloquence,
he
writes:

Long
hereafter,
amidst
agitation
and
terror
in
national
councils,
‐
in
the
hour

of
revolution,
‐
these
solemn
images
shall
reappear
in
their
morning
lustre,
as

fit
symbols
and
words
of
the
thoughts
which
the
passing
events
shall
awaken.


At
the
call
of
a
noble
sentiment,
again
the
woods
will
wave,
the
pines

murmur,
the
river
rolls
and
shines,
and
the
cattle
low
upon
the
mountains,
as

he
saw
and
heard
them
in
his
infancy.

And
with
these
forms,
the
spells
of

persuasion,
the
keys
of
power
are
put
into
his
hands.8







If
we
apply
the
particulars
of
this
scenario
to
the
Chippewa
who
prepared
the

"Statement",
it
becomes
questionable
whether
Emerson
would
invest
the
language

itself
with
an
ability
to
effectively
speak
to
revolutionary
affairs
in
national
councils,

or
if
the
real
goods
lay
in
a
rejuvenating
retreat
to
Shangri‐La.
In
other
words,
does

it
matter
whether
such
connections
are
actually
articulated
in
the
language

employed,
or
does
only
the
creation
and
appropriation
of
a
Romantic
spiritual

essence
matter?

These
questions
resonate
with
the
observations
in
Michael

Cronin’s
essay
"History,
Translation,
Postcolonialism",
found
in
the
book
Changing

the
Terms:
Translating
in
the
Postcolonial
Era.

Aware
of
and
willing
to
participate
in

the
common
America:Indians::England:Irish
conceit,
I
defer
to
Cronin's
assessment

of
the
sort
of
cultural
appropriation
Emerson
is
participating
in.

He
writes:


The
Survey
involves
the
Anglicization
of
the
locality
through
language
‐




120


English
transliterations
of
the
Irish
names
reflecting
the
wider
translation
of

a
people
from
one
language
and
culture
to
another.

Crucial
to
the
operation

of
this
enterprise
is
the
use
of
local
knowledge,
and
a
striking
feature
of

British
imperial
policy
was
its
ability
to
co‐opt
local,
dominated

knowledge(s)
in
a
strategy
for
retaining
power.9







Perhaps
unwittingly,
Emerson's
yoking
of
"savage"
language
to
simplicity
aids
in

the
retention
of
colonial
power
by
limiting
the
usefulness
of
first‐language
fluency
to

the
figurative.

It
is
co‐opted
as
a
key
Romantic
trope.

In
a
sense,
this
is
a
matter
of

the
difference
between
symbolism
and
translation,
in
that
one
privileges
the
fanciful

and
the
other
strives
for
accuracy.

Certainly
Emerson
had
no
qualms
about

championing
the
poetic;
the
problem
is
how
his
conceptualization
of
the
"savage"

overshadows
the
complex
workings
of
indigenous
language
and
thus
the
real

possibilities
of
what
Cronin
terms
"translation
as
resistance."10

The
"Statement"

required
a
concerted
process
of
translation
from
Anishinaabemowin‐based
thought

patterns
into
English,
highlighting
how
"the
political
circumstances
of
translation

affect
the
strategy
adopted."11









Mindful
of
my
still
inchoate
learning
of
Anishinaabemowin,
I
will
undertake
to

offer
some
illustrative
examples
of
the
dual
cultural
and
political
efficacy
of
the

language
found
in
the
"Statement",
lest
I
fall
into
the
same
reliance
on
unspecified

generalities
as
Emerson.

As
a
whole,
the
document
details
a
series
of
treaties
that

progressively
demanded
more
and
more
of
the
Chippewa
without
ever
making
good

on
promises
that:
assured
monetary
recompense,
limited
what
was
taken,
increased

annuities,
established
reservations
in
perpetuity,
provided
furniture,




121


schoolteachers,
blacksmiths,
and
so
forth.

Specific
details
and
amounts
abound,

testifying
to
a
facility
with
legalities
and
officialdom
that
is
meaningfully
deepened

by
the
autonomous
reckoning
of
the
world,
as
is
encased
in
the
birth
language.









Concerning
a
stand
of
pine
timber
they
have
been
urged
to
sell,
the
Chippewa's

translated
English
response
is
"From
the
usual
height
of
cutting
a
tree
down
and

upwards
to
the
top
is
what
I
sell
you,
I
reserve
the
root
of
the
tree."12

For
the

stipulated
retention
of
the
roots,
the
Anishinaabemowin
phrase
is
"Gaawiin
wiin

owidi
ojiibikaawid
gibagidinamoosinoon"
/
"not
over
here
having
roots
I
don't
offer

it
to
you."

"Ojiibikaawid",
referring
to
having
roots,
contains
the
sound
"jiib".
This

can
also
be
used
to
name
a
turnip,
and
in
a
word
like
"jiibaakwe",
which
can
mean

"he
cooks"
but
also
is
used
to
refer
to
the
practice
of
the
Ghost
Supper,
a
feast
made

to
remember
the
departed,
and
provides
a
more
specific
understanding
of

"jiibaakwe"
as
"doing
for
the
spirits".

"Jiibaa"
indicates
"spirit,
corpse,
root
of

being";
"jiibik"
indicates
a
tree
root.

Thus,
there
is
a
correlation
between
what
in

English
are
distinctly
called
"root"
and
"soul/spirit".








This
connection
comes
up
again
later
in
the
"Statement",
in
reference
to
an
Agent

remarking
on
the
Chippewa's
unwillingness
to
remove
from
their
lands
"For
the

sake
of
your
Graves",
with
"your
graves"
being
spoken
"gijiibegamigowaan."13

"Jiib"

is
again
heard
alongside
"gamig",
roughly
translatable
as
a
place
or
structure,
so
"the

place
of
roots/souls".


We
can
take
this
to
mean
that
in
that
particular
council,
the

resident
Chippewa
stipulated
their
intention
to
remain
guardians
of
the
souls
of
the

trees,
that
being
contained
in
the
rootedness
of
the
lands.

Thus,
in
just
this
one

sound
there
is
a
wealth
of
insight
into
specifically
Anishinaabek
understandings,
to




122


lend
that
much
more
gravity
to
what
the
necessary
translations
into
English

express.

Let
it
be
also
said
that
the
English
itself
is
of
telling
impact,
indeed
often

eloquence.
It
is
clear
that
the
Chippewa
authors
were
wholly
capable
of
expressing

themselves
with
the
deepest
nuance
and
complexity,
unbound
from
the
confines
of

natural
Romantic
simplicity
and
its
equating
of
"real
language"
with
rustic
naïveté.






The
rewards
of
focusing
on
such
a
minute
portion
of
the
"Statement"
are
nearly

overwhelmed
by
the
frustration
of
what
I
don't
possess
similar
understanding
of
in

the
rest
of
its
pages.

As
a
first‐language
English
speaker
learning
my
indigenous

language,
it
is
a
feeling
of
longing
I
know
I
am
not
alone
in.
The
intuited
promise
of

the
unmastered
but,
once
comprehended,
profoundly
illuminating
language
perhaps

unexpectedly
moves
me
to
sympathize
with
Emerson's
intentions
and
motivations.


What
he
chiefly
laments
is
"the
fraud"
of
expressive
conventions
that
are
indicative

of
layer
upon
layer
of
the
more
dubious
working
of
modernity.14

To
entirely

disassociate
tribal
concerns
from
such
sentiments
would
be
difficult,
since

Emerson's
ideas
are
so
influenced
by
the
intellectual
tradition
of
European

reckonings
of
the
New
World,
as
well
as
his
own
preoccupation
with
Nature
as

something
other
than
commodity.








Yet,
associations
with
Romanticism
haunt
most
efforts
to
assert
that
there
is

some
difference
to
be
found
in
indigenous
languages,
and
thereby,
consciousness.

In

the
introduction
to
Changing
the
Terms:
Translating
in
the
Postcolonial
Era,
editor

Sherry
Simon
alludes
to
the
conundrum
of
trying
to
stake
out
a
claim
for
cultural

particularity
in
a
field
of
theoretic
landmines.

She
posits:
"cultural
hybridity
is
often

invoked
by
critics
of
postcolonial
readings
of
translation
less
to
champion
historical




123


scrupulousness
than
to
discredit
the
whole
postcolonial
enterprise
by
dire
reference

to
the
evil
twins
of
nativism
and
essentialism."15

So
far
as
these
accusations
of
evil

go,
Emerson
is
a
whipping
boy
first
class,
to
be
disowned
and
dissected
for
purposes

of
dismissal.

I
don't
find
it
wholly
desirable
to
do
so,
as
hinted
at
by
my
claim
that

his
tendency
toward
over‐simplification
undercuts
his
endorsement
of
alternate

language
awareness.








Entirely
shutting
down
any
possibility
that
his
treatment
of
land
and
language

interactions
possesses
some
insight
can
easily
extend
to
a
similar
dismissal
of

indigenous
insistence
on
the
cultural
particularities
inherent
to
language.

In
this

sense,
there
is
a
certain
subversiveness
to
making
statements
such
as
Simon
Ortiz

does
in
the
introduction
to
Speaking
for
the
Generations:
Native
Writers
on
Writing.


Already
included
as
an
epigraph,

I
again
offer
his
revealing
meditation
on
the

process
of
acquiring
English
as
a
first‐language
indigenous
speaker.

He
writes:

Of
course,
I
also
have
self‐questions
and
qualms
about
the
extensive
use
of

the
English
language
and
the
Western
cultural
baggage
that
comes
with
it...

Using
the
English
language
is
a
dilemma
and
pretty
scary
sometimes,
because

it
means
letting
one's
mind
go
willfully
‐
although
with
soul
and
heart
in

shaky
hand,
literally
‐
into
the
Western
cultural
intellectual
context,
a

condition
and
circumstance
that
one
usually
avoids
at
all
costs
on
all

occasions.

Even
though
I
believe
I
did
not
have
any
overt
problems
with
it,

learning
to
speak,
read,
and
write
in
English
was
fraught
with
considerable

tension
for
me.

As
a
result,
years
later
I
admit
I
have
felt
uneasy
and
even

disloyal
at
moments
when
I've
found
myself
to
be
more
verbally
articulate
in




124


the
English
language
than
in
my
own
native
Acoma
language.

I
have
to

honestly
admit
that
there
is
a
price
to
pay
for
selling
your
soul,
if
that's
what

has
happened.16







To
dismiss
Ortiz
as
an
essentialist
in
the
tradition
of
Romantics
claiming
soul

connections
to
an
original
language
is
to
deny
him
the
right
to
his
experience
and

autonomous
expression
‐
sentenced
only
to
a
perpetual
toting
of
"Western
cultural

baggage."

How
to
overcome
these
perils,
and
again
alluding
to
the
basic
flaw
in

Emerson's
theories,
is
to
approach
the
matter
using
specific
referents.

Ortiz
begins

this
by
referencing
the
Acoma
language
by
name,
thus
situating
himself
as
part
of
a

sovereign
nation.

Further,
while
he
points
out
the
difficulty
of
satisfactorily

transferring
Acoma
understandings
into
English
forms,
he
does
not
deny
the

possibility
that
English
can
be
mastered
to
suit
his
purposes
as
a
writer
focusing
on

Acoma
concerns.










The
interplay
between
Romantic
conceptions
and
the
actual
concerns
of

indigenous
speakers
of
English
can
be
further
illuminated
through
Henry
David

Thoreaus’
text
The
Maine
Woods.

Published
posthumously,
it
offers
a
chronicle
of

the
only
direct
contact
the
Romantic
paragon
had
with
the
Indians
he
was
so

associated
with
in
spirit.
Among
his
contemporaries
and
in
the
retrospect
of
critics

and
admirers,
Henry
David
Thoreau
is
indelibly
associated
with
the
idealized

natural
man.

Yet,
his
extensive
collection
of
artifacts
and
his
oft‐quoted
expositions

on
Indian
lifeways
and
philosophies
were
both
undertaken
without
benefit
of
any

notable
contact
with
actual
Indians
until
he
traveled
among
the
Penobscot
in
Maine

in
1846,
which
with
his
return
in
1853
and
1857
composes
the
contents
of
The




125


Maine
Woods.
How
the
Indian
is
situated
in
the
written
record
of
his
observations

and
musings
provides
means
of
understanding
the
philosophy
and
psychology
that

defines
his
reputation
as
an
ecological
spokesman.
In
a
spirit
of
allocation,
admiring

critics
before
and
since
grant
Thoreau
his
alignment
with
the
Indians
‐
whether
that

encompasses
his
role
as
the
illuminated
critical
scholar,
or
the
particulars
of
an

inspired
soul
connection.

But
it
is
not
until
The
Maine
Woods
that
the
long

established
import
of
the
Indian
to
primary
and
secondary
Thoreauvian
meditations

would
face
the
implicit
challenge
of
a
specific
people’s
independent
expression.





To
the
reading
public,
Thoreau’s
poetic
sensibilities
are
forged
by
his


expertise
and
sympathy
for
the
natural
world
and
man.

Importantly,
Thoreau’s

ongoing
fascination
with
an
aboriginal
past
accords
him
a
representative
role
as
one

who
“seems
inclined
to
lead
a
sort
of
Indian
life
among
civilized
men”,
as
Nathaniel

Hawthorne
would
phrase
matters
after
a
social
visit
from
Thoreau.17
In
the
same

1842
journal
entry,
Hawthorne
further
states
“it
is
a
characteristic
trait
that
he
has
a

great
regard
for
the
memory
of
the
Indian
tribes,
whose
wild
life
would
have
suited

him
well;
and
strange
to
say,
he
seldom
walks
over
a
ploughed
field
without
picking

up
an
arrow‐point,
a
spearhead,
or
other
relic
of
the
red
men
‐
as
if
their
spirits

willed
him
to
be
the
inheritor
of
their
simple
wealth.”18







The
intrinsic
fantasy
element
of
these
associations,
wherein
the
Indian
is

fetishized
along
with
the
remains
of
his
shadowy
culture
that
mark
the
land,
does

not
necessarily
require
the
presence
of
a
living
people
attuned
to
the
natural
world.

Rather,
the
usefulness
of
the
Indian
as
naturalized
Other,
and
Thoreau
by

association,
is
better
served
by
the
abstract
symbolism
of
representational




126


discourse.
Abstract
insofar
as
the
conceptual
trumps
the
tangible,
and
symbolic

because
unmarred
by
the
complications
of
the
modern
world
that
has
seemingly

doomed
the
purity
that
can
only
exist
in
the
imagined
past.

The
abstraction
allows

for
Thoreau’s
rhetorical
validity
in
the
realm
of
public
letters,
while
the
symbolic

assigns
him
spiritual
sensitivity
and
creative
natural
genius.






The
kind
of
assumptions
that
place
Thoreau
as
white
Indian
are
well


illustrated
by
Albert
Keiser,
the
literary
scholar
credited
with
rediscovering
the

eleven
volume
manuscript
of
Thoreau’s
Indian
Notebooks
at
the
Pierpont
Morgan

Library.

The
effusive
interpretation
that
follows
is
found
in
Keiser’s
1933
book
The

Indian
in
American
Literature.

The
influence
of
the
Indian
in
Thoreau’s
life
is
so
deep
and
thoroughgoing
as

to
color
his
whole
existence.

Native
terms
became
such
an
integral
part
of

his
vocabulary
that
he
customarily
spoke
of
the
musquash
and
the

Musketaquid
instead
of
the
muskrat
and
the
Concord
River.

The
reticence

and
the
stoicism
of
the
native
ingrained
themselves
in
the
very
fiber
of
his

being
as
he
moved
about
the
ancient
hunting‐grounds
of
the
vanished
tribes,

pondering
the
destiny,
and
gathering
the
sacred
remains
of
the
former

possessors
of
the
soil.19


Such
spiritual
infusion
hinges
on
the
absence
of
the
“vanished
tribes”,
that
Thoreau

might
fully
encompass
and
especially
represent
the
shadowy
and
sacred

characteristics
of
a
lost
but
thus
redeemed
legacy.

The
language
and
the
soil

function
as
a
palimpsest:
the
words
are
colorful
alternatives
to
English
as
the

standard
of
communication,
and
the
soil,
as
a
former
possession
of
exterminated
but




127


metaphysically
valuable
tribes,
provides
enriched
foundation
to
the
current
nation

residing
on
the
land.

It
seem
that
for
Keiser,
Thoreau’s
ponderings
are
what
render

Indian
remains
meaningful
and
sacred.
He
goes
on
to
state,
per
the
Walden
sojourn,

“It
was
such
fullness
of
life
which
Thoreau
admired
among
the
Indians,
and
at

Walden
he
sought
to
practice
a
similar
adaptation
to
his
own
environment,
an

experience
which
left
him
wiser,
and
which
has
given
our
frenzied
and
extravagant

age
a
lesson
it
might
well
take
to
heart.”20


In
this
pedantic
reverie,
Keiser
fancies

Thoreau
a
mediator
‐
a
functional
repository
of
the
Indian
made
refined
and

accessible.





Whether
Thoreau
intended
to
serve
as
such
a
mediator
in
the
retrospect
of


posterity
is
unknown.

What
can
be
little
doubted
is
the
importance
of
the
Indian
as

a
source
of
alignment
and
articulation
for
the
Romantic,
natural,
transcendentalist

philosophies
most
associated
with
his
written
legacy.

The
Indian
presence
that

inhabits
his
Journals
and
published
essays
embodies
simplified
alignment
with
the

natural
cycles
of
the
wild,
much
akin
in
purpose
to
Emerson’s
symbols
of
rustic

naïveté.

But,
as
Robert
Sayre
makes
the
point
in
his
1977
book
Thoreau
and
the

American
Indians,
“...the
true
character
and
significance
of
Thoreau’s
interest
in

Indians
are
more
complex
than
these
generalizations
suggest.

To
a
great
extent,

Thoreau
was
prejudiced,
favorably
and
unfavorably,
by
the
white
stereotypes
of

Indian
life.

He
did
not
study
Indians,
in
all
their
variety
and
social
relationships;
he

studied
‘the
Indian’,
the
ideal
solitary
figure
that
was
the
white
American’s
symbol

of
the
wilderness
and
history.”21

In
part,
this
illustrates
the
truism
that
one
is
a

product
of
their
times
and
so
must
be
analyzed
and
perhaps
excused
accordingly.





128


Yet,
as
is
exemplified
by
“Civil
Disobedience”,
Thoreau
as
an
author
is
particularly

understood
in
terms
of
his
rejection
of
the
times
he
inhabited.
The
possibility
that
a

primary
symbol
of
his
subversive
values
is
itself
infused
with
evidence
of
perhaps

unconscious
conformity
complicates
his
legacy
of
dissent
and
underscores
the

ubiquitous
nature
of
these
stereotypes.







Thoreau
disassociates
from
modern
man
as
an
automaton
that
outrages
such

human
freedoms
as
are
manifest
in
his
reckoning
of
“the
Indian”.
Yet,
the
stakes
he

has
as
a
published
and
widely
read
author
encourage
a
discourse
complicit
with

dominant
measures
of
both
intellectual
and
imaginative
validity.

The
inevitable
and

irresistible
influence
of
authoritative
white
concepts
shape
Thoreau’s
critique
of

civilization
even
as
it
is
grounded
in
notions
of
purer
Indian
forbears.
His

understanding
of
the
Indian
as
symbol
of
unbounded
natural
man
is
itself
bound
by

the
conventions
of
the
written
language
he
must
utilize
as
the
only
form
suited
to

disseminating
his
observations
and
criticisms
to
a
reading
public.








If
this
perhaps
unconscious
conformity
to
stereotypes
helps
gain
an
audience,
the

association
again
bodes
ill
for
living
tribal
people
trying
to
advocate
for
their

interests.

Reading
the
“Statement”
makes
it
clear:
the
typical
order
of
events
left
the

Indians
feeling
either
unheard
or
summarily
dismissed,
despite
myriad
attempts
to

gain
the
sympathy
or
prick
the
conscience
of
those
addressed.

The
paternalism
of

the
self‐proclaimed
“Great
Father”
would
favor
visions
of
a
meek
Red
Man
grateful

to
be
guided
into
the
charitable
fold
of
civilization.

The
Chippewas
of
Lake
Superior

report
being
repeatedly
told
that
they
“must
live
in
peace,
not
to
war
against
one

another,
but
be
peaceable
and
live
by
tilling
the
land.”22

This
thinly
veiled
advice
to




129


do
as
told
and
keep
quiet
about
it
proves
incompatible
with
the
dismal

consequences
of
white
intercessions
into
the
tribal
polity.

The
“Statement”
provides

the
following
illustrative
testimonial:

There
was
an
old
woman
who
spoke
to
the
Agent,
in
this
wise,
My
Father,

truly
I
am
poor,
your
Children
the
Chippewas
are
poor.

At
the
time
when
the

English
People
were
supporting
me
I
had
plenty
to
wear;
but
when
you
made

your
appearance
you
who
are
called
“Big
Knives”
and
come
among
us,
you

told
me
you
would
support
me,
that
I
would
not
be
poor,
that
I
would
be

better
off
than
I
had
been
with
the
English.

I
am
now
a
good
deal
poorer
than

I
was
then.

You
made
me
a
great
many
promises
which
you
have
not
fulfilled.

This
old
woman
spoke
the
truth.

There
is
no
perceptible
change
in
our

situation
even
when
promises
are
made
to
us,
although
they
are
often
made

to
us,
to
effect
a
purpose,
but
we
never
know
them
to
be
fulfilled.23


This
testimonial
links
the
old
woman’s
poverty
to
the
shifting
currents
of
imperial

claims
on
Anishinaabek
land
–
from
the
avowed
colonial
interests
of
the
English
to

the
more
veiled
acquisitiveness
of
a
budding
American
nationalism.

In
both

instances,
the
Anishinaabek
are
offered
the
seeming
security
of
material
support.


The
promise
that
the
people
will
be
“better
off”
is
not
fulfilled.

In
combination
with

the
loss
of
hunting,
ricing,
gathering,
and
fishing
grounds,
these
supports
instead

undermine
the
real
security
of
the
established
self‐sufficiency
of
the
Anishinaabek

industrial
year.


The
only
perceptible
purpose
affected
by
the
promises
made
is
to

pauperize
the
tribal
nations,
ostensibly
to
buy
Peace
through
utter
dependence.


Again,
the
“Statement”
evidences
just
how
aware
its
authors
were
of
the




130


foundational
disparity
between
work
and
deed,
and
how
these
rhetorical
games

ultimately
translate
into
further
hardship.






How
the
Chippewa
account
for
such
disparities
is
better
understood
by

considering
the
process
of
how
the
“Statement”
came
to
take
the
form
it
did.

As
a

written
record,
it
is
evidence
of
the
extended
councils
and
hearings
that
formed
it.


Behind
the
scenes,
not
only
were
the
views
of
the
headmen
taken
into
account,
but

also
the
experience
of
unnamed
tribal
members
like
the
old
woman.

Simply
put,
the

text
is
made
possible
only
by
the
active
workings
of
communal
decision‐making
as
it

rests
on
a
foundation
of
traditional
values
and
direct
experience.


A
careful

listener/reader
can
detect
the
depth
and
variety
of
influences
that
contributed
to

the
decisions
and
statements
made.
During
this
time
of
extended
treaty
making
and

breaking,
focusing
on
the
unrecorded
communal
processes
that
underlay
the
end

results
makes
it
more
difficult
to
cast
the
Chippewa
in
the
role
of
victim
or
tragically

fading
Romantic
figure.

The
demands
and
stipulations
recorded
in
the
“Statement”

demonstrate
not
only
the
necessity
of
political
engagement,
but
can
highlight
the

inseparability
of
such
policies
from
baseline
communal
identifications.

In
other

words,
even
at
the
seeming
mercy
of
double‐dealing
politicians
and
avaricious

agents,
the
Chippewa
maintain
the
autonomy
to
assess
and
judge
such
behaviors

from
a
pre‐established
and
independent
moral
stance
that
provides
a
solid
means
of

measured
response.

They
never
surrender
their
own
understandings
of
civility.


They
continue
to
advocate
for
the
interests
of
all
their
people,
and
the
lands
upon

which
they
depend.





131







The
featuring
of
the
old
woman’s
testimony
gives
a
glimpse
of
an
elder
woman’s

role
among
the
people.

Not
only
do
mindimooyenhwag
(old
women)
figure
heavily

into
key
traditional
narratives
(Nanaboozhoo
was
raised
by
Nokomis,
his

grandmother),
they
also
prove
crucial
to
the
smooth
functioning
of
seasonal

survival.

Mille
Lac
elder
Nodinens
recollects
her
grandmother’
role
throughout
the

industrial
year
in
a
narrative
that
can
be
found
in
Frances
Densmore’s
Chippewa

Customs.

Regarding
the
weaving
of
bulrush
and
cedar
mats
to
cover
the
wigwams,

she
states:
“My
grandmother
directed
everything,
and
she
had
a
large
quantity
of
the

thorns
from
the
thorn‐apple
tree
in
a
leather
bag.

She
had
been
gathering
these
all

summer,
but
she
made
sure
she
had
plenty.”24

Without
these
mats,
the
wigwams

would
provide
no
winter
shelter.

Nodinens
also
relates
how
“during
the
winter
my

grandmother
made
lots
of
fish
nets
of
nettlestalk
fiber.”25

These
nets
were
crucial

to
procuring
the
bulk
of
one
of
the
Chippewa’s
main
food
sources.

Returning
to
the

forethought
of
gathering,
Nodinens
states
how
“Grandmother
had
a
supply
of
thorn‐
apple
thorns
and
she
got
these
out
and
pinned
up
the
children’s
coats
so
they
would

be
warm
and
we
started
off
in
the
snowstorm
and
went
to
the
sugar
bush.”26

In

relation
to
the
sugar
bush
(tapping
and
processing
of
maple
syrup),
which
the

Anishinaabek
were
also
dependent
upon
for
a
primary
food
source,
Nodinens

directly
summarizes
the
mater
of
opening
and
organizing
the
food
cache
stored
the

previous
fall:
“Grandmother
had
charge
of
all
of
this,
and
made
the
young
girls
do

the
work.”27







132







These
details
provide
stark
contrast
between
the
fate
of
elders
in
the

“Statement’s”
contemporary
scene
of
meager
agency
provisions,
and
their
key
role
in

assuring
the
survival
and
self‐sufficiency
of
tribal
communities
still
engaged
in
the

seasonal
rounds.

Nodinen’s
account
demonstrates
the
established
import
of
said

elders
within
the
composition
of
the
traditional
Anishinaabek
polity.

The
broken

promises
referred
to
throughout
the
“Statement”
result
in
increasing
hardship
due

to
loss
of
the
lands
and
resources
upon
which
the
entire
fabric
of
Anishinaabek

society
was
based.

The
security
of
a
Grandmother
who
was
certain
to
gather
the

thorns
needed
for
home
construction
and
the
warmth
of
children
finds
no
substitute

in
the
whims
of
agency
officials
seeking
profit
in
the
name
of
the
Great
Father’s

merciful
authority.

The
security
threat
ushered
in
by
the
era
of
papers
and

promises
is
well
represented
by
a
poor
old
woman
whose
only
seeming
defense
is
to

speak
the
truth
of
her
poverty.

This
is
the
reality
brought
about
by
the
less
savory

workings
of
literacy
in
service
to
the
changeable,
self‐serving
declarations
of

officialdom.

The
disconnect
between
Chippewa
lives
and
governmental

proclamations
rides
upon
the
vested
authority
of
a
written
version
of
reality

intended
to
displace
the
actual,
sustainable
relationships
between
people
and
place

–
relationships
that
hinge
on
the
ecology
of
survival.







In
her
book
Hemispheric
Imaginings,
Gretchen
Murphy
considers
the
spaces
of

inquiry
opened
up
by
“discourse
studies
that
examine
the
importance
of
language
as

a
mediating
device
that
prevents
direct
access
to
‘the
real’.”28

The
official
line
of
the

Great
Father
and
his
representative
Agents
works
to
silence
the
concrete
concerns

of
the
Indian
subject
with
palliative
phrasing
that
aligns
with
convenient




133


conceptions
of
malleable
Red
Children.

Murphy
points
out
the
19th
century

American
propensity
to
use
the
“displacement
of
American
Indians
as
unique

national
subject
matter
qualified
to
compete
with
Britain
in
the
realm
of
cultural

production...
The
representational
Indians
they
proposed
would
serve
a
narrative

purpose
similar
to
that
of
Adam’s
citation
of
‘aboriginal
relations’
‐‐
a
demonstration

of
the
unique
situation
of
settlers
in
the
New
World.”29
Thoreau’s
own
agenda
to

prove
unique
exception
to
the
humanist
woes
of
modernization
similarly
turns
upon

a
representational
language
of
Indian
relations
that
is
inherently
removed
from
the

“real”.


In
both
instances,
Indians
are
written
into
obscurity,
while
those
doing
the

writing
take
their
place
‐
literally
in
the
case
of
the
land‐grabbers,
and
figuratively
in

the
case
of
the
Romantics.






Robert
Fannuzi,
writing
about
Thoreau
in
Abolition’s
Public
Sphere,
raises
this

question:
“Had
the
putative
critic
of
capitalist
modernization
allied
himself
with
its

capacity
for
abstraction
and
sacrificed
the
intimacy
of
social
relations
and
the

concrete
reality
of
social
localities
for,
as
Marx
said
famously,
the
‘unreal

universality’
of
an
imaginary
form?”30

There
is
a
nuanced
relationship
between

abstract
language
and
the
“imagination”,
in
which
the
use
of
figurative
language
is
a

matter
divorced
from
actual
people
and
lands.
In
other
words,
the
English
language

as
a
“mediating
device”
of
communication
relies
upon
ingrained
distinctions

between
the
real
and
the
representative,
the
concrete
and
the
imaginary,
the

language
of
rational
validity
and
the
language
of
the
figurative
and
poetic.

In
all
of

these
binaries,
Emerson
and
Thoreau’s
rhetoric
situates
the
Indian
in
the
confines
of

the
latter,
effectively
eliminating
independent
responses
that
are
actively
relevant
to




134


the
critique
of
the
contemporary
“real”.

Such
critiques
are
ultimately
addressed
to

those
sharing
the
abstracted
language
of
removed
rationality
as
it
defines
the
worth

of
the
symbolic.





In
summary,
Romantic
representations
of
the
Indian
are
dependent
on


imaginative
and
textual
associations
that
hold
the
burden
of
a
utopian
alignment

with
Nature.

It
is
not
wholly
necessary
for
either
Indian
or
nature
to
be
actualized

or
embodied
outside
these
abstractions.
Limited
by
the
allure
of
the
conceptual,
the

actual
possibility
of
(communal)
survival
within
and
according
to
the
dictates
of

nature
becomes
a
matter
of
fiction.
Or,
for
the
living
people
caught
up
in
this

nationalist
imaginary,
a
struggle
to
survive
in
the
flesh
in
actual
places.








Fanuzzi
sees
Thoreau’s
investment
in
“subjective
impressions”
as
the
impetus

behind
his
reckoning
of
Walden
Pond
as
a
repository
of
“artistic
sensibility.”31

The

tendency
to
favor
the
discursive
power
of
the
symbol
compels
him
to


force
a
contradiction
between
the
aesthetically
mediated
experience
of
place

and
the
actual
place
so
that
both
the
imaginative
process
and
the
means
of

representation
are
defamiliarized.

In
doing
so,
he
was
leaving
behind
the
city

itself
as
the
implied
referent,
or
site
for
his
self‐
consciousness;
more

precisely
he
was
making
an
urban
existence
wholly
contingent
on
the

inferences,
associations,
and
activities
that
he
ascribed
to
his
imagination.32


Walden
Pond
is
valuable
because
of
a
process
of
imaginative
idealization
that
favors

the
poetics
of
the
land
as
a
sensibility
separate
from
‐
and
of
superior
ideological

usefulness
to
‐
the
land
itself.

Such
rhetorical
hierarchies
can
be
transferred
with

little
difficulty
to
the
aboriginal
inhabitants
of
the
land,
whose
arrowhead
detritus




135


and
romanticized
dependency
infuse
and
enhance
the
cultivation
of
associative

fictions.







In
short,
Thoreau’s
poetic
imagination
is
informed
by
a
fetishized
alignment
with

a
concept
of
the
Indian
situated
both
within
Nature
as
the
consciously
utopian

contrast
to
modern
industrial
disenchantments,
and
within
a
language
of
both

imaginative
and
rational
remove.

These
linguistic
machinations
dovetail
with
the

strategies
employed
by
the
very
forces
that
would
disenfranchise
and
remove
the

tribes
from
lands
coveted
for
timber
and
homesteading.

Land
that
is
then
despoiled

and
consequently
unsuited
not
only
to
the
meditative
landscapes
prized
in
Walden,

but
unfit
to
continued
occupancy
that
depends
on
its
established
bounty.








The
“Statement”
employs
a
dual
strategy
in
the
effort
to
maintain
a
sustainable

landbase:
the
written
record
of
accounts
prepared
for
official
presentation
is
also

peppered
with
references
to
the
collective,
living
will
of
the
people.

Concerning
the

government’s
proposed
access
to
mineral
interests,
Chief
White
Crow
responds
“I

do
not
give
you
the
land,
it
is
the
Mineral
only
that
I
sell
if
there
is
any
to
be
found
on

my
land.”33

The
personal
pronoun
seems
endemic
to
the
convenience
of
the
Agent’s

efforts
to
force
compliance,
again
indicating
the
tendency
to
overlook
the
communal

decision‐making
habitual
to
the
tribal
polity.

However,
this
wording
is
quickly

qualified,
as
White
Crow
again
emphasizes:
“I
do
not
cede
the
land,
as
he
cried
with

a
loud
voice
turning
to
his
fellow
Indians
in
which
they
all
responded
with
Eh!

Eh!”34


This
emphatic
declaration
highlights
the
group
consensus
as
it
is
conveyed

in
the
evocation
of
their
vocal
response,
and
thus,
continuous
presence.





136







The
reasoning
behind
the
Chippewa’s
acquiescence
to
the
Great
Father’s

demands
illustrates
the
good
faith
customarily
afforded
to
the
solemnly
spoken

word.

At
the
same
time,
there
is
likely
an
under‐riding
practicality
to
the
ongoing

willingness
to
parley:
at
this
point
in
history,
most
tribes
would
be
well
aware
of

America’s
military
strength
and
destructive
capacity.

One
passage
reads:
“So
then

Father,
Our
Great
Father
requests
me
to
sell
him
my
Pine
Timber,
our
Great
Father

is
mighty,
therefore
whatever
he
says
would
not
be
in
vain,
and
whatever
he

promises
to
do
he
will
fulfill.”35

A
stance
of
default
respect
toward
spoken
vows
is

increasingly
tempered
by
the
ongoing
disappointment
of
conditions
unmet.


The

Chippewa
attempt
to
make
stipulations
that
might
allow
them
some
retention
of

culture,
showing
just
how
much
their
words
were
guided
by
the
material
reality
of

the
land.

The
woods
are
not
mere
fodder
for
poetic
alignments
–
they
are
necessary

to
physical
and
spiritual
survival.

Along
with
the
previously
mentioned
retention
of

the
Pine’s
roots,
the
“Statement”
makes
the
following
conditions:

Again
this
I
hold
in
my
hand
the
Maple
Timber,
also
the
Oak
Timber,
also
this

Straw
which
I
hold
in
my
hand.

Wild
Rice
is
what
we
call
this.

These
I
do
not

sell.

That
you
may
not
destroy
the
Rice
in
working
the
timber,
also
a
small
tract
of

land
to
make
a
garden
to
live
on
while
you
are
working
the
timber.

I
do
not
make
you
a
present
of
this,
I
merely
lend
it
to
you.

This
is
my

answer,
My
Great
Father
is
great,
and
out
of
respect
for
him
I
will
not
refuse

him,
but
as
an
exchange
of
civility
I
must
see
and
feel
the
benefits
of
this
loan,

and
the
promises
fulfilled.36





137


The
speaker
is
uncannily
aware
of
how
empty
words
can
be.

The
desire
to
“see
and

feel
the
benefits”
is
the
desire
to
re‐situate
the
exchanges
into
the
realm
of

discernable
actuality
rather
than
changeable
policy.

This
material
specificity
is

inseparable
from
the
deep
cultural
significance
of
the
plants
listed.

The
Maple
and

the
Wild
Rice
in
particular
are
key
facets
of
the
Anishinaabek
industrial
year,

providing
for
the
ziizibaakwad
and
manoomin
that
are
crucial
both
nutritionally
and

to
many
associated
origin
and
morality
stories.

In
her
influential
1999
publication

All
Our
Relations,
Winona
LaDuke
explains:


There
are
many
wild
rice
lakes
on
the
White
Earth
reservation
in
northern

Minnesota;
my
community,
the
Anishinaabeg,
calls
the
rice
manoomin,
or
a

gift
from
the
Creator.

Every
year,
half
our
people
harvest
the
wild
rice,
the

fortunate
ones
generating
a
large
chunk
of
their
income
from
it.

But
wild
rice

is
not
just
about
money
and
food.
It’s
about
feeding
the
soul.37


As
for
the
ziizibaakwad,
or
maple
syrup,
the
name
itself
gives
an
idea
of
the
place
it

holds
in
the
lives
of
the
Anishinaabek.

The
opening
syllable,
“zii”,
can
also
be
found

in
the
word
for
river,
“ziibi”.

In
both
cases,
it
is
a
sound
reference
–
the
bubbling
and

murmuring
that
is
heard
when
a
river
flows,
as
well
as
when
the
maple
tree’s
sap

begins
to
flow.

These
details
characterize
the
people’s
relationship
to
their

surroundings:
it
is
close,
personal,
and
nuanced
because
it
is
based
on
sensory

realities.

Unlike
Thoreau’s
valuation
of
the
land’s
symbolic
capacity
in
the
move

toward
an
uplifting
imaginary,
the
underlying
motivation
of
the
Chippewa’s

attention
toward
these
particular
features
foregrounds
the
experiential
blend
of
the

practical
and
the
spiritual.




138





How
the
rhetorically
abstract
tradition
of
English
letters
undergirds


Thoreau’s
use
of
the
Indian
(and
nature)
as
symbolic
currency
is
best
understood
by

examining
the
attitudes,
prejudices,
and
insights
that
characterize
his
eventual

contact
with
actual
Indians.

Though
The
Maine
Woods
did
not
appear
in
print
until

1864,
the
timetable
of
his
visits
attests
to
the
fact
that
contact
of
greater
or
lesser

duration
with
the
Penobscot
people
of
Maine
indeed
occurred
prior
to
or
during
the

course
of
some
of
his
most
substantial
written
treatments
of
the
Indian.

Thoreau

encountered
a
few
Penobscot
briefly
in
1846,
prior
to
“A
Week
on
the
Concord
and

Merrimack
Rivers”,
had
more
extensive
contact
with
guide
Joe
Aitteon
in
1853,
one

year
prior
to
the
publication
of
Walden,
and
finally
in
1857
made
the
journey
that

marks
what
is
rightly
considered
his
most
significant
interaction
with
Joe
Polis.
This

was
in
the
midst
of
his
“Indian
Notebooks”
and
its
extensive
archival
research
and

copious
note‐taking
that
spanned
from
1847‐1861.
It
is
also
useful
to
consider
these

dates
in
relation
to
the
Journals,
as
these
1837‐1861
writings
are
rich
in
references

to
the
Indian.





This
chronology
does
not
negate
the
point
that
Thoreau’s
representation
of


the
Indian
hinges
on
a
symbolic
understanding
of
rhetorical
abstraction.

Rather,

that
the
Indian
described
in
these
works
so
often
retains
a
tenor
of
utopian
fantasy,

and
that
his
inquiries
still
so
heavily
favor
the
written
record
of
past

anthropological,
missionary,
and
ethnographic
ventures
(even
after
contact
with

living
Penobscot)
reveals
the
core
ambivalence
of
his
struggle
between
the
concept

and
the
actual.
Thoreau
as
accomplished
white
author
and
Romantic
paragon
of

Indian
and
natural
sympathies
is
complicated
by
the
simple
revelation
that
specific




139


Indians
are
complexly
situated
in
the
modern
world,
and
not
so
easily
relegated
to
a

poetics
of
the
past.









Thoreau
is
unmoored
from
established
alignments
with
the
imaginative
and

nostalgic
lines
that
he
would
claim
affinity
to
(and
be
popularly
considered
inheritor

of).

Rapid‐fire
vacillation
between
open
acquiescence
and
derisive
resistance
to
the

authority
and
ultimate
authenticity
of
his
contemporary
Penobscot
guides
infuses

The
Maine
Woods,
to
leave
both
reader
and
author
with
a
schizophrenia
of

identification.

The
fictionalized,
emblematic
Indian
of
Thoreau’s
subjective
musings

and
scholarly
curiousity
is
in
danger
of
deterioration
once
faced
with
the
presence

of
a
living
inheritance.
An
inheritance
including
political
awareness
and
white
men’s

clothing
as
well
as
forest
savvy,
and
at
times
importantly
articulated
in
the

indigenous
language
of
the
land.
That
these
Penobscot
are
undeniably
descendants

of
“the
Indian”
troubles
Thoreau,
and
makes
The
Maine
Woods
a
work
of
deep

ambiguity.

For
as
much
as
Thoreau’s
description
and
assessment
of
these
people
is

frequently
disapproving,
ungenerous
and
suspicious,
the
subtlety
of
his
education

and
unsought
enlightenment
prove
profound.




His
first
trip,
which
the
section
named
after
the
mountain
“Ktaadn”
provides


record
of,
is
underscored
by
a
patronizing
sense
of
disappointment.
Seen
from
his

passing
ferry,
two
inhabitants
of
Indian
island
are
given
unflattering
descriptions,
as

token
of
the
“Indian’s
history,
that
is,
the
history
of
his
extinction.”38

New
houses

are
looked
upon
as
decided
curiousities,
and
with
seeming
surprise
Thoreau

contrasts
such
development
with
the
deserted
look
of
the
island,
“as
if
the
tribe
still

had
a
design
upon
life.”39

These
first
impressions
are
recorded
as
“poor
Indian”,
as




140


Thoreau
situates
the
homesteads,
pastimes,
and
church
buildings
as
incongruent

mockeries
of
what
“were
once
a
powerful
tribe.”40

Such
language
succeeds
in

limiting
the
living
Penobscot
to
a
relationship
with
a
faded
past;
the
“woe‐begone”,

pitiful
remains
of
a
people
whose
foremost
link
with
Indian
island
is
the
inevitability

of
the
grave.41







Thoreau’s
discomfiture
with
the
Penobscot
he
sees
is
in
opposition
to
an

internalized
image
of
Indians
who
would
prove
powerful
not
poor.
In
a
remark

equal
parts
disparagement
and
mourning,
he
states:
“Politics
are
all
the
rage
with

them
now.

I
even
thought
that
a
row
of
wigwams,
with
a
dance
of
pow‐wows,
and
a

prisoner
tortured
at
the
stake,
would
be
more
respectable
than
this.”42

In
this

measure,
political
awareness
is
just
so
much
posturing,
of
degraded
equivalence
to

old‐style
savage
rowdiness
and
other
stereotypical
tropes
of
tribal
identification.


The
pert
dismissal
encased
in
such
phrasing
undermines
tribal
people
driven
to

politics
by
motivations
decidedly
more
critical
than
a
hankering
to
be
part
of
the

latest
“rage”.




Yet
Thoreau
cannot
simply
relegate
the
inhabitants
of
the
island
to
share
in


the
spectral
unreality
of
already
extinct
ancestors.

His
authorial
intentions
oblige

him
to
empirically
observe
and
record
the
scenes
that
compose
his
travels
and

contingent
impressions.

In
The
Maine
Woods,
the
tension
between
the
factual

language
of
his
fieldnotes
and
the
poetic
strains
of
his
philosophic
musings
is

concentrated
around
the
ambiguities
of
an
Indian
agenda
that
is
simultaneously

ethnographic
and
mythological,
critical
and
reverent.







141









In
this
1846
journey,
interactions
with
indigenous
people
prove
minimal
and

rather
conclusively
disapproving,
as
is
evident
in
the
assessment
that
“We
were

lucky
to
have
exchanged
our
Indians,
whom
we
did
not
know,
for
these
men”
‐
they

being
the
white
men
who
agreed
to
accompany
Thoreau
and
his
companion
to
the

mountain
after
the
Indian
guides
they
tried
to
employ
failed
to
arrive
at
the

rendezvous
point.43

Why
the
two
Penobscot
‐
who
in
the
course
of
the
interview

were
described
as
“dull
and
greasy‐looking”,
“sluggish”,
and
“doggish”
‐
did
not
meet

as
planned
is
impossible
to
say
with
full
certainty,
though
Thoreau
later
states
that

“they
had
in
fact
been
delayed
so
long
by
a
drunken
frolic
at
the
Five
Islands.”44

In

this
mode
of
censure,
he
compares
his
white
companions
to
the
missing
Penobscot

and
categorically
states
that
“the
Indian
is
said
not
to
be
so
skillful
in
the

management
of
the
batteau.

He
is,
for
the
most
part,
less
to
be
relied
upon,
and

more
disposed
to
sulks
and
whims.”45







This
ill
impression
retreats
in
light
of
his
engagement
with
the
natural
scenes


about
and
upon
mount
Ktaadn,
where
he
finds
descriptive
recourse
in
identifying

the
Indian
as
the
primary
point
of
mythic
associations.

His
ascent
immanent,

Thoreau
muses
that
“simple
races,
as
savages,
do
not
climb
mountains
‐
their
tops

are
sacred
and
mysterious
tracts
never
visited
by
them.”46

Taking
in
the
elevated

view,
he
surveys
the
features
of
the
land
and
considers
the
myriad
unnamed
lakes

“and
mountains
also,
whose
names,
for
the
most
part,
are
known
only
to
the

Indians.”47

His
well‐documented
experience
of
sublime
wonder
at
the
top
of
the

mountain
as
“matter...the
solid
earth!
the
actual
world!
the
common
sense!
Contact!”





142


is
tellingly
understood
to
be
Nature
as
“Man
was
not
to
be
associated
with
it...
It
was

a
place
for
heathenism
and
superstitious
rites,‐
to
be
inhabited
by
men
nearer
of
kin

to
the
rocks
and
to
wild
animals
than
we.”48

His
tendency
is
to
situate
the
Indian
as

the
keeper
of
esoteric
knowledge
impossibly
and
best
described
as
reality
in
so

unfettered
a
state
as
to
be
virtually
uninhabitable
by
man
in
his
modern

associations.

The
Indian
resides
where
matter
is
infused
with
mystery
and
the

human
is
all
but
indecipherable
from
the
natural
surroundings.





Which
Indians
he
considers
representative
of
such
illumination
prove


distinctly
separate
from
the
two
missing
Penobscot
he
again
encounters
at
the
end

of
their
respective
forays
into
the
wilderness.

Met
face
to
face,
these
Indians
in
their
native
woods
looked
like
the
sinister

and
slouching
fellows
whom
you
meet
picking
up
strings
and
paper
in
the

streets
of
a
city.

There
is,
in
fact,
a
remarkable
and
unexpected
resemblance

between
the
degraded
savage
and
the
lowest
classes
in
a
great
city.

The
one

is
not
more
a
child
of
nature
than
the
other.

In
the
progress
of
degradation,

the
distinction
of
races
is
soon
lost.49


In
this
passage,
Thoreau
makes
an
inherent
distinction
between
those
who
are

degraded
and
those
who
may
be
counted
children
of
nature.

The
Penobscot
men,

attired
in
“the
spoils
of
Bangor”,
are
in
this
scene
little
better
than
scavengers

picking
at
the
meaningless
leavings
of
dominant,
disinterested,
voracious

civilization.50

These
particular
Indians
are
ill‐suited
to
the
purity
of
their
ancestry,

and
his
scathing
description
of
the
encounter
is
summarized
by
the
remark
that
“We





143


thought
Indians
had
some
honor
before.”51

After
this
dismal
portrait,
the
narrative

reorients
into
a
reverie
that
would
envision
“a
still
more
ancient
and
primitive

man...
He
is
but
dim
and
misty
to
me...
He
glides
up
the
Millinocket
and
is
lost
to
my

sight,
as
a
more
distant
and
misty
cloud
is
seen
flitting
by
behind
a
nearer,
and
is

lost
in
space.

So
he
goes
about
his
destiny,
the
red
face
of
man.”52

The
face
of
the

Indian
as
it
briefly
appears
in
1846
is
derisively
dismissed
in
favor
the
image
that

populates
the
“howling
wilderness”
of
Thoreau’s
poetic
imagination,
leaving
any

insight
to
be
gained
from
a
contemporary
reckoning
of
indigenous
identity
lost
to

the
non‐space
of
disembodiment.53










Thoreau
returns
to
Maine
in
September
of
1853,
and
duly
makes
record
of


the
events
in
“Chesencook”,
the
second
section
of
The
Maine
Woods.

On
this
trip,
he

does
indeed
procure
a
Penobscot
guide
by
the
name
of
Joe
Aitteon,
a
“good
looking

Indian,
twenty‐four
years
old,
apparently
of
unmixed
blood.”54

This
factual
strain
of

description
is
in
accord
with
the
tenor
established
in
an
earlier
description
of
the

botanical
features
and
natural
system
of
waterways
then
followed
by
a
detailed

description
of
Joe
as
he
applies
pitch
to
his
canoe.

The
smallest
actions
are
reported

on,
including
the
placement
of
his
mouth
and
whether
he
inhales
or
exhales
air
in

the
course
of
assessing
the
canoe’s
soundness.

Far
from
indicating
some

unconscious
anthropological
indoctrination,
Thoreau
readily
states:
“I
narrowly

watched
his
motions,
and
listened
attentively
to
his
observations,
for
we
had

employed
an
Indian
mainly
that
I
might
have
an
opportunity
to
study
his
ways.”55






144






What
Thoreau
seems
most
prepared
to
study
are
whatever
practical
lessons


of
ancestral
forest
knowledge
and
application
that
Joe
Aitteon
might
possess.

The

answer
is,
decidedly,
plenty,
as
the
younger
man
proves
adept
at
handling
the
canoe,

discerning
diverse
forest
sounds,
and
tracking
moose
“lightly
and
gracefully,

stealing
through
the
bushes
with
the
least
possible
noise,
in
a
way
in
which
no
white

man
does,
as
it
were,
finding
a
place
for
his
foot
each
time.”56

Yet,
when
asked
for
a

particular
bit
of
information
about
the
construction
of
his
canoe,
Aitteon
answers:

“I
don’t
know,
I
never
noticed.”

Talking
with
him
about
subsisting
wholly
on

what
the
woods
yielded,
game,
fish,
berries,
etc.,

I
suggested
that
his

ancestors
did
so;
but
he
answered,
that
he
had
been
brought
up
in
such
a
way

that
he
could
not
do
it.


“Yes,”
said
he,
“that’s
the
way
they
got
a
living,
like

wild
fellows,
wild
as
bears.

By
George!
I
shan’t
go
into
the
woods
without

provision,
‐hard
bread,
pork,
etc.”

He
had
brought
on
a
barrel
of
hard
bread

and
stored
it
at
the
carry
for
his
hunting.

However,
though
he
was
a

Governor’s
son,
he
had
not
learned
to
read.57


As
testament
to
the
practicality
of
“his
ways”,
Aitteon
readily
makes
use
of
the

conveniences
introduced
by
whites,
ostensibly
because
he
was
not
brought
up
to

reject
them.
In
this
default
mode
of
education,
wherein
what
is
valued
is
what
is

included
in
the
course
of
quotidian
survival,
he
learns
to
speak
but
not
read
English.


While
Aitteon
does
make
use
of
colloquialisms
such
as
“Yes,
Sir‐ee”
and
“By
George”

in
his
exchanges
with
speakers
of
English,
he
is
not
to
be
counted
among
the
ranks

of
a
reading
public.58

Aitteon’s
fluency
in
spoken
English
and
Penobscot
both
tacitly

resist
written
literacy’s
tendency
to
displace
oral
language.
For
Thoreau,
this




145


presents
a
seeming
dichotomy,
placing
Aitteon’s
illiteracy
at
odds
with
his
father’s

high
status
as
determined
by
the
apparatuses
of
white
authority.

In
The
Letters
of

the
Republic,
Michael
Warner
observes
how
18th
century
intellectuals
“by
their
use

of
print...
naturally
align
themselves
with
the
character
of
authority.”59

The
subtext

of
Thoreau’s
comment,
that
“though
he
was
a
Governor’s
son,
he
had
not
learned
to

read”,
reveals
the
implicit
role
literacy
holds
in
his
own
hierarchy
of
refinements.



For
Aitteon,
the
learning
of
English
foremost
seems
a
matter
of
practicality,
in
light

of
the
need
to
interact
with
an
ever‐increasing
white
population.

The
employment

opportunities
afforded
by
tourists
such
as
Thoreau
require
a
guide,
and
find
value
in

the
personally
reckoned
authenticity
of
seeing
the
woods
with
an
Indian.




Thoreau’s
desire
to
observe
idealized
Indian
ways
in
an
authentic
setting
is


destined
for
disappointment,
as
is
to
be
expected
of
most
fantasies
that
encounter

the
real
work
of
living.

This
is
well
illustrated
by
Thoreau’s
outrage
over
the
events

surrounding
the
interracial
moose
hunt,
when
he
is
moved
to
decry
“What
a
coarse

and
imperfect
use
Indians
and
hunters
make
of
nature!
No
wonder
that
their
race
is

so
soon
exterminated.”60

Albeit
illiterate,
as
an
assimilated
Indian,
Aitteon
is
privy

to
this
denunciation
of
uncouth
modernity.

At
an
apex
of
disillusionment
over
such

“petty
and
accidental
uses”
of
nature,
Thoreau
invokes
“the
poet;
he
it
is
who
makes

the
truest
use
of
the
pine”,
effectively
uniting
the
written
word
and
the
imagined

natural
man
as
the
only
reliable
cites
of
“employments
perfectly
sweet
and
innocent

and
ennobling.”61

As
sympathetic
poet,
Thoreau
looks
to
inhabit
the
same
idealized,

utopian
space
that
shelters
his
abstract,
representative
Indian.


What
Fanuzzi
refers

to
as
Thoreau’s
readiness
to
“settle
himself
nowhere
else
than
in
the
poetry
of
his




146


speech,
or
in
the
midst
of
language”
depends
in
part
on
the
absence
of
such
poetic

modes
of
awareness
outside
the
haven
of
his
written
articulations.62

Thus,
for
the

poet
and
the
Indian
to
function
as
repositories
of
the
“higher
law
affecting
our

relation
to
pines
as
well
as
to
men”,
flesh
and
blood
Indians
like
Aitteon
must
be

excluded
from
the
ranks
of
those
able
to
articulate
love
for
“the
living
spirit
of
the

tree.”63











Yet,
when
the
focus
turns
to
the
Penobscot
language
in
it’s
living,
present


articulation
,“Chesencook”
reveals
Thoreau’s
initiation
into
the
modern
mindset
of

his
guide
as
it
exists,
untroubled,
alongside
the
retention
of
indigenous
expression.


Recalling
the
example
of
the
philosophies
that
underlay
the
linguistic
expression
of

the
Pine’s
roots
in
the
“Statement”,
it
is
clear
that
indigenous
languages
encompass

understandings
based
on
long
relationship
to
the
land.

These
understandings
arise

from
the
inheritance
of
a
birth
speech
that
relies
on
shared
and
personal

observations
of
the
surrounding
life
forces.

Again,
it
is
important
to
remember
the

ascendency
of
the
verb
in
these
Algonquian
languages.
What
is
spoken
of
relies
on

what
makes
itself
apparent,
as
opposed
to
what
the
speaker
chooses
to
define
as

important.
In
the
course
of
the
narrative,
the
sound
of
the
Penobscot
words
work
on

Thoreau
as
a
near
inarticulable
revelation,
akin
to
the
paradoxical
sense
of

unmoored
grounding
that
he
experienced
on
Ktaadn.

Thoreau’s
attempts
to

synthesize
and
articulate
what
the
tribal
language
suggests
to
him
raises
questions

about
his
understanding
of
the
poetic,
as
well
as
written
English
as
the
inherited

measure
of
authority.







147





Thoreau’s
brief
remarks
on
the
occasion
of
his
initial
encounter
with


Aitteon’s
indigenous
language
provide
a
remarkably
prescient
outline
of
the
core

linguistic
and
philosophic
issues
that
surround
translation.

Characteristically

providing
description
of
the
layout,
flora,
fauna
of
the
land,
Thoreau
reports:
“The

king‐fisher
flew
before
us,
the
pigeon
woodpecker
was
seen
and
heard,
and

nuthatches
and
chickadees
close
at
hand.

Joe
said
that
the
called
the
chickadee

Kecunnilessu
in
his
language.

I
will
not
vouch
for
the
spelling
of
what
possibly
was

never
spelt
before,
but
I
pronounced
it
after
him
till
he
said
it
would
do.”64

He
goes

on
to
name
a
few
more
birds,
animals
and
plants
along
with
Aitteon’s
translations,

but
offers
no
direct
comments
about
the
particulars
of
the
language.

However,
his

observations
about
the
lack
of
standard
spelling
and
the
particularity
of
the

pronunciation
underscore
the
language’s
characteristic
flexibility,
compositional

meaning,
as
well
as
the
limitations
of
(written)
translation.






In
an
1888
article
in
The
American
Journal
of
Philology,
J.
Dyneley
Prince


offers
his
“Notes
on
the
Language
of
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Tribes”
in
the
spirit
of

preservation.

Chiding
his
contemporaries,
he
remarks
that
“surprisingly
little

attention
has
been
given
by
linguists
to
the
Indian
languages
of
this
country...and

this
is
the
more
to
be
regretted
because
with
the
last
Indian
the
last
hope
of

investigation
will
perish,
for
these
people
keep
no
records
and
have
no
desire
to

leave
any
traces
behind
them.”65

Like
Thoreau,
Prince
considers
the
language’s
lack

of
a
standard
written
record
as
a
foundational
point
of
differentiation.

Oral

communication
is
associated
with
the
eventual
extinction
that
results
from
a
dearth

of
desired
posterity.
In
other
words,
unwritten
words
are
words
that
cannot
last,




148


and
the
preservation
of
such
a
language
falls
to
the
hands
of
those
who
can
mark
it

down
at
present
for
the
sake
of
future
interest
in
the
past.

Such
generalizations
lend

indigenously
authored
documents
like
the
“Statement”
considerable
significance,

undermining
assumptions
about
tribal
acquiescence
to
the
extinction
of
their

language,
ways,
and
people.








As
a
self‐appointed
preservationist,
Prince
shows
his
propensity
to
assume
what

Michael
Warner
terms
an
“authoritative
precedent”
born
out
of
a
“temporal

distance”
that
values
the
inheritability
of
textualized
ancestry.”66

The
value
of
the

inheritance
is
authoritatively
represented
and
preserved
by
the
written
record
that

“makes
print
the
appropriate
means
of
access
to
that
precedent.”67

This
recalls

Thoreau’s
determination
to
take
notes
on
the
Indian
ways
and
words
he
encounters

in
Maine.

His
conflation
of
poetic
awareness
and
expression
with
the
romanticized

Indian
of
his
idealized
imaginary
is
worked
out
through
his
writing.
The
projected

image,
as
detailed
by
temporal
or
fantasy
constructs,
is
favored
because
of
the

preserved
abstractions
born
of
print
associations.
The
materiality
of
print
takes
on

all
manner
of
psychological
and
social
associations
to
render
it
a
means,
or
source,

of
authority
that
ultimately
lacks
an
immediacy
of
interaction.
Authoritative

communication
is
conflated
with
its
written
preservability.
Sensory
experience,
as

the
means
of
communicating
temporally
unbound
actuality,
is
of
questionable

validity.






Prince’s
article
focuses
on
the
diverse
dialects
born
of
the
non‐

standardization
of
oral
language.

His
profession
as
a
linguist
highlights
such

variations,
and
this
concentration
accordingly
presents
the
language
as
a
specificity




149


of
sound.

Recalling
Aitteon’s
tutorial
on
the
pronunciation
of
kecunnilesu,
what

quickly
becomes
apparent
in
the
study
of
the
Algonkin
language
base
is
that
discreet

meanings
prove
inextricable
from
the
auditory
experience
of
the
immediate

communication.









At
one
point
Prince
makes
the
following
linguistic
observation:
“As
these
dialects

are
radically
the
same,
the
phonology
and
grammar
are,
of
course,
identical
in
all
of

them,
for
although
the
forms
of
words
have
differentiated,
yet
the
sounds
have

remained
almost
unaltered,
and
only
in
a
very
few
cases
have
the
grammatical

forms
changed.”68

The
effort
to
preserve
the
language
in
the
written
form,
to
filter

it
through
the
authority
of
standard
English
associations,
seems
to
be
in
hand.
Not

only
that,
but
he
has
articulated
an
important
insight
about
the
stable
importance
of

the
morphemes
‐
an
observation
that
would
find
agreement
among
teachers
of

Algonquian
languages
today.

Yet,
not
a
page
later
he
remarks
that
“Nothing
is
so

deceptive
as
the
thick
guttural
utterance
of
an
Indian,
and
I
have
frequently
spelt
the

same
word
in
two
or
three
ways
as
the
sound
itself
impressed
itself
differently
on

my
ear.

It
is
often
the
case
in
Indian
languages
that
exactly
the
same
combination
of

sounds
will
be
heard
and
interpreted
differently
by
different
individuals.”69

This

commentary
suggests
the
inadequacy
of
written
forms
to
properly
translate
what
it

is
that
composes
the
language.
The
rogue
element
can
be
understood
as
the
context

of
the
communication;
the
interaction
as
it
takes
place
proves
crucial
to
the

composition,
articulation,
and
comprehension
of
the
language.









In
short,
Prince
is
attempting
to
apply
standards
based
on
temporal
abstractions

to
that
which
is
inseparable
from
the
spatial
as
a
matter
of
direct
access
to
an




150


interactive
sense
of
people
and
place.

Accordingly,
he
offers
the
astute
conclusion

that
“Very
subtle
distinctions
in
accent
are
observed
in
speech
making;
in
fact
it
is
by

such
means
that
the
orator
produces
and
effect
or
renders
his
meaning
more

emphatic”,
after
having
just
remarked
that
“the
variations
of
some
of
these
songs
are

so
very
difficult
that
it
is
impossible
for
a
white
man
ever
to
learn
them
exactly.”70


This
raises
the
question
of
whether
it
is
a
different
matter
for
a
white
man
ever
to

listen
to
them
exactly.




Thoreau’s
penchant
for
empirical
data,
as
evidenced
by
the
appendices
of
The


Maine
Woods,
which
include
a
list
of
Indian
words
along
with
extensive
field
records

of
plant
and
animal
life,
can
lead
one
to
safely
assume
that
he
was
open
to
attaining

Penobscot
words
throughout
his
contact
with
Aitteon.
However,
there
is
no
further

reference
to
the
language
until
he
is
invited
to
lodge
with
Aitteon
and
three
other

Indian
companions
for
a
night.

Thoreau
is
inclined
to
accept
the
offer,
as
he

determines
the
Indians
to
be
“much
more
agreeable,
and
even
refined
company,

than
the
lumberers”
whom
he
suggests
think
only
of
fighting
one
another.71









His
visual
description
of
the
camp
focuses
primarily
on
the
copious
amounts
of

meat
in
various
stages
of
curing,
and
he
refers
to
a
1592
image
that
ostensibly

showed
a
Brazilian
native
propensity
to
include
human
flesh
in
the
drying
process.


He
concludes
his
aesthetic
survey
with
the
remark
that
“Altogether
it
was
about
as

savage
a
sight
as
was
ever
witnessed,
and
I
was
carried
back
at
once
three
hundred

years.”72

In
this
mode
of
civilized
remove,
he
is
careful
to
spread
his
blanket
over

the
moose
hides
“so
as
not
to
touch
them
anywhere”,
and
“talking
with
them
till

midnight”,
tells
the
Penobscot
how
he
“had
seen
pictured
in
old
books
pieces
of




151


human
flesh
drying
on
these
crates”,
to
which
they
respond
with
a
story
about

having
heard
of
such
behavior
among
the
(rival)
Mohawk.73

At
this
Thoreau
states

that
they
“knew
but
little
of
the
history
of
their
race,
and
could
be
entertained
by

stories
about
their
ancestors
as
readily
as
any.”74







Here,
the
specter
of
written
history
is
irresistibly
insinuated
into
the
associative

processing
of
people
and
place,
leading
Thoreau
to
impart
his
authoritative

knowledge
of
the
Indian
to
the
Indians.

Yet,
the
remark
that
they
“knew
but
little
of

the
history
of
their
race”
likely
holds
true
insofar
as
that
“history”
is
one
ultimately

based
on
white
conceptualizations.

To
“know”
such
a
history
requires

understanding
oneself
in
accord
with
a
public
sphere
that
Warner
points
out

“requires
a
special
set
of
assumptions
about
print.

It
requires
an
articulated
relation

between
assumptions
about
print
and
the
norms
of
a
specialized
discursive

subsystem.”75

Unable
to
read
or
write,
the
Penobscot
are
decidedly
outside
the

norms
of
print‐legitimated
discourse.
They
are
not
privy
to
a
history
of
the
race

constructed
under
the
special
assumptions
that
grant
such
records
authority,
so
are

thereby
excluded
from
the
particulars
of
their
representation
within
such
spheres.


This
enables
Thoreau
to
privilege
his
own
telling
of
the
men’s
ancestry
and
what
he

conceives
to
be
the
proper
spirit
of
it,
and
thus
further
bolster
poetry
as
the
proper

site
for
that
ancestry’s
spiritual
articulation
and
preservation.







Such
is
the
state
of
conceptual
affairs
as
he
settles
down
to
his
evening
with


the
Penobscot.
In
the
midst
of
what
is
by
far
the
most
intimate
contact
he
has
had

with
Indians,
he
has
his
first
opportunity
to
hear
conversation
conducted
fully
in
an


indigenous
language.




152


While
lying
there
listening
to
the
Indians,
I
amused
myself
with
trying
to

guess
at
their
subject
by
their
gestures,
or
some
proper
name
introduced.


There
can
be
no
more
startling
evidence
of
their
being
a
distinct
and

comparatively
aboriginal
race,
than
to
hear
this
unaltered
Indian
language,

which
the
white
man
cannot
speak
or
understand.

We
may
suspect
change

and
deterioration
in
almost
every
other
particular,
but
the
language
which
is

so
wholly
unintelligible
to
us.

It
took
me
by
surprise,
though
I
had
found
so

many
arrow‐heads,
and
convinced
me
that
the
Indian
was
not
the
invention

of
historians
and
poets.

It
as
a
purely
wild
and
primitive
American
sound,
as

much
as
the
barking
of
the
chickaree,
and
I
could
not
understand
a
syllable
of

it...
I
felt
that
I
stood,
or
rather
lay,
as
near
to
the
primitive
man
of
America,

that
night,
as
any
of
its
discoverers
ever
did.76


Acknowledging
his
own
tendency
to
discount
the
contemporary
Indian
as

degraded
and
ill‐suited
to
the
symbolic
value
of
his
ancestry,
Thoreau
is
surprised

into
an
alternate
awareness
of
the
people.

Unexpectedly,
the
sound
of
the
language

suggests
to
him
there
are
aspects
of
the
aboriginal
race
that
remain
unavailable
for

either
dismissal
or
appropriation.

The
language
is
beyond
the
scope
of
written

histories
and
poetics
because
the
sounds
are
compositions
of
immediacy,

meaningful
because
shaped
in
accord
with
the
current
interaction.
Thoreau
stresses

the
particularity
of
the
interlude
‐
“that
night”,
“lay...near”
‐
to
provide
perhaps

unintentional
opposition
to
the
typical
mode
of
“abstractness
that
defines
the
norms

of
publicity.”77

The
utopian,
universal
spirit
of
Nature
and
her
representative
red

men
herein
face
exposure
as
mere
concepts
limited
to
the
assumptions
of
an




153


exclusionary
discursive
sphere.

Though
he
does
not
“understand
a
syllable”,
as
he

bears
auditory
witness
to
actual
Indians
in
the
present
moment,
he
is
opened
to
the

living,
interactive
sound
of
an
acutely
and
specifically
current
language.






From
this
point
The
Maine
Woods
can
be
read
as
a
chronicle
of
Indian/white


relations
characterized
by
a
comparative
analysis
of
languages
in
contact.

For
as

much
as
Thoreau
provides
record
of
his
own
evolving,
yet
distinctly
limited,

impressions
of
the
indigenous
language,
so
does
the
narrative
provide
some
key

instances
of
aboriginal
inquiries
into
the
English
language.
The
questions
asked,

associations
revealed,
and
conclusions
made
about
foreign
sounds
and
words

highlights
how
language
is
an
intrinsic
gauge
of
the
under‐riding
life
philosophies
of

unfamiliar
people.







Thoreau’s
moment
of
awakening
to
the
Penobscot
language
is
followed
by
further

inquires
into
the
meaning
of
“Indian
names”,
and
the
uncertain
response
of
the
men

prompts
him
to
observe
“their
inability,
often
described,
to
convey
an
abstract
idea.


Having
got
the
idea,
though
indistinctly,
they
groped
about
in
vain
for
words
with

which
to
express
it.”78


Their
language
‐
to
attempt
an
abstracted
summary
of

deeply
complex
relationships
‐
is
composed
of
sounds
that
are
strung
together
to

express
a
specific
and
actively
present
facet
of
spatial
reality.

Thoreau’s
observation

that
“They
have
never
analyzed
these
words
before”
points
to
an
essential
feature
of

the
Algonquian
language
group:
the
words
are
formed
according
to
the
expression

of
the
situation
rather
than
the
definition
of
the
descriptors.79

The
active
moment
is

of
more
importance
than
the
words
chosen
to
conceptualize
and
categorize
it.







154







Prince
astutely
acknowledges
this
dynamic
when
he
states;
“Almost
any
idea

whatever,
now
matter
how
subtle,
may
be
expressed
by
an
Indian
verb,
for
the

extremely
ductile
character
of
the
language
admits
of
a
myriad
of
forms.”80

Coupled

with
his
observation
that
“Indian
words
are
often
small
sentences
in
themselves...

copiously
inflected
according
to
the
idea
they
convey”,
it
is
easy
to
understand
the

difficulty
of
assigning
a
static
meaning
to
a
particular
word.81

The
particularity

resides
in
the
moment
expressed,
rather
than
in
associations
previously
established

as
definitively
valid.

The
difference
mirrors
Thoreau’s
reaction
to
the
distinctness

conveyed
by
the
Penobscot
language,
as
opposed
to
the
generalities
of
Indian

character
he
had
previously
developed.




Thoreau’s
final
foray
into
Maine
in
the
summer
of
1857,
as
detailed
in
the


section
titled
“The
Allengash
and
East
Branch”,
marks
his
acquaintance
with
Joseph

(Joe)
Polis.

To
return
to
the
point
that
The
Maine
Woods
provides
insight
into
Indian

characterizations
of
the
white
man,
one
may
turn
to
Polis
as
a
man
uniquely
situated

at
the
cusp
of
the
contact
between
the
people
and
thereby
keenly
attuned
to
points

of
contrast
and
confusion.

The
48‐year‐old
Penobscot
is
considered
among
the

“aristocracy”
of
the
tribe:
he
lives
in
a
2‐story
house,
subscribes
to
the
Bangor

newspaper,
owns
hundred
of
acres
of
land,
is
worth
$6000,
and
is
described
by

Thoreau
as
“stoutly
built,
perhaps
a
little
above
the
middle
height,
with
a
broad
face

and
as
others
said
perfect
Indian
features
and
complexion.”82






Thoreau’s
early
impressions
of
Polis
showcase
his
preference
for
the
fantasy


as
it
lingers
beneath
his
at
times
unflattering,
stereotypical
descriptions
of
the

Indian.

Underscoring
the
import
of
the
language
act,
his
initial
disapproval
centers




155


upon
what
he
considers
the
incommunicability
of
his
guide.

At
one
point,
Thoreau

reports
that
“In
answer
to
the
various
observations
which
I
made
by
way
of

breaking
the
ice,
he
only
grunted
vaguely.”83

His
sensibilities
of
social
conventions

offended,
Thoreau
further
disparages
Polis’s
reticence:

The
Indian
sat
on
the
front
seat,
saying
nothing
to
anybody,
with
a
stolid

expression
of
face,
as
if
barely
awake
to
what
was
going
on.

Again
I
was

struck
by
the
peculiar
vagueness
of
his
replies
when
addressed
in
the
stage,

or
at
the
taverns.

He
really
never
said
anything
on
such
occasions.

He
was

merely
stirred
up,
like
a
wild
beast,
and
passively
muttered
some

insignificant
response.

His
answer,
in
such
cases,
was
never
the
consequence

of
a
positive
mental
energy,
but
vague
as
a
puff
of
smoke,
suggesting
no

responsibility,
and
if
you
considered
it,
you
would
find
that
you
got
nothing

out
of
him.84


Though
the
reason
is
included
in
the
description,
Thoreau
fails
to
directly
attribute

this
reticence
as
a
response
to
the
particulars
of
the
place
(and
the
public
residing

therein).
One
can
assume
that
for
some
interactions,
Polis
determines
silence
to
be

the
most
fitting
mode
of
interaction.

For
example,
Thoreau
describes
a
scene
during

which
“A
tipsy
Canadian
asked
him
at
the
tavern,
in
a
drawling
tone,
if
he
smoked,
to

which
he
answered
with
an
indefinite
‘yes’.
‘Won’t
you
lend
me
your
pipe
a
little

while?’
asked
the
other.

He
replied,
looking
straight
by
the
man’s
head,
with
a
face

singularly
vacant
to
all
neighboring
interests,
‘Me
got
no
pipe’;
yet
I
had
seen
him

put
a
new
one,
with
a
supply
of
tobacco,
into
his
pocket
that
morning.”85

Though

the
extensive
research
recorded
in
the
“Indian
Notebooks”
would
assumedly
alert




156


him
to
the
significance
of
the
pipe,
Thoreau
seems
more
invested
in
pointing
out
the

un‐neighborly
evasion.

However,
reading
into
the
situation
rather
than
the

response,
it
seems
most
likely
that
Polis
is
unwilling
to
disrespect
his
pipe
by
giving

it
to
a
drunk
man.





Once
the
company
is
at
last
out
on
the
lake,
the
tenor
of
the
narrative


undergoes
a
change,
and
Thoreau’s
description
of
Polis
is
written
in
more
generous

tones
of
genuine
interest.

The
first
instance
of
this
is
initiated
by
a
series
of
Indian

words
provided
by
Polis,
the
articulation
of
which
inspires
segue
into
the
qualities

of
the
surroundings.

Paddling
along
the
eastern
side
of
the
lake
in
the
still
of
the
morning,
we
soon

saw
a
few
sheldrakes,
which
the
Indian
called
Shecorways,
and
some

peetweets
Naramekechus,
on
the
rocky
shore;
we
also
saw
and
heard
loons,

medawisla,
which
he
said
was
a
sign
of
wind.

It
was
inspiriting
to
hear
the

regular
dip
of
the
paddles,
as
if
they
were
our
fins
or
flippers,
and
to
realize

that
we
were
at
length
fairly
embarked.

We
who
had
felt
strangely
as
stage‐
passengers
and
tavern‐lodgers
were
suddenly
naturalized
there
and

presented
with
the
freedom
of
the
lakes
and
the
woods.86


Re‐invigorated
to
the
sensory
pleasures
of
the
moment,
Thoreau
is
able
to
view

Polis
with
a
newly
sympathetic
eye
that
excuses
his
earlier
behavior
as
a
matter
of

strange,
un‐naturalized
surroundings.

Indeed,
it
is
likely
that
the
freedom
of
the

movement
through
lakes
and
woods
doe
explain
Polis’
comparative

communicability,
not
excluding
the
effects
the
“inspiriting”
sounds
and
sights
have

on
Thoreau’s
attitude
and
openness
toward
his
companion.

Freed
up
from
the




157


limitations
of
Thoreau’s
habit
of
suspicious
remove,
Polis
can
be
recognized
as
an

intriguing
figure
in
his
own
right,
because
and
not
in
spite
of
his
facility
in
both

woods
and
town,
tradition
and
modernity,
Penobscot
and
English.

The
evolution
of
their
relationship
is
marked
by
more
complimentary

descriptions
of
Polis’s
character,
as
we
are
told
that
“This
man
was
very
clever
and

quick
to
learn
anything
in
his
line”,
and
is
“thoroughly
good‐humored.”87

However,

the
tendency
toward
derisiveness
never
fully
disappears,
and
Thoreau
is
also
wont

to
remark
on
such
matters
as
the
“deficiency...long‐windedness,
and
dumb
wonder”

of
Indian
storytelling
methods,
and
criticizes
Polis
for
making
a
“greater
ado
about

his
sickness
than
a
Yankee
does”
when
he
takes
ill.88

In
light
of
these
rather

superficial
vagaries,
the
nuances
shaping
this
contact
narrative
are
better

understood
according
to
the
subtle
expressive
distinctions
of
the
respective

languages.









Reminiscent
of
“Chesencook”,
Thoreau
at
several
points
waxes
poetically

euphoric
over
the
sound
of
the
language
as
it
encompasses
for
him
a
mystery

perhaps
beyond
the
poetic.

Remarking
on
Polis’
English,
he
describes
“the
Indian

accent”
as
“a
wild
and
refreshing
sound,
like
that
of
the
wind
among
the
pines,
or
the

booming
of
the
surf
on
the
shore.”89

Taking
up
Polis’
offer
to
hear
“Indian
sing”,

Thoreau
is
treated
to
a
Catholic
hymn
as
translated
into
the
language
and,
after
the

song,
into
English.90

He
is
sent
into
a
reverie
of
characteristically
temporal
remove

that
speaks
to
both
his
habitual
assignations
of
associative
authority
and
to
his





158


burgeoning
effort
to
express
the
sound
of
the
language
as
something
outside
those

bounds.


His
singing
carried
me
back
to
the
period
of
the
discovery
of
America,
to
San

Salvador
and
the
Incas,
when
Europeans
first
encountered
the
simple
faith
of

the
Indian.

There
was,
indeed,
a
beautiful
simplicity
about
it;
nothing
of
the

dark
and
savage,
only
the
mild
and
infantile.

The
sentiments
of
humility
and

reverence
chiefly
were
expressed.91




Leaving
Thoreau
to
his
struggle
to
access
immediacy
via
channels
of
remove,


let
us
at
last
turn
to
what
evidence
there
may
be
of
Polis’
efforts
to
comprehend
the

structures
of
English
as
a
foreign
language
intrinsically
instructive
of
foreign
ways.


In
the
early
stages
of
their
journey,
Polis
and
Thoreau
come
to
an
agreement
that

reveals
the
Penobscot’s
mirrored
intention
to
“study
the
ways”
of
the
Whites.

I
observed
that
I
should
like
to
go
to
school
with
him
to
learn
his
language,

living
on
the
Indian
island
a
while;
could
that
not
be
done?

“O,
yer,”
he

replied,
“good
many
do
so.”

I
asked
how
long
he
thought
it
would
take.

He

said
one
week.

I
told
him
that
in
this
voyage
I
would
tell
him
all
I
knew,
and

he
should
tell
me
all
he
knew,
to
which
he
readily
agreed.92


Whether
Polis
names
one
week
the
likely
amount
of
learning
time
in
testament
to

what
he
finds
to
be
the
straightforward
make‐up
of
the
language,
or
if
he
is

providing
an
estimate
based
on
how
long
other
linguistic
hopefuls
have
lasted
in
the

face
of
its
complexity,
is
unknown.

Nor
is
it
clear
if
Thoreau
meant
to
tell
him
all
he

already
knew
of
the
language,
about
Indian
history,
or
about
English
words
and

White
men’s
ways.

What
can
be
definitively
stated
is
that
Polis
is
eager
to
attain




159


cultural
information
and
explanation
in
return
for
that
which
he
offers.

The
points

of
curiousity,
matters
needing
clarity,
and
direct
inquiries
that
Polis
makes
attest

that
the
effort
to
conceptualize
the
interstices
of
Indian/White
relations
is
a
dual

struggle.






Soon
after
the
men
make
their
agreement,
Thoreau
reports
that
“The
Indian


asked
the
meaning
of
reality,
a
near
as
I
could
make
out
the
word,
which
he
said
one

of
us
had
used;
also
of
“interrent,”
that
is,
intelligent.”93

At
this
point,
Thoreau
gives

an
extended
description
of
the
peculiarities
of
Indian
diction
and
vernacular,

notably
never
answering
the
questions
and
leaving
it
unknown
whether
he

attempted
explain
the
meanings
to
Polis.

However,
the
inquiries
as
they
stand
are

remarkable.
The
words
under
question
effectively
summarize
the
interplay
of

rationality,
abstraction
and
authority
that
compose
White
measures
of
valid

discourse.









In
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
Jurgen
Habermas
suggests

that
among
secret
societies
“Reason,
which
through
public
use
of
the
rational
faculty

was
to
be
realized
in
the
rational
communication
of
a
public
consisting
of
cultivated

human
beings,
itself
needed
to
be
protected
from
becoming
public
because
it
was
a

threat
to
any
and
all
relations
of
domination.”94

Reason
is
a
redoubtable
matter
of

ultimately
abstracted
power.

The
intrinsic
association
of
reason
with
the
legitimacy

of
the
literati
is
in
itself
a
fundamental
instance
of
ideological
domination.

Polis’

focus
on
the
word
“intelligent”
intuits
this,
and
his
uncertainty
as
to
its
meaning

exposes
the
root
inaccessibility
of
an
ideally
inclusive
public
sphere.

Reason,
as
the

discourse
of
intelligent
people,
does
not
require
that
discourse
be
determined
by
the




160


space
immediately
inhabited.

Rather,
the
common
humanity
assumed
central
to

reasoned
communication
is
seated
in
the
non‐specific
space
of
“reality”
as
it
is

accessed
through
the
shared
concept.

Reality
is
not
composed
of
details
that

provide
its
meaning;
rather
its
value
lay
in
the
abstracted
conceptual
remove
that

can
simultaneously
claim
a
common
sense.






“The
Allengash
and
East
Branch”
is
rich
in
examples
of
Polis’
diverse


interactions
with
and
interpretations
of
the
English‐speaking
world.

He
has
spent

time
in
major
cities
including
Washington,
employs
white
men
on
his
farm,
attends
a

Protestant
church,
and
has
even
met
Daniel
Webster.

Of
particular
interest
to

further
Habermasian
associations,
however,
is
the
following
exchange:

This
noon
his
mind
was
occupied
with
a
law
question,
and
I
referred
him
to

my
companion,
who
was
a
lawyer.

It
appeared
that
he
had
been
buying
land

lately
(I
think
it
was
a
hundred
acres,)
but
there
was
probably
an

encumbrance
to
it,
somebody
else
claiming
to
have
bought
some
grass
on
it

for
this
year.

He
wished
to
know
to
whom
the
grass
belonged,
and
was
told

that
if
the
other
man
could
prove
that
he
bought
the
grass
before
he,
Polis,

bought
the
land,
the
former
could
take
it,
whether
the
latter
knew
it
or
not.


To
which
he
only
answered,
“Strange!”

He
went
over
this
several
times,
fairly

sat
down
to
it,
with
his
back
to
a
tree,
as
if
he
meant
to
confine
us
to
this
topic

henceforth;
but
as
he
made
no
headway,
only
reached
the
jumping‐off
place

of
his
wonder
at
white
men’s
institutions
after
each
explanation,
we
let
the

subject
die.95






161


The
buying
of
land
and
the
ownership
of
grass
attest
to
the
imbricated
roles
of

market
(capital),
land
(property),
and
politics(power)
that
are
characteristic
of

White
institutions,
and
to
Habermas’
understanding
of
the
bourgeois
public
sphere

in
particular.

In
the
chapter
entitled
“Social
Structures
of
the
Public
Sphere”,
he

critiques
the
idealized
role
of
the
conjugal
family
as
haven
for
the
“emancipation”
of

the
“inner
realm”
of
humanity,
pointing
out
that
“naturally
the
family
was
not

exempted
from
the
constraint
to
which
bourgeois
society
like
all
societies
before
it

was
subject.

It
played
its
precisely
defined
role
in
the
process
of
production
of

capital.”96

The
construction
of
an
inner
realm
free
from
the
overt
competition
and

corruptions
of
a
market
society
only
further
serves
the
ascendancy
of
the
market

into
the
fictitious
haven
of
the
conjugal,
consumerist,
family.






Hearkening
back
to
“Ktaadn”,
we
can
interpret
Thoreau’s
criticism
of
Indian

political
involvements
to
be
based
on
a
similar
investment
in
Indians
as
the

representational
cite
of
emancipation,
accessible
to
members
of
a
spiritual,
poetic,

imaginary
family.

To
extend
the
parallel
further,
Habermas
describes
this
urge,
and

its
disappointment,
with
the
observation
that
“Although
there
may
have
been
a

desire
to
perceive
the
sphere
of
the
family
circle
as
independent,
as
cut
off
from
all

connection
with
society,
and
as
the
domain
of
pure
humanity,
it
was,
of
course,

dependent
on
the
sphere
of
labor
and
of
commodity
exchange.”97

Polis’
necessary

involvement
in
the
particulars
of
the
capitalist
system
of
norms
exposes
the

impossibility
of
the
Indian
to
functionally
exist
in
accord
with
his
symbolic,
utopian

assignations.








In
The
Maine
Woods
the
Penobscot
retain,
through
their
language,
a
living




162


association
with
the
land
that
is
not
based
on
market
standards
which
foremost

value
land
as
property.

Polis
acknowledges,
and
even
acquiesces
to,
obliged

“conformity
with
societally
necessary
requirements.”98

But
in
doing
so,
he
retains

the
independence
to
judge
them
“Strange!”.

Twice
more
he
casts
this
judgment:

once
calling
it
“strange”
that
the
white
men
did
not
follow
his
tracks
and
thus
took
a

wrong
road.
Then
again
remarking
it
to
be
“ver
strange”
that
“we
found
no
path
at

all
at
these
places,
and
were
to
him
unaccountably
delayed.”99

In
all
three
instances,

there
is
a
failure
to
be
rightly
guided
by
what
is
readily
apparent,
through
close

observation,
on
the
ground
beneath
one’s
feet.

The
grass
is
foremost
in
the
place

where
it
grows,
not
in
a
temporally
distant
cite
of
ownership.

The
direction
taken
is

best
determined
by
where
one
is
just
then
walking,
rather
than
in
the
remote

measure
of
maps.

What
makes
the
Penobscot
who
they
are
is
not
something
to
be

represented,
but
lived.








The
“Statement
Made
By
The
Chippewa”
also
foregrounds
the
core
values
encased

in
a
language
that
is
pliable
enough
to
respond
to
forces
in
utter
opposition
to
those

same
under‐riding
philosophies.

The
Chippewa
headmen’s
determination
to
utilize

written
English
is
based
on
a
foundation
of
a
spoken
language
that
hinges
on

mutually
verifiable,
situational
reality.
They
plan
to
go
to
Washington,

acknowledging
the
Great
Father’s
representational
seat
of
power,
but
in
no
way

blind
to
the
broken
promises
that
provide
its
wealth.

The
Chippewa
openly
state

“the
only
reason
in
my
compliance
with
the
request
of
my
Great
Father
although
he

is
owing
me
on
former
sales,
is
the
promise
of
the
privilege
of
living
on
my

Reservation
for
ever.”100
(14.7).

Though
obliged
to
learn
the
currencies
of
language




163


and
credit
that
drive
governmental
interests,
they
utilize
their
knowledge
to
state

the
reality
of
a
situation
made
increasingly
untenable
by
the
removed
language
of

officialdom.

The
closing
reflection
by
the
Chippewa
again
utilizes
personal

pronouns
to
succinctly
reflect
the
collectivities
of
Anishinaabek
and
American

culture
that
are
at
play:
“..it
was
not
Paper
that
you
promised
me.”101










164






Chapter
Five.




Curious
Peculiarities:
The
Old
World
Display
and
the
New
World
Displaced








The
cover
of
the
slim
volume
published
by
Maungwudaus
features
an
ink
drawing

of
an
indigenous
man
dressed
in
full
regalia.

He
wears
a
crown
of
feathers,
what

appears
to
be
a
bear‐claw
necklace,
furs,
and
holds
a
long
bow
while
looking
off
into

the
distance.
Above
him
appears
a
straightforward
title:
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa

Indians.

Below
his
feet,
potential
readers
may
find
the
“Price:
12
½
cents”,
as
well
as

the
information
“Boston;
Published
By
The
Author,
1848.”
1






The
drawing
would
likely
prove
sufficient
to
pique
the
interest
of
a
19th
century

public
alternately
fascinated
and
repulsed
by
the
ways
of
the
North
American

Indians.

The
specificity
of
the
tribe
named
may
or
may
not
have
made
a
difference

to
those
seeking
to
satisfy
either
their
curiosity
or
preconceptions
about
North

America’s
original
inhabitants.


Nevertheless,
the
provided
detail
indicates
an

author
who
prioritized
accuracy.

Such
specificity
is
also
evidenced
by
his
decision

to
note
the
fact
of
his
self‐publishing,
alongside
the
place.







The
unnamed
Boston
publishing
house
perhaps
typified
the
sights
and
sounds
of

an
urban
arena
far
from
home.

These
printing
presses
and
the
journey
made
to

them
were
both
critical
to
the
completion
of
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians.

Entrance
into
the
American
public
sphere
of
written
letters
requires
both
literary

and
literal
forays
into
alien
territories
for
those
whose
first
language
is
not
English.





165


The
resulting
publication
from
Maungwudaus
contains
the
subtle
story
of
his

motivations:
the
sheer
catharsis
and
intrinsic
social
activism
of
voicing
his
singular

experience
and
insights.






In
Darcy
McNickle’s
Native
American
Tribalism:
Indian
Survival
and
Renewals,
the

complexities
parcel
to
indigenous
self‐identification
lends
a
personalized,
thematic

underpinning
to
the
author’s
survey
of
contact
history.

McNickle
supports
a
“more

rational
modern
thesis”
that
“proposes
a
correlation
between
basic
personality

structure
and
cultural
persistence”,
based
largely
on
the
question
of
what

“agreement
or
conformity
existed
between
observable
acculturated
behavior
and

the
covert,
inner
life
of
the
people.”2

Meaning,
there
is
something
about
indigenous

inner
life
that
proves
particularly
adept
at
retaining
tribal
identifications
and

loyalties.

Faced
with
the
massive
changes
that
contact
with
the
whites
entailed,
the

process
of
selecting
and
rejecting
elements
of
the
dominant
culture
was
underway.


McNickle
provides
a
history
replete
with
primary
sources,
allowing
Congressional

debates,
Indian
oratory,
judicial
and
legislative
language
that
tell
a
story
of
cultural

adaptation
underscored
by
the
desire
to
retain
the
dignity
of
autonomous

definitions
of
community
and
self.






This
view
favors
adaptability
over
assimilation,
and
the
strategic
intelligence
of

the
realist
over
the
default
acquiescence
of
the
victimized.

In
response
to
arguments

that
would
point
to
the
loss
of
traditional
industries
and
languages
as
equivalent
to

cultural
loss,
McNickle
points
to
the
simple
fact
that
tribal
peoples
continue
to
self‐
identify
as
such,
making
it
difficult
to
entirely
dismiss
the
possibility
that
tribal

alignments
remain
viable.

More
concretely,
the
retention
of
certain
lands,
a
unique




166


legal
status,
and
against‐the‐odds
increases
in
population
all
underscore
the
unique

position
that
existing
tribal
people
maintain.

Concerning
the
“survival
of
fragments

out
of
the
past”,
McNickle
offers
that
the
“function
of
culture
is
always
to

reconstitute
the
fragments
into
an
operational
system.

The
Indians,
for
all
that
has

been
lost
or
rendered
useless
out
of
their
ancient
experience,
remain
a
continuing

ethnic
and
cultural
enclave
with
a
stake
in
the
future.”3








McNickle’s
book
proceeds
with
a
compact
presentation
of
North
American
tribal

histories,
tailored
to
clarify
how
the
“conditions
and
consequences”
of
these
identity

politics
came
to
be.

Replete
with
legal
quotes
and
dates
of
significant
treaties
and

legislature,
the
text
also
rests
on
a
foundation
that
views
the

“covert,
inner
life”
as

an
equally
significant
factor
in
the
ongoing
story
of
contact.

This
straightforward

proposal
–
that
interior,
indigenous
identifications
remain
intact
despite
external

circumstances
that
would
denigrate
or
remove
such
alignments
–
offers
a
template

for
exploring
the
dual
psychological
and
social
acumen
of
an
author
like

Maungwudaus.

Faced
with
displays
of
both
largess
and
poverty
at
the
center
of
the

cosmopolitan
world
of
the
mid‐19th
century,
Maungwudaus
responds
with
critical

insight,
subtle
humor,
and
a
confidential
tone
that
indicates
a
steady
foundation
of

the
values
born
of
his
cultural
alignments.






For
those
who
were
drawn
in
enough
to
peruse
further,
the
title
page
of
An

Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians
supplies
the
following
details:



An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
Who
have
been
Traveling
Among
the

Whites,
in
the
United
States,
England,
Ireland,
Scotland,
France
and
Belgium:




167


with
very
interesting
incidents
in
relation
to
the
general
characteristics
of
the

English,
Irish,
Scotch,
French,
and
Americans,
with
regard
to
their
hospitality,

peculiarities,
etc.

Written
by
Maungwudaus,
The
Self‐Taught
Indian
of
the

Chippewa
Nation,
for
the
benefit
of
his
youngest
Son,
called
Noodinokay,

whose
Mother
died
in
England.

Price
12
1/2
cents.

Boston:
Published
By

The
Author.

1848.4








This
opening
message
holds
several
points
of
interest
in
relation
to
the
author’s

literacy.

First,
it
is
notable
that
Maungwudaus
supplies
only
his
and
his
son's

Anishinaabek
names,
free
of
translation
and
unaccompanied
by
any
Anglicized

aliases
that
would
otherwise
compromise
this
decision
to
strictly
self‐identify.

He

also
makes
certain
to
proclaim
that
he
is
both
self‐taught
and
self‐published,
taking

full
responsibility
for
his
literacy
in
English
and
stressing
the
independent
thinking

behind
his
project.

McNickle
proposes
that
the
“perceptual
screen”
of
particularly

indigenous
psychological
traits
determine
what
“the
group
accepts
and
what
is

rejects
among
the
choices
made
possible.”5


Considering
the
care
he
takes
to

underscore
the
independent
nature
of
his
learning,
it
follows
that
Maungwudaus’s

pursuit
of
literacy
was
in
accord
with
his
self‐identification
as
a
Chippewa
with

something
to
say,
rather
that
any
urge
toward
assimilation.

Indeed,
the
phrase
“for

the
benefit
of
his
youngest
Son”
can
be
applied
to
the
contents
of
the
volume
as
well

as
to
the
self‐taught
literacy
that
made
it
possible.
It
would
seem
that

Maungwudaus’s
ability
to
speak
and
write
in
the
English
language
was
a
decision

motivated
by
the
desire
to
benefit
his
family
–
notably
a
young
son
who
represents

the
continuity
of
future
generations.







168







Maungwudaus’s
title
page
provides
further
clues
as
to
the
process
and

motivations
behind
his
writing.

The
specification
that
he
is
of
the
“Chippewa

Nation”,
as
opposed
to
simply
a
Chippewa,
indicates
that
his
politics
tend
toward
the

assertion
of
tribal
nationhood
and
sovereignty.

Considering
ongoing
legislative

efforts
to
undermine
tribal
affiliations
and
encourage
assimilation,
his
wording

roundly
rejects
the
conditional
renunciation
of
tribal
loyalties
as
the
road
to
the

implied
benefits
of
American
citizenship.


Before
even
delving
into
the
larger

communication
of
his
perspectives,
this
deceptively
brief
listing
of
particulars

initiates
the
careful
reader
into
a
key
facet
of
Maungwudaus’s
narrative
style
–
a

depth
of
interrelated
issues
made
apparent
through
an
economy
of
words.

The

complexity
of
influences
that
are
apparent
in
seemingly
small
decisions
–
the

dedication
to
his
son,
the
clarification
that
he
is
of
the
Chippewa
Nation
–
offer
a

sense
of
how
the
writing
process
could
indeed
be
considered
prime
example
of
the

sort
of

“universal
psychological
trait”
that
McNickle
strives
to
prove
a
viable

concept.








Contemproary
Creek
scholar
Craig
Womack
examines
how
“structural
categories

become
problematic
–
they
separate
the
stories
from
their
political
context.”6

In

other
words,
the
critical
voice
is
limited
by
the
conviction
that
stories
are
spoken

about
in
one
manner,
politics
another,
and
personal
reflection
still
another.7

Womack’s
efforts
to
“demonstrate
the
interdependency
of
politics
and
literature”

find
a
champion
in
this
late
19th
century
Anishinaabek
author.8


Maungwudaus

seamlessly
blends
social,
psychological,
cultural,
and
political
commentary
into
a





169


highly
accessible
work
that
proves
both
unapologetically
critical
and
richly

entertaining.








As
a
matter
of
praxis,
accomplished
storytellers
craft
narratives
that
are

accessible,
entertaining
and
instructive
to
a
variety
of
ages
and
interests.
Basil

Johnston
prefaces
Ojibway
Heritage
with
the
reminder
that
“The
stories
recorded

are
not
to
be
interpreted
literally;
but
freely,
yet
rationally
according
to
the
Ojibway

views
of
life.

Readers
and
listeners
are
expected
to
draw
their
own
inferences,

conclusions,
and
meanings
according
to
their
intellectual
capacities.”9


Stories
that

offer
abundant
layers
of
meaning
within
a
concisely
phrased
commonality
invite
the

audience
to
respond
according
to
individual
associations
that
in
turn
reflect
the

culture’s
views
of
life.


Gerald
Vizenor
considers
the
characteristic
flexibility
of

storytelling
in
the
following
terms:

The
woodland
creation
stories
are
told
from
visual
memories
and
ecstatic

strategies,
not
scriptures.


In
the
oral
tradition,
the
mythic
origins
of
tribal

people
are
creative
expressions,
original
eruptions
in
time,
not
a
mere

recitation
or
a
recorded
narrative
in
grammatical
time.

The
teller
of
stories
is

an
artist,
a
person
of
wit
and
imagination,
who
relumes
the
diverse
memories

of
the
visual
past
into
the
experiences
and
metaphors
of
the
present.10


Here,
Vizenor
conjures
a
social
context
hinging
on
the
vast
potential
of
the
present

moment.

Preordained
forms
reliant
on
convention
and
authority
prove
inadequate

to
match
traditional
storytelling
as
a
creative
act
where
context
is
king.
It
takes
“wit

and
imagination”
to
express
how
the
original
exists
in
tandem
with
the

remembered.

The
quest
to
understand
their
simultaneity
requires
“ecstatic




170


strategies”
that
offer
liberation
from
the
categorization,
and
thus
limitation,
of

experience.
Expressing
the
living
moment
as
the
constant
forging
of
reality
is
a

group
effort,
involving
the
speaker,
listener,
relatives,
spirits,
and
undergirding

ideologies
alike.








The
prioritization
of
shared
experience
invites
the
clear
expression
of
this

inclusivity.

Narrative
success
is
measured
by
the
diverse
sensory,
emotional,

intellectual
and
visceral
responses
that
are
inspired
by
the
story.
The
vast

interweaving
of
possibility
and
influence
that
composes
each
moment
of
a
narrative

reflects
that
same
phenomena
in
life.

Spiritual,
generational,
historical,
ecological

and
psychological
influences
are
ongoing
and
of
uncanny
depth.

An
artist
storyteller

can
concisely
expose
the
inadequacy
of
categories
and
roles
that
wash
out
and
limit

the
awareness
of
this
whole.

In
this
sprit,
Maungwudaus
offers
direct
observations,

stated
clearly,
and
thus
able
to
access
the
richest
stores
of
insight.

Like
the
“teller
of

stories”
in
Vizenor’s
explanation,
Maungwudaus
is
an
experiential
artist
whose

talents
example
McNickle’s
vision
of
a
specifically
indigenous
perspective.

His

Account
offers
a
deep
understanding
of
his
tribal
identity
through
its
careful
focus

on
and
clear
explanation
of
the
decidedly
foreign
context
in
which
he
finds
himself.


His
frame
of
reference
proves
unmistakably
Chippewa,
and
thus
reveals
the
key

flexibility
and
adaptability
of
his
ultimately
traditional
narrative
sense.






One
avowed
purpose
of
An
Account
is
to
inform
his
son
of
the
"peculiarities"
of

the
Whites.

Presenting
the
whites
as
subjects
of
an
almost
ethnographic
curiosity

establishes
a
far
different
tone
than
that
found
in
19th
century
works
by
Native

authors
who
are
careful
to
cite
sympathetic
whites
as
their
model
reading
audience,




171


while
also
courting
them
for
entrance
into
the
world
of
publishing.

Though

Maungwudaus
does
include
“pleasing
testimony”
from
the
likes
of
George
Catlin
and

Joseph
John
Gurney,
these
character
sketches
and
appeals
for
kindness
are
relegated

to
the
back
pages
of
the
Account.11

This
makes
for
a
distinctly
different
set
of

priorities
in
comparison
to
the
conspicuous
namedrop
that
begins
George
Copway’s

Traditional
History,
which
on
the
very
first
page
informs
the
reader
that
the
contents

are
dedicated
“TO
AMOS
LAWRENCE,
ESQ,
OF
Boston,
Massachusetts,
THIS
VOLUME

WITH
FEELINGS
OF
DEEP
GRATITUDE,
AND
SENTIMENTS
OF
THE
HIGHEST

RESPECT,
IS
AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED
BY
THE
AUTHOR.”12

Maungwudaus’s

writing
for
his
son
grants
his
narrative
a
foundation
of
intimacy
and
unedited

reflection.

This
Account
promises
to
be
something
different
from
those
penned
by

Copway,
Blackbird,
and
even
Warren,
whose
avowed
wishes
to
prove
of
benefit
to

their
nations
read
as
vague
and
general
in
comparison
to
Maungwudaus’s
filial

motivations.

Furthermore,
the
death
in
England
of
Noodinokay's
Mother,

Maungwudaus's
wife,
firmly
establishes
the
personal
nature
of
his
writing,
assuring

that
what
follows
is
going
to
be
candid
and
answer
to
no
one
but
himself,
his
son,

and
the
memory
of
the
departed.





That
this
is
indeed
a
self‐published
work
attests
to
the
likely
small
distribution

and
notice
it
received.
Maungwudaus
likely
did
not
expect
to
garner
great
interest

among
the
majority
of
readers.13

Still,
the
fact
that
he
wrote
it
in
English
and
took

the
trouble
to
have
the
work
published
in
Boston
attests
that,
though
he
only

promises
the
contents
will
be
beneficial
to
Noodinokay,
outside
readers
were

nevertheless
desirable.

Indeed,
he
begins
with
the
statement
"I
will
not
ask
the




172


reader
for
pardon.

The
short
notice
of
me
on
another
page
will
induce
him
to
excuse

me
for
using
improperly
the
English
language."14

The
unseen,
potential
audience
of

the
public
sphere
is
acknowledged
at
the
outset,
providing
an
additional
layer
of

intent
to
whatever
impact
the
Account
might
have.

His
attitude
is
not
one
of
self‐
belittlement
or
the
appeasement
of
superiors,
rather
he
bluntly
states
the
conditions

of
this
literary
relationship
by
saying
what
he
won’t
do
and
what
the
reader
will.


This
suggests
a
subtle
difference
between
pardon
and
excuse:
he
is
not
asking
to
be

indulged
or
tolerated
so
much
as
justified
and
exempted.

By
the
same
token,
he
is

not
so
much
invoking
as
dismissing,
or
speaking
apart
from,
the
conventional

English
muse.

Far
from
being
an
apologist
for
his
forays
into
the
literate
sphere,
he

takes
command
of
his
efforts
and
demands
to
be
read
on
his
own
terms.



This is the story of a very little boy, the smallest in all the
nations of men. He had a bow and arrows, and when he
killed a chickadee his sister made him a coat of the skin.
The boy lived with his sister on the shore of a large lake.
Their father and mother and the people of the camps near by
had, one after another, been killed by two evil spirits in the
form of bears. The girl did not know what had become of
their parents and she was always in fear for herself and her
brother.
One day the boy said: “sister, why are there only two of us on
this earth?” She answered: “We are the only ones in this part
of the earth.”
For he was so bold she was afraid that if she told him that
there might be other people living on the shores of the lake, he
would go looking for them and that he too might be lost or
killed in the woods. So she told him that he must never go far
from camp.
But each day Chickadee Boy went a little farther than the



173


day before, and one afternoon he ran across a beaten path.
He said to himself “Someone had made this trail.” He meant
to find out who it could be, and the next morning he took his
bow, and going back to the trail, followed it through the
woods till it lead him into a cave under a hill. As he came
along, two monstrous bears, one red, the other black, came
out at him from the cave. Chickadee Boy strung his bow, and
before the bears could get to him, he shot and killed them
both.
These bears were the spirits that had killed their neighbors.
Of all who had met them only Chickadee Boy had the power
to overcome them. But whether his power was given him by
the chickadee or by some other spirit, this story-teller is in the
dark.15 








Though
brief
at
less
than
twenty
pages
in
length,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
is

replete
with
provocative
social
commentary
concerning
the
cultures
Maungwudaus

came
in
contact
with.

The
fact
that
he
and
the
rest
of
the
company
of
Anishinaabek

were
traveling
partly
under
the
dubious
auspices
of
"Catlin's
Indian
Curiousities"
is

itself
indicative
of
the
spirit
in
which
they
were
received
‐
exotic
specimens
tailored

to
civilized
amusement.16

This
is
well
illustrated
by
a
scene
in
which
"Our
war‐chief

shot
a
buck
in
the
Park,
through
the
heart,
and
it
fell
down
dead
three
hundred

yards
before
four
thousand
ladies
and
gentlemen.

This
was
done
to
amuse
them."17


The
understated
tone
and
keen
word
choice
showcase
Maungwudaus’s
facility
with

the
literary
impact
of
concisely
phrased
English.

Straightforward
imagery

underscores
the
stark
reality
of
this
carefully
staged
and
constructed
death
scene,

wherein
the
Chippewa
actors
and
British
observers
engage
in
a
playacted
hunt.







The
unadorned
description
of
the
scene
evokes
a
sense
of
disconnect
that
is





174


diametrically
different
from
the
preparations,
songs,
and
rituals
that
characterize

the
Anishinaabek
way
of
procuring
game.
In
this
foreign
land,
all
involved
are
as

mere
props
to
a
forced
version
of
authentic
Indian
doings,
a
showcase
of

stereotyped
exoticism.
In
the
end,
there
is
only
a
very
real
dead
buck
alongside
the

intrinsically
abstract
and
ethically
questionable
sense
of
amusement
gained
in

witnessing
such
a
kill.

The
appellation
“ladies
and
gentleman”
highlights
the

disparity
of
this
thinly
veiled
bloodlust,
in
which
four
thousand
dignitaries
and

citizens
of
a
civilized
nation
gather
for
the
mere
chance
to
witness
a
buck
“fall
down

dead”
by
the
hand
of
a
“war‐chief.”

The
difference
between
this
and
the
hunting

patterns
at
home
hinge
on
the
spirit
and
circumstances
under
which
such
killing
is

undertook.

One
death
is
replete
with
the
details
of
sustainable
survival
in
a
specific

ecosystem,
the
other
as
a
curiosity
designed
to
“amuse”
those
present
in
the

manufactured
confines
of
the
Park.



On the belly of each bear, Chickadee Boy saw a lump under
the skin, and cutting these lumps open, he took from each a
bunch of human hair. One was the hair of his father and the
other was the hair of his mother. He could not remember his
parents yet he knew their hair. He knew that the bears had
killed them, and he began to mourn for them, and cried all
the way home. His sister ran out to meet him, and asked him
why he was crying. So he showed her the hair and told her he
had slain the spirit bears that had killed their mother and
father.18







In
France,
where
the
troupe
of
Walpole
Ojibwa
stayed
5
months
with
the
Catlin

show,
they
"Shook
hands
with
Louis
Phillipe
and
all
his
family
in
the
Park,
called
St.




175


Cloud;
gave
them
little
war
dance,
shooting
with
bows
and
arrows
at
a
target,
ball

play;
also
rowed
our
birch
bark
canoe
in
the
artificial
lake,
amongst
swans
and

geese.

There
were
about
four
thousand
French
ladies
and
gentlemen
with
them."19


The
poignant
imagery
of
Chippewa,
swans
and
geese
on
display
on
an
artificial
lake

is
again
written
with
a
descriptively
concise
air.

The
quality
of
restraint
in
his

selection
of
adjectives
grants
the
imbedded
social
criticism
a
crisp
subtlety.

The

“little
war
dance”
takes
on
an
air
of
absurdity,
a
trifling
affair
that
has
nothing
to
do

with
the
intense
ritual
it
is
meant
to
represent.

The
specific
mention
of
“our
birch

bark
canoe”
evokes
the
long
hours
of
careful
gathering
and
craftsmanship
that
lay

behind
its
construction.

The
following
account
is
provided
in
Frances
Densmore’s

1928
publication
Uses
of
Plants
by
the
Chippewa
Indian:

In
old
times
the
procuring
of
birch
and
cedar
bark
was
an
event
in
which
all

participated.

A
number
of
families
went
to
the
vicinity
of
these
trees
and

made
a
camp.

A
gathering
was
held,
at
which
a
venerable
man,
speaking
for

the
entire
company,
expressed
gratitude
to
the
spirit
of
the
trees
and
of
the

woods,
saying
they
had
come
to
gather
a
supply
which
they
needed,
and

asking
permission
to
do
this
together
with
protection
and
strength
for
their

work.

He
also
asked
the
protection
and
good
will
of
the
thunderbirds
so
that

no
harm
would
come
from
them.

The
reason
he
asked
the
protection
of
the

spirit
of
the
woods
was
that
sometimes
people
were
careless
and
cut
trees

thoughtlessly,
and
the
trees
fell
and
hurt
them.

The
speaker
then
offered

tobacco
to
the
cardinal
points,
the
sky,
and
the
earth,
murmuring
petitions
as

he
did
so.

He
then
put
the
tobacco
on
the
ground
at
the
foot
of
the
tree.





176


Filling
a
pipe,
he
offered
it
as
he
had
offered
the
tobacco,
again
murmuring

petitions.

He
then
lit
and
smoked
the
pipe
while
tobacco
was
distributed

among
the
company,
who
smoked
for
a
time.

This
simple
ceremony
was

followed
by
a
feast.

The
next
day
the
company
divided
into
small
groups
and

proceeded
to
cut
the
trees
and
remove
the
bark.
20

The
underlying
process
of
gathering
the
birchbark
has
distinctly
cultural

implications.

It
requires
the
commitment
and
work
of
many
to
create
a
birch
bark

canoe.

The
offerings
and
petitions
made
to
the
trees
themselves
a
full
day
prior
to

harvest
is
not
considered
a
delay,
but
a
necessity.

Winona
LaDuke
highlights
how

“Native
American
rituals
are
frequently
based
on
the
reaffirmation
of
the

relationship
of
humans
to
the
Creation.”21

She
succinctly
states
the
sincerity
of

intent
behind
such
acts
as
offering
tobacco
to
the
birch
trees
and
insists
that

“understanding
the
complexity
of
these
belief
systems
is
central
to
understanding

the
societies
built
on
those
spiritual
foundations
‐
the
relationship
of
peoples
to

their
sacred
lands,
to
relatives
with
fins
or
hooves,
to
the
plant
and
animal
foods
that

anchor
a
way
of
life.”22

In
this
view,
the
Chippewa’s
way
of
life
is
anchored
to
the

birch
trees
at
a
foundational
level
of
spiritual
kinship.

The
canoes
and
other

implements
made
from
their
bark
prove
secondary
to
the
rituals
that
underscore

the
people’s
dual
dependency
and
responsibility.






In
contrast,
the
presence
of
the
“artificial
lake”
assigns
a
quite
different
set
of

priorities
to
the
French.

Ostensibly,
many
hands
must
have
been
required
to

construct
a
place
that
is
ultimately
a
testament
to
the
carefully
manicured
aesthetics

of
the
privileged.

St.
Cloud
Park
reflects
a
lifestyle
of
manufactured
ease,
wherein




177


the
bows
and
arrows
that
the
Chippewa
might
have
used
for
hunting
or
warfare
are

suited
only
for
target
practice.
In
tandem
with
the
“little
war
dance”,
and
“ball
play”,

the
royals
and
“four
thousand
French
ladies
and
gentlemen”
find
themselves
in
a

place
removed
of
any
reality
of
danger,
yet
well‐suited
to
the
application
of

whatever
imaginative
details
might
make
the
show
more
thrilling.

The
pat

degeneracy
ascribed
by
Europeans
to
indigenous
populations
is
not
only
a
form
of

ignorance,
it
is
a
reason
to
feast
minds
and
eyes
upon
the
dark
sexuality,
unbridled

passions,
and
sleek
physique
of
Indians
imagined
and
imported.

The
show
put
on

for
the
French,
as
described
by
Maungwudaus,
fails
to
satisfy
any
macabre
thirst
for

shocking
displays
of
barbarism.

By
highlighting
the
phoniness
of
the
setting,
this

self‐identifying
Chippewa
also
defuses
the
fantasy
of
stereotypes
intended
to
flesh

out
the
scene.



Chickadee Boy often played on the shore and his sister said:
“If your arrow should fall on the lake, do not go after it, for a
fish might get you.” This gave him an idea. And one evening
he threw off his chickadee coat on the beach, waded into the
water, and called out: “Big fish with the red fins, come
swallow me.” His sister looked out and saw a big fish come
up and take him. But first he shouted to her: “Tie something
to a string and throw it on the water.” The girl made a line of
basswood bark and fastening one end to a tree, tied the other
end to an old moccasin abd threw this into the lake. In the
night, the fish swam near the moccasin. The boy said: “Bite.”
And the fish took hold of it and held on. In the morning, the
girl found the line stretched taught, and pulling in the fish,
she opened him with her knife and thumb. Out jumped
Chickadee Boy, and said: “I’ve been fishing, sister. Wash me
off.”23





178







Throughout
the
Account,
the
cultural
basis
of
Maungwudaus’s
perspective
invites

the
reader
to
ascribe
exoticism
to
European
behaviors.

Through
his
careful

selection
of
details
and
understated
reportage,
Maungwudaus
deftly
casts

provocative
social
judgment
on
the
highest
of
European
society.

He
was
not
a

passive
curiosity
to
be
ogled;
he
constantly
forged
his
own
assessments
of
the

Europeans
by
observing
how
they
displayed
themselves
as
they
displayed
the

Chippewa.

What
the
Europeans
choose
to
show
the
visitors
speaks
volumes
about

their
self‐conception,
and
affords
Maungwudaus
an
important
outlet
for
the

inherent
autonomy
of
his
critical
perspective.







Upon
landing
in
the
Old
World
at
Portsmouth,
the
Chippewa
are
taken
to
see

"Lord
Nelson's
war‐ship"
and
the
"navy
yard
where
there
were
many
war
ships.


Another
war
chief
invited
us
and
showed
us
all
his
warriors
under
him
in
the

barracks."24
In
what
may
have
been
a
matter
of
either
convenient
logistics
or

purposeful
initiation,
these
paragons
of
military
might
provide
the
Chippewa
with

their
first
impressions
of
Europe.
Maungwudaus’s
mention
of
the
“warriors
under

him
in
the
barracks”
suggests
that
he
was
more
focused
on
the
men
as
visual
proof

of
hierarchical
subjugation,
rather
than
being
impressed
by
the
man
who
was
over

them.

Any
thoughts
of
resistance
or
escape
seem
patently
defused
by
the

implications
of
the
scene
and
situation.

It
is
a
place
befitting
the
world’s
mightiest

nation,
whose
material
history
reflects
the
success
of
its
empirical
intent.








Yet,
Maungwudaus
distills
the
pomp
into
a
readily
available
referent:
the
men
in

charge
of
the
soldiers
and
the
fleet
are
quite
simply
war
chiefs.

The
designation

indicates
a
role
and
an
occupation.
While
not
lacking
in
respect
in
his
home
country,




179


the
moniker’s
lack
of
pretention
indicates
that
Maungwudaus
does
not
let
the
scope

of
the
display
overshadow
the
straightforward
function
of
its
substance.

In
short,

his
reactions
consistently
disallow
European
self‐concepts
and
ideologies
an

unquestioned
existence.

In
many
ways,
he
denies
his
hosts
the
luxury
of
an
intact

self‐identity,
using
the
very
medium
of
words
long
employed
in
co‐opting
his
own

people’s
identities
in
favor
of
the
imagined
Other.

The
difference
is,
Maungwudaus

sticks
to
reporting
the
details
of
his
observations
with
few
flourishments
or

damning
judgments.

He
lets
his
hosts
speak
for
themselves
through
the
medium
of

their
class
structures
and
politics,
thus
allowing
their
works
to
define
their

character.







Again,
the
economy
of
the
writing
allows
the
reader
to
connect
whatever
dots

they
will,
based
on
the
conclusions
of
his
or
her
own
observational
focus.

As
a

method
of
storytelling,
such
flexibility
is
distinctly
reminiscent
of
how
traditional

stories
prove
intrinsically
changeable
based
upon
context,
audience,
and
teller.


After
a
harrowing
journey
at
sea,
it
at
least
seems
safe
to
conclude
that
making
land

at
Portsmouth
was
not
contingent
to
feelings
of
peace
or
relief.

Indeed,
the
scope
of

this
military
complex
seems
designed
to
overwhelm
all
who
encounter
it,
outsiders

from
a
woodlands
upbringing
in
particular.

Yet,
Maungwudaus
maintains
a
tone
of

curiosity
and
composure,
subverting
any
intentions
to
intimidate
him
with
the

decidedly
journalistic
air
of
his
travel
documentation.

It
is
no
surprise
that

Maungwudaus
figures
into
the
2009
publication
The
Transatlantic
Indian,
1776­
1930.

In
a
study
that
strives
for
an
admirable
equity
of
European
and
indigenous

sources,
author
Kate
Flint
explores
“the
degree
to
which
those
Indians
who
visited




180


Britain
in
this
period
possessed
agency
when
it
came
to
determining
the
impression

that
they
made,
and
the
degree
to
which
this
offset
the
ways
in
which
they
were

manipulated
by
others
for
ideological
and
commercial
purposes.”25

His
clean

expression
shows
how
agency
can
be
a
function
of
perspective.

Any
untoward

impressions
and
manipulations
on
the
part
of
the
Europeans
are
offset
by
a
firmly

Chippewa
point
of
view
and
frame
of
reference
that
he
does
not
forsake.





When winter set in and the lake froze over, Chickadee Boy
asked his sister to make him a wooden ball and a stick curved
at the end. With his stick he would drive his ball along the
ice; it flew like the wind, but however fast it went, the boy
followed just as fast. He was always right behind it, as if the
ball gave him its speed.
One day, having knocked his ball to the far end of the lake, he
saw nine black shapes on the ice, and going towards them, he
found they were young giants, fishing through holes cut in
the ice. As he came up, he wished that the nearest giant
would see a fish. At the same moment, the giant saw one, but
as he jabbed with his spear, the boy knocked his ball into the
hole; so that the giant missed his mark. The giant sang out:
“Look at this little man”; and all the giants laughed. They
thought he was comical and gave him back his ball. But as
soon as they began to watch their holes again, Chickadee Boy
tied a string to a fish that lay on the ice and ran away with
it. A giant said: “See that boy go!” And in a moment he was
out of sight.

26











When
directly
insulted
by
a
group
of
boys,
Maungwudaus
allows
his

straightforward
telling
of
the
interaction
to
convey
any
accompanying
social

commentary,
deep
history,
or
moral
judgment.

While
the
company
was
visiting

England,
the
following
incident
occurred:




181


Riding
through
a
town
in
our
native
costume,
we
saw
a
monkey
performing

in
the
street
upon
a
music
box,
about
fifty
young
men
looking
at
him.

He
was

dressed
like
a
man.

When
the
young
men
saw
us,
they
began
to
make
fun
of

us,
and
made
use
of
very
insulting
language,
making
a
very
great
noise;
‐
at

the
same
time
when
the
monkey
saw
us
he
forgot
his
performances,
and

while
we
were
looking
at
him,
he
took
off
his
red
cap
and
made
a
bow
at
us.


A
gentleman
standing
by,
said
to
the
audience,
“Look
at
the
monkey
take
off

his
cap
and
make
a
bow
in
saluting
those
strangers;
which
of
the
two
the

strangers
will
think
are
most
civilized,
you
or
the
monkey?

You
ought
to
be

ashamed
of
yourselves.

You
may
consider
yourselves
better
and
wiser
than

those
strangers,
but
you
are
very
much
mistaken.

Your
treatment
to
them

tells
them
that
you
are
not,
and
you
are
so
foolish
and
ignorant,
you
know

nothing
about
it.

I
have
been
traveling
five
years
amongst
these
people
in

their
own
country,
and
I
never,
not
once,
was
insulted,
but
I
was
always

kindly
treated
and
respected
by
every
one
of
them.

Their
little
children
have

far
better
manners
than
you.

Young
men,
the
monkey
pays
you
well
for
all

the
pennies
you
have
given
him;
he
is
worthy
to
become
your
teacher.”27



Maungwudaus
defers
to
the
rejoinder
offered
by
the
boys’
fellow
Brit,
who
directly

condemns
the
boys’
behavior
and
offers
the
contrasting
habits
of
hospitality

experienced
among
the
Anishinaabek.

Indeed,
the
English
gentleman
picks
up
on
a

key
aspect
of
Anishinaabek
culture
–
an
overt
politeness
toward
strangers

characterized
in
part
by
the
immediate
offering
of
food
and
shelter
to
new
arrivals.


In
the
Ojibwa
Texts
collected
by
William
Jones
in
the
early
20th
century,
the
word




182


“strangers”
is
provided
as
the
translation
for
“piiwiitaa”.

A
footnote
informs
the

reader
that
“The
usual
meaning
of
this
word
is
‘visitor’
or
‘guest;’
i.e.,
one
to
whom

one
renders
hospitality.”28

This
same
collection
features
a
cycle
of
stories
in
which

Nanabushu
repeatedly
and
strategically
visits
his
more
canny
animal
spirit

neighbors
during
times
of
famine
for
his
family.

He
knows
he
will
be
fed
by
them,

using
whatever
means
are
at
their
disposal.

Indeed,
“Once
he
was
addressed
by
his

wife
saying:
‘How
are
we
going
to
live?

Never
a
thing
do
you
kill.’”
To
this,
Nanabusu

responds
“Therefore
always
will
I
go
a‐visiting.”29

Further
underscoring
that
this

provisional
relationship
between
guest
and
host
is
a
social
norm,
when
Nanabusu

enters
a
family’s
wigwam
that
is
replete
with
covetable
bear‐tallow,
the
man
of
the

house
asks
“What
shall
we
give
the
guest
to
eat?

Whereat
up
spoke
the
woman:

“Why
the
same
as
you
generally
do
when
we
want
to
eat,
is
what
you
should
do

when
providing
your
gift.”30


Another
footnote
informs
us
that
the
term

“Kaagiigaa’a’nk”,
translated
as
“What
shall
we
give
(to
eat)?”,
as
an
“expression

occurs
in
such
connections
as
here.
Where
food
is
the
thing
given;
and
so
it
has
come

to
be
a
synonym
for
“to
feed,”
but
its
real
sense
is
in
the
giving
of
a
present.”31







The
gentleman
who
spoke
in
defense
of
the
Chippewa
company
undoubtedly

received
the
fulsome
welcoming
among
the
tribes
he
claims
he
did.

Indeed,
such

behavior
could
be
considered
a
cultural
priority,
as
indicated
by
his
approbation
of

the
Anishinaabek
children’s
manners.

At
several
points
in
Densmore’s
text,
children

are
told
“that
they
must
not
laugh
at
anything
unusual
nor
show
disrespect
to
older

people.”32

Combined
with
the
fact
that
a
boys’
first
kill
and
a
girl’s
first
efforts
at




183


food
preparation
were
offered
to
neighbors,
it
becomes
clear
that
hospitality

functions
as
a
core
value
among
the
people.










It
is
important
to
note
that
these
hospitable
people
repeatedly
credit
the
animals

with
providing
them
with
sustenance,
enabled
by
a
selfless
tendency
to
share
the

bounty.

Whether
or
not
the
gentleman
was
aware
of
stories
like
those
in
the
Jones

collection,
he
rightly
names
the
monkey
as
a
fitting
teacher
of
wayward
humans.


Certainly,
Maungwudaus
and
his
son
Noodinokay
would
see
no
conflict
in
the
roles.


In
Ojibway
Heritage,
Basil
Johnston
offers
a
succinct
summation
of
the
proper

ordering
of
creation,
when
Epingishmook
(West
Wind)
informs
his
son
Nanabush

that
“From
last
to
first,
each
order
must
abide
by
the
laws
that
govern
the
universe

and
the
world.

Man
is
constrained
by
this
law
to
live
by
and
learn
from
the
animals

and
the
plants,
as
the
animals
are
dependent
upon
plants
which
draw
their

sustenance
and
existence
from
the
earth
and
sun.”33

The
hospitality
enjoyed
by
the

English
gentleman
is
in
direct
relationship
to
the
Anishinaabek’s
gratitude
toward

the
animals
that
have
sustained
them
physically
and
through
the
moral
example
of
a

natural
provisioning
understood
as
generosity.








Maungwudaus
does
not
state
these
matters
directly.

The
deeper
implications

inherent
to
the
scene
are
foremost
conveyed
by
a
faithful
reproduction
of
the

observed
occurrence.

Interpretation
or
criticism
on
the
part
of
the
narrator
would

be
superfluous
and
out
of
keeping
with
the
moral
capacity
of
storytelling.

Moral

lessons
are
certainly
there,
able
to
be
picked
upon
or
not
by
those
more
or
less

acquainted
with
the
societies
in
question.

It
is
not
the
teller,
but
the
interaction
that

leads
to
the
insight.
These
dynamics
reflect
the
composition
of
traditional
stories




184


and
language,
wherein
individuated
communal
experience
determines
accurate

expression.

In
other
words,
what
is
happening
houses
the
richest
significance.


Definitions
attached
after
the
fact
only
limit
the
depth
and
scope
of
a
moment’s

inherent
gauging
of
cultural
morality
and
values,
which
in
turn
limits
the
freedom
of

interpretation
for
any
given
reader
or
listener.

Maungwudaus’s
reticence
to
directly

censure
the
boy’s
behavior
is
reminiscent
of
the
community
“crier”,
whom

Densmore
notes
“spoke
impersonally
of
the
conduct
of
the
young
people,
describing

incidents
in
such
a
manner
that
those
concerned
in
them
would
know
to
what
he

referred.”34

Free
from
static
impositions
of
meaning,
narrative
can
reveal
the

symbiotic
moral
relationship
that
exists
between
original
experience
and

associative
memory.






The
Chippewa
troupe
is
invited
to
a
host
of
dinners
with
various
dignitaries
and

Lords,
confirming
that
the
visitors
caused
a
sensation
throughout
the
populace.

Far

from
being
treated
as
a
sideshow
designed
to
assuage
the
vulgar
curiosity
of
the

common
people,
“Catlin’s
Indian
Curiousities”
was
an
event
that
drew
the
notice
of

Europe’s
most
privileged.

Regarding
the
British
Empire’s
associations
with
America

in
particular,
Kate
Flint
makes
the
point
that
“the
Indian
is
a
touchstone
for
a
whole

range
of
British
perceptions
concerning
America
during
the
long
nineteenth
century

and
plays
a
pivotal
role
in
the
understanding
and
imagining
of
cultural

difference.”35

This
conjures
the
familiar
connection
between
nationalist
ideology

and
notions
of
exoticism;
the
dually
reflective
and
repellent
Other
that
supports
self‐
conceptions
of
exceptionalism.

But
as
Flint’s
book
and
Maungwudaus’s
example
go

on
to
point
out,
the
visiting
Indians
provided
“living
proof
that,
in
their
capacity
to




185


react
and
respond
to
modern
life,
they
refused
to
be
consigned
to
that
role
of
the

mythical
and
prehistorical
that
was
so
frequently
assigned
them.”36

Indeed,
the

facility
with
which
Maungwudaus
gleans
the
most
socially
suggestive
details
of
his

encounters
attests
to
the
flexibility
of
a
critical
eye
firmly
founded
in
Anishinaabek

understandings.






He
and
his
fellow
Anishinaabek
are
taken
to
meet
the
Queen
of
England
in
her

Palace.

Maungwudaus
remarks
that
"Her
house
is
large,
quiet
country
inside
of
it.


We
got
tired
before
we
went
through
all
the
rooms
in
it.

Great
many
warriors
with

their
swords
and
guns
stand
outside
watching
for
the
enemy.

We
have
been
told

that
she
has
three
or
four
other
houses
in
other
places
as
large.

The
one
we
saw

they
say
is
too
small
for
her,
and
they
are
building
a
much
larger
one
on
the
side
of

it."37


The
hosts
are
clearly
invested
in
displaying
both
their
martial
and
monetary

strength,
but
Maungwudaus's
autonomous
analysis
consistently
takes
especial
note

of
unintended
revelations.

Why
does
a
"small
woman"
require
so
much
property

when
what
she
has
is
enough
to
grow
tired
walking
through?

How
much
manpower

and
how
many
resources
are
allocated
to
the
presence
of
the
“great
many
warriors’”

who
will
in
all
likelihood
never
be
called
upon
to
defend
the
palace
from
an
enemy?


What
happens
in
the
“three
or
four
other
houses
in
other
places
just
as
large”
when

she
is
not
there,
but
the
expectation
that
such
opulence
is
at
the
ready
remains?







Maungwudaus’s
simple
and
straightforward
way
of
stating
the
matter
highlights

the
clarity
of
the
folly.
The
passage
does
not
require
any
spirited
judgment
or

condemnation;
a
clean
observation
of
details
makes
the
sheer
waste
that
lay
behind

the
Queen’s
vast
holdings
hard
to
ignore.

He
allows
the
scene
to
speak
for
itself
–
it




186


is
his
unveiled
vision
that
allows
access
into
the
more
ironic
and
socio‐politically

suggestive
notes
of
its
composition.


What
was
intended
to
impress
is
instead
laid

bare
as
a
study
in
excess
and
nonsensical
privilege.

The
echoing
halls
and
rooms
of

opulent
design
resonate
with
a
previous
observation
made
while
Maungwudaus

was
in
London,
the
apex
of
the
realm,
where
“Most
of
the
houses
are
rather
dark
in

color
on
account
of
too
much
smoke.”38


Socioeconomic
critique
comes
naturally
to

one
undazzled
by
the
glittering
spectacle
at
the
top
of
the
hierarchy.

Inequities
are

obvious
in
the
light
of
the
curious
observations
made
from
an
independent

perspective.

When the giants went home, they told the other giants about
this, and an old woman said, “Don’t touch that boy. He is a
spirit. Give him anything he wants.” The next day
Chickadee Boy came again and took another fish, and the day
after that still another. The fourth time he came, he again
knocked the ball into a hole so that another giant lost a fish.
Then he asked for his ball but the giant would not give it to
him.
The others said: “Let him have it.”
But the giant said: “Are we going to be ruled by a little boy
like this?”39








The
under‐riding
social
critique
of
the
text
can
be
further
considered
in
specific

relation
to
the
influence
of
Anishinaabemowin.

In
Maria
Tymoczko's
essay

"Translations
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction",
she
observes

how
"One
advantage
of
multilinguistic
literary
writing
is
the
possibility
of
evoking

multiple
layers
of
thematic
meaning
simultaneously
by
invoking
meanings
in
more

than
one
language
simultaneously."40

In
her
project,
she
focuses
on
the
work
of




187


James
Joyce
in
relation
to
the
indigenous
Irish
language.41


The
social
insights

already
parcel
to
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
are
profoundly
enriched
by
a
process

of
reverse
translation
that
applies
Anishinaabemowin
equivalencies.








Concerning
the
matter
of
the
CTE
(conventional
translation
equivalents,
such
as

"hello"
for
"bonjour"
even
though
it's
more
specifically
"good
day"),
Tymoczko

writes
that
"Rather
than
merely
being
peppered
with
a
few
overt
borrowings
from

Irish
as
signs
of
cultural
otherness,
Joyce's
texts
are
pregnant
with
CTEs
that
carry
a

double
cultural
load
and
that
actively
construct
the
complex
double
meanings
of
his

text."42

In
this
sense,
every
sentence
of
a
strategically
bilingual
text
like
the

"Statement
Made
by
the
Indians"
accomplishes
this,
consequently
lending
further

impetus
to
attain
the
dual
language
mastery
of
the
authors.

That
said,
the
fact
that

the
"Account"
is
written
in
English
invites
a
different
kind
of
comparison,
insofar
as

the
presence
of
Anishinaabemowin
can
only
be
deciphered
by
those
familiar
enough

with
the
language
to
understand
the
way
certain
English
words
and
phrases
are

stand‐ins
for
the
richer
sense
evoked
by
Maungwudaus's
first
language.








My
efforts
to
access
illustrative
CTEs
were
significantly
aided
and
supported
by

my
teacher
Helen
Roy,
a
first‐language
Anishinaabemowin
speaker
also
fluent
in
her

second
language
of
English.

In
deference
to
my
limitations
with
the
language,
I
will

offer
just
two
examples
in
Maungwudaus's
text
that
I
believe
accomplish
what

Tymoczko
refers
to
as
"carrying
a
double
referential
load
that
communicates

differently
to
its
readers,
depending
on
their
ability
to
decipher
veiled
linguistic

code,
and
their
familiarity
with
the
indigenous
culture
underlying
the
postcolonial

text."43






188







About
the
population
of
London,
Maungwudaus
observes
how
"Like
musketoes
in

America
in
the
summer
season,
so
are
the
people
in
this
city,
in
their
numbers,
and

biting
one
another
to
get
a
living.

Many
very
rich,
and
many
very
poor."44

Whereas

the
English
usage
of
"musketoe"
is
derived
from
the
Spanish
diminutive
of
"mosca",

meaning
fly,
the
term
for
the
insect
in
Anishinaabemowin
is
"zagimenh".

The
part

that
is
"zagi"
refers
to
a
state
of
being
attached
on,
which
containing
the
sound
"igi"

is
further
refined
to
mean
he
(an
animate
being)
takes
a
part
of
you.

The
"menh"

makes
it
understood
that
it's
just
what
he
does.
The
existence
of
zagimenh
is

typified,
or
enabled,
by
this
action
of
attaching
on
and
taking
from
the
essence
of

another.

As
a
metaphor
for
the
wealthy
in
relation
to
the
poor,
this
provides
a

significantly
richer
comparison
than
the
already
suggestive
swarm
of
small
biting

flies.
Numerous
references
can
be
found
attesting
to
a
purposeful
distribution
of

resources
within
the
traditional
Anishinaabek
polity,
to
assure
that
no
person
or

family
was
destitute
or
hungry
so
long
as
there
was
any
sustenance
available
among

the
people.

That
the
people
of
London
are
likened
to
"zagimenh‐ag"
supplies

commentary
on
the
relationship
between
the
rich
and
the
poor
‐
such
attachments

as
involve
the
taking
of
part
of
one's
being
are
simply
a
matter
of
course
in
the
midst

of
such
inequity.





As the giant stooped to pick up the ball, the boy struck him
with his stick and broke the giant’s arm. The ball rolled on
the ice and Chickadee Boy, seizing another fish, gave the ball
a rap with his stick, and sped away down the lake.
The giants went home very angry. The old woman said:
“Never you mind what he does. You’d better leave him



189


alone.” But they would not listen to her, and the next
morning they set out to kill him.45








Accompanying
his
more
ironic
observations,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
is
also

characterized
by
Maungwudaus'
understated
sense
humor,
often
employed
when

providing
physical
descriptions
of
the
native
Europeans.
He
points
out
the
seeming

feebleness
on
the
part
of
the
women,
who
are
“brought
to
the
table
like
sick

women,”
and
his
comments
suggest
the
affectation
of
refinements
such
as
how
“they

hold
the
knife
and
fork
with
the
two
forefingers
and
the
thumb
of
each
hand;
the
last

two
ones
are
of
no
use
to
them,
only
sticking
out
like
fish‐spears,
when
eating.
“
46


Of
the
English
men,
he
notes
that
"They
do
not
shave
the
upper
part
of
their
mouths,

but
let
the
beards
grow
long,
and
this
makes
them
look
fierce
and
savage
like
our

American
dogs
when
carrying
black
squirrels
in
their
mouths."47

Later,
he

mentions
that
among
the
French
men,
"others
wear
beards
only
on
the
upper
part
of

their
mouths,
which
makes
them
look
as
if
they
had
black
squirrel's
tails
sticking
on

each
side
of
their
mouths."48








This
descriptive
phrasing
is
distinctly
indicative
of
Anishinaabemowin
patterns
of

speech,
wherein
the
subject
at
hand
can
take
on
as
many
specifying
details
as
one

cares
to
set
to
the
task.

The
Anishinaabemowin
translation
of
the
comment
about

the
Frenchmen
could
be
stated
as:
"Aanind
misshi'odoniwag
eta
ishimidoning

miidash
mkade'ajidamoon‐azaw
e‐njigingi
edawayiing
odooniwaang

zhinaagwaziwaad."49

A
rough
English
breakdown
of
this
might
look
like
the

following:




190


aanind
‐
others

miishi
‐
fuzz,
as
on
a
peach,
velvet,
a
mustache,
a
beard

odooniwag
‐
mouths

eta
‐
only

ishpimi(ng)
‐
upper
direction

dooning
‐
on/at
the
mouth

miidash
‐
and
so

mkade
‐
black

ajidamoon
‐
squirrel

azaw
‐
tail

e‐njigingi
‐
the
source
from
which
it
grows
to
a
shape

edawayiing
‐
coming
from
both
sides

zhinaagwaziwaad
‐
they
look
as
if






But
as
any
fluent
speaker
would
realize,
such
translations
based
on
CTEs
are

troublesome
in
their
superficiality.

To
indicate
one
such
limitation,
and
also
give

more
accurate
testament
to
Maungwudaus'
brand
of
humor,
we
can
consider
the

word
"azaw",
used
to
refer
to
a
tail.

More
accurately,
it
refers
to
the
place
where

feces
comes
out
‐
a
nuance
that
speaks
volumes
in
the
contextual
location
that

places
"azaw"
at
both
sides
of
the
mouth.

There
seems
no
good
reason
not
to

assume
that
such
subtleties
abound
throughout
the
Account,
lacing
what
is
written

with
covert
signs
of
Maungwudaus's
Anishinaabek
understandings,
ready
to
be

ascertained
by
his
son
and
anyone
else
able
to
trace
the
English
back
to
the
first‐
language
it
was
filtered
from.






191







This
is
a
much
more
personal
enterprise
of
self‐identification
than
the
sort
of

universal
linguistic
archeology
that,
in
“Nature”,
Ralph
Waldo
Emerson
proposes

will
lead
to
"the
working
of
the
Original
Cause."50

What
is
Original
to

Maungwudaus's
language
and
imagery
is
parcel
to
his
particular
experience
and

expression.
The
Cause
lurking
behind
his
doubly
loaded
word
choice
is
just
as
much

the
very
modern
cities
he
visits
as
it
is
the
woodland
scenes
his
indigenous
language

and
thought
patterns
rose
from.

Rather
than
depending
on
"the
simplicity
of
his

character",
Maungwudaus'
"power
to
connect
his
thought
with
its
proper
symbol"

requires
keen
observation
of
the
situation
he
is
in.51
The
ogling
crowds,
insults,

exploitative
treatment,
and
deaths
of
his
wife,
three
of
his
children,
and
several
of

his
countrymen
from
smallpox
while
abroad
essentially
amount
to
a
reverse

captivity
narrative.

That
he
responds
with
a
document
of
such
rich
insight,
humor,

and
stark
ethical
judgment
gives
moving
evidence
of
Tymoczko's
assertion
that
"for

a
colonized
people
subjected
to
oppression,
such
covert
communication
is
a

powerful
means
of
subversion
and
emancipation."52

Having
survived
in
the
midst

of
so
much
loss,
this
man
is
able
to
use
his
self‐taught
English
in
service
to
an

inquiring
Anishinaabek
eye
and
ear.

In
so
doing,
he
exposes
the
dark
realities
of
a

Modern
Age
that
Emerson
would
separate
him
from
as
chiefly
symbolic.

Unwilling

to
be
neither
mere
symbol
nor
amusing
curiosity,
Maungwudaus
boldly
asserts
the

specificity
and
complexity
of
his
awareness.



Now Chickadee Boy always ate the eye of his game and his
dish was a clam shell. In the morning his sister cooked the



192


fish had had just put an eye into his shell when they heard
the ice crack with a loud boom. The girl ran out to the beach
and saw nine giants coming down the lake. She begged her
brother to flee, but Chickadee Boy sat where he was, eating
the eye of his fish. By the time he had swallowed the last
mouthful, the giants had come right to the front of the camp,
running towards the shore. The boy turned his clam shell
upside-down; the ice went to pieces and the giants were all
drowned.53






193


Epilogue








Face‐to‐face
communication
between
humans
is
only
part
of
the
communal
scene

that
composes
the
living
action
of
a
place.
But,
as
Kawbawgam
points
out
with
the

retreat
of
Thunderbirds,
sparrow
hawks,
and
spirits
alike,
the
more
biodiversity

that
is
lost,
the
more
central
becomes
the
parley
between
human
beings.

If
there
is

to
be
any
movement
toward
an
effective
balancing
of
needs,
our
own
species’

ascendancy
as
primary
mischief‐maker
assures
that
our
actions
are
key.

Indeed,
the

dearth
of
prominent
players
involved
in
the
expressing
and
deciding
of
matters
of

import
characterizes
the
limited
public
sphere
that
ideologically
favors
those

already
in
power.

The
Chrisitianized,
Nationalist
vision
of
America
that
exists
to
this

day
is
tied
to
the
role
English
language
and
literacy
played
in
defining
which
voices

mattered
and
which
did
not.

For
every
archived
indigenous
author
who
struggled
to

gain
an
audience
by
using
the
English
language,
there
are
uncounted
tribal
people

who
did
not
gain
the
fluency
or
connections
needed
to
overcome
the
silence

surrounding
their
plight.








Another
layer
to
this
silencing,
and
even
more
deeply
ingrained
in
the
measures

of
validity
that
compose
the
authority
of
English,
are
the
multitudes
of
animals,
and

yes
even
spirits,
that
are
considered
so
far
outside
any
conversation
as
to
be

insignificant.

But,
as
a
professor
of
mine
once
noted:
ecologically,
the
chickens
have

come
home
to
roost.


The
self‐congratulatory
rationality
that
dismissed
the

significance
of
animals
and
places
has
been
proven
guilty
of
a
woeful
lack
of

foresight.

All
those
archived
accounts
of
bird
flocks
that
lasted
for
miles,
buffalo
as




194


far
as
the
eye
can
see,
and
rivers
so
full
of
fish
that
they
could
literally
be
pulled

from
the
(potable)
water,
provided
more
than
a
colorful
palette
for
idealized

American
origin
stories:
they
provided
lifeblood
to
cycles
of
survival.

As
the
proof

and
means
of
continued
abundance,
as
long
as
they
were
present,
the
likelihood
of

human
survival
was
that
much
more
secure.







In
Anishinaabek
reckonings
of
a
traditional
public
sphere,
animals
are
granted
a

status
as
fellow
members
of
the
shared
world.

As
such,
they
are
to
be
respected,

carefully
observed
and
learned
from,
and
entreated
in
matters
of
sustenance
and

survival.

Stories
that
feature
animals
are
by
far
the
majority,
indicating
the

indispensable
role
they
play
in
accounting
for
one's
proper
place
and
role,
behaviors

and
morality.

The
move
into
the
English
public
sphere,
based
as
it
is
in
literacy
and

access
to
publisher's
houses
and
politician's
(paper‐stuffed)
ears,
absolutely

requires
that
all
such
notions
of
other‐than‐human
interchange
be
utterly

abandoned.








This
limiting
of
the
moral
players
can
mean
losing
the
sense
of
being
situated

among
a
complex
of
many.

The
pressure
to
forsake
traditional
beliefs
upset

understandings
of
self
and
meaning
that
placed
humankind
as
a
part
of
the

commons.


Dependence
upon
the
interplay
of
many
species
for
survival
also
means

being
responsible
for
prioritizing
that
recognition.

Contemporary
efforts
at
cultural

resurgence
and
revitalization
often
concentrate
on
the
fates
of
animals
and
fish.


Activism
directed
towards
their
preservation
and
rights,
and
claims
insisting
upon

their
spiritual
importance,
reorient
traditional
behaviors
as
contemporary

subversion.

The
colonized
mentality
that
relates
to
land
and
animals
only
as




195


resources
must
be
overcome,
along
with
the
slew
of
labels
that
dismiss
indigenous

alignments
with
their
fates.

Animals
must
again
be
counted
as
intrinsic
to
the

balance
of
a
healthy
"public",
to
the
extent
that
they
are
again
named
relatives

worthy
of
considerate
attention
and
careful
respect.

The
right
attitude
for
this

hinges
on
the
health
of
the
commons,
not
the
power‐playing
stratagems
of

domination.








The
well‐being
of
multiple
species
proves
to
be
a
foundational
principle
of

indigenous
narratives,
foregrounding
the
humility
and
self‐accountability
required

to
maintain
a
balanced
ecology.

Current
concerns
over
health
of
the
environment

uses
language
that
not
long
ago
was
considered
the
realm
of
marginal
Native

academics
like
Paula
Gunn‐Allen.

Still,
no
matter
the
critical
climate,
indigenous

stories
and
the
very
structure
of
their
language
instilled
ecological
lessons
for

generations.

It
was
not
a
philosophy
based
so
much
on
intellectual
meditation,
as
it

was
an
expression
of
the
observed
order
and
consequences
of
a
world
of
plenty
that

could
still
leave
those
not
properly
vigilant
out
in
the
cold,
starving,
and
alone.

The

19th
century
writers
I
featured
grew
up
in
those
traditions.


The
memories
they

share
about
how
the
land
and
animals
were,
and
the
way
the
people
behaved
in

accordance,
did
more
that
assuage
the
curiosity
of
a
white
reading
public
hungry
for

the
pure
wilderness
of
the
Red
Man.

They
gave
an
account
of
an
actual
place,
where

the
actual
people
learned
how
to
survive
by
adapting
the
supremacy
of
natural

cycles
and
uncertainties.
Though
access
to
the
world
of
papers
and
publishing

demanded
they
distance
themselves
from
the
convictions
of
their
ancestors,
I

believe
these
upbringings
shaped
their
determination
to
go
out
into
the
literate




196


world
and
give
voice
to
the
efficacy
of
their
ways.

They
were
limited
in
the
extent


to
which
they
could
defend
the
soundness
of
these
autonomous
lifestyles
and
still

hope
to
gain
a
hearing.

We
can
no
longer
make
such
concessions
as
they
did,
as
the

time
has
passed
when
that
is
a
viable
option
for
those
who
prioritize
cultural,
and

thereby
ecological,
revitalization.






Conscious
and
careful
temperance,
as
deep
self‐
restraint,
characterizes
the

ritualized
gratitude
of
asemaa
(tobacco)
offerings.
When
the
spirits
are
petitioned

for
their
notice
and
mercy,
it
is
done
from
a
place
of
humble
intent,
resting
on
the

knowledge
of
both
our
utter
dependency,
and
the
ongoing
potential
for
catastrophe.


These
are
not
matters
of
utopian
nostalgia,
but
rather
a
shared,
long‐term,

experiential
logic
that
encountered
and
made
it
through
the
unsavory
desserts
of

hubristic
disregard.

Literal
and
literary,
the
long
and
difficult
journeys
undertaken

in
the
interest
of
face‐to‐face
confrontation
or
conversation
may
prove
to
be
but

another
arc
in
a
story
about
second
chances.

Nineteenth
century
Anishinaabek

traveled
into
realms
of
rational
remove
that
denied
the
efficacy
of
traditional

narratives.
And
yet,
the
limited
sense
of
vision
encountered
in
the
public
sphere

happens
to
fit
neatly
into
the
moral
repertoire
of
the
stories
recorded.

We
must

move
beyond
dismissive
accusations
of
Romanticism
and
essentialism
that
only

continue
to
silence
particularly
fruitful
traditions
calling
for
alternate
views
of
life’s

hierarchies.

May
there
be
a
literal
return
home,
where
literary
traditions
can

express
the
full
volume
of
the
place
from
which
they’re
told.








197





























































Introduction



1
Silko,
Ceremony,
194,
195.



2
Ortiz,
Speaking
For
the
Generations:
Native
Writers
on
Writing,
“Introduction,”
xvi.



3
Vizenor,
Dead
Voices:
Natural
Agonies
in
the
New
World,
7.



4
From
the
story
“Hoodwinked
Dancers.”

Also
found
as
“Nanaboozhoo
and
the

Ducks,”
and
other
various
titles,
the
narrative
follows
the
same
general
outline,
with

the
tricking
of
the
waterfowl
by
Nanaboozhoo
providing
the
axis
of
the
action.


Barnouw,
Wisconsin
Chippewa
Myths
&
Tales,
27.



5
Nanaboozhoo
is
the
half‐human,
half‐supernatural
trickster
character
central
to

Anishinaabek
mythology.

There
are
many
variations
in
the
pronunciation,
and

therefore
spelling,
of
his
name.

All
reflect
the
phonetic
nature
of
written

Anishinaabemowin
(the
language
of
the
Anishinaabek):
Nanaboozhoo,
Nanabushu,

Nanabusu,
Winabojo,
Wenebojo,
Nanapush,
and
so
forth.



6
The
text
America’s
Second
Tongue,
by
Ruth
Spack,
provides
in‐depth
analysis
of

primary
sources
related
to
the
teaching
and
learning
of
English
in
19th
century

boarding
and
residential
schools.

In
part,
author
focuses
on
the
difficulties
wrought

by
the
frequent
refusal
to
employ
the
student’s
first
(indigenous)
language
in
the

process
of
gaining
English
literacy.

This
English‐only
mindset
not
only
impeded

progress,
but
underscored
the
basic
assumption
that
tribal
cultures
and
languages

were
inferior
and
thus
to
be
avoided
and
replaced.



7
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
7.



8
Womack,
Red
on
Red:
Native
American
Literary
Separatism,
13.



9
Womack,
Red
on
Red:
Native
American
Literary
Separatism,
12.



10
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

175.



11
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

173,172.








198



























































12
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

171,
173.



13
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

37.



14
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

174.



15
The
flood
story,
in
which
Nanaboozhoo
endangers
and
then
re‐establishes
the

land
mass
with
the
help
of
a
handful
of
surviving
animals,
is
among
the
most
widely

known
examples
of
this
sort
of
“clean‐slate”
story.

It
is
also
cited
as
an
origin
myth,

and
though
the
details
vary
according
to
the
teller,
the
story
offers
a
consistent

sense
of
how
the
Anishinaabek
reckoned
the
necessity
of
attuning
to
the
abilities
of

every
species,
as
it
is
the
small,
lowly
muskrat
that
is
finally
able
to
retrieve
some

earth
from
the
bottom
of
the
flood
waters.

On
a
more
intimate,
microcosmic
scale,

Nanaboozhoo
himself
is
often
afforded
a
second
chance
when
his
antics
lead
him

into
trouble.

Indeed,
he
frequently
returns
from
death,
further
underscoring
the

importance
of
this
literary
trope
among
the
Anishnaabek.



16
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

35,
36.



17
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

268,
269.



18
This
approach
to
research
was
developed
in
Ontario's
Masters
of
Indigenous

Knowledge/
Philosophy
Program
of
the
Seven
Generation
Education
Institute,
in

response
to
the
desire
to
utilize
theoretical
frameworks
more
suited
to
indigenous

ways
of
knowing.



19
Geniusz,
Our
Knowledge
Is
Not
Primitive:
Decolonizing
Botanical
Anishinaabe

Texts,
12.



20
Geniusz,
Our
Knowledge
Is
Not
Primitive:
Decolonizing
Botanical
Anishinaabe

Texts,
11.



21
Michael
Warner’s
keen
scholarship
in
The
Letters
of
the
Republic:
Publication
ad

the
Public
Sphere
in
Eighteenth­Century
America
stands
firmly
on
a
foundation
of

moral
and
ethical
interrogation.

Early
in
his
text,
he
raises
the
provocative
point

that
“To
do
reading
was
a
way
of
being
white”
(14).

His
work
has
opened
up
a




199



























































wealth
of
inquiry
into
the
normative
public
sphere
in
relation
to
racial
and
cultural

expressions
of
difference,
contributing
to
such
titles
as
The
Black
Public
Sphere,
and

Abolition’s
Public
Sphere.




22
Armstrong,
“Land
Speaking,”
194.



23
Weaver,
American
Indian
Literary
Nationalism,
17.





Chapter
One





1
From
“Nanabushu
Breaks
the
Necks
of
the
Dancing
Geese”,
told
by
Kagige‐pinase

(John
Pinese).

Jones,
Ojibway
Texts,
409.



2
Copway,
The
Life
of
Kah­ge­ga­gah­bowh,
69.



3
Johnston,
Ojibway
Heritage,
52.



4
From
“Nanabushu
Flies
with
the
Geese.”

Told
by
Kagige‐pinase.

Jones,
Ojibway

Texts,
435.



5
Copway,
The
Life
of
Kah­ge­ga­gah­bowh,
81.



6
Copway,
The
Life
of
Kah­ge­ga­gah­bowh,
146.



7
McNickle,
Native
American
Tribalism,
81.



8
From
“Nanabushu,
The
Sweet‐Brier
Berries,
And
The
Sturgeons”,
told
by


Wasagunackank.

Jones,
Ojibway
Texts,
50‐51.



9
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Naratives
Of
Charles
and
Charlotte
Kawbawgam
and
Jacques

LePique,
1893‐1895,
30.



10
Gates,
“Writing,
‘Race,’
and
the
Difference
it
Makes,”
1580.



11
Gates,
“Writing,
‘Race,’
and
the
Difference
it
Makes,”
1586.



12
McClurken,

Gah­Baeh­Jhagwah­Buk:
The
Way
it
Happened,
4.






200



























































13
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
50,
51.



14
Geniusz,
Our
Knowledge
is
Not
Primitive,
125.



15
Densmore,
How
Indians
Use
Wild
Plants
for
Food,
Medicine
&
Crafts,
386.



16
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
51.



17
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
11.



18
From
“Nanabushu
Kills
Another
Brother”,
told
by
Wasangunackank.

Jones,

Ojibway
Texts,
28‐29.



19
McNickle,
Native
American
Tribalism,
46.



20
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
24,
51.



21
From
“Nanabushu
Slays
His
Younger
Brother”,
told
by
Wasagunackank.

Jones,

Ojibway
Texts,
18‐19.



22
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

viii,
ix.



23
McClurken,
Gah­
Baeh­Jhagwah­Buk:
The
Way
it
Happened,
73.



24
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
44.



25
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
112.




26
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
113.




27
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
120.




28
As
Ruth
Spack
states
in
her
study
of
American
Indian
Education,
America’s
Second


Tongue,
“although
the
rhetoric
of
Americanization
implied
that
students
would
be

allowed
into
American
society
as
Americans,
the
reality
of
the
Americanization

movement
was
that
Native
people
were
asked
to
reject
the
ways
of
their
ancestors

and
families
without
being
offered
the
benefits
of
full
participation
in
the
European

American
way
of
life.

In
the
end,
the
concept
of
Americanization
through
English‐



201



























































language
teaching
served
to
reinforce
the
United
states
government’s
linguistic,

cultural,
political,
and
territorial
control
over
Native
people.”

Spack,
America’s

Second
Tongue,
37‐38.



29
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

259.



30
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
2.



31
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
4.



32
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
50.



33
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

138.



34
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

256,
257.



35
Teuton,
Red
Land,
Red
Power:
Grounding
Knowledge
in
the
American
Indian
Novel,

23.



36
From
“Nanabushu
Leaves
His
Brother,
And
Also
His
Grandmother,”
told
by

Kugigepinasikwa
(Mrs.
Marie
Syrette).

Jones,
Ojibway
Texts,
495,
497.



37
Weaver,
Warrior,
Womack,
American
Indian
Literary
Nationalism,
xxi.



38
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

vi.



39
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

262.



40
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

vii.



41
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

261.







202



























































42
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

ix.



43
Copway’s
implication
that
including
Indian
ideas
in
American
education
would
be

of
dual
benefit,
is
more
directly
stated
by
Sioux,
and
Carlisle
graduate,
Luther

Standing
Bear
in
his
1933
publication
Land
of
the
Spotted
Eagle.


He
writes;
“So
we

went
to
school
to
copy,
to
imitate;
not
to
exchange
languages
and
ideas,
and
not
to

develop
the
best
traits
that
had
come
out
of
uncountable
experiences
of
hundreds
of

thousands
of
years
living
upon
this
continent.

Our
annals,
all
happenings
of
human

import,
were
stored
in
our
song
and
dance
rituals,
our
history
differing
in
that
it
was

not
stored
in
books,
but
in
the
living
memory.

So,
while
the
white
peole
had
much
to

teach
u,
we
had
much
to
teach
them,
and
what
a
school
could
have
been
established

on
that
idea!”

Spack,
America’s
Second
Tongue,
107.



44
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

152.



45
Teuton,
Red
Land,
Red
Power:
Grounding
Knowledge
in
the
American
Indian
Novel,

6.



46
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

265,
266.



47
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

267.



48
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

270.



49
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,

270,
271.



50
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
24.



51
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
44.



52
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
25.



53
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,12.






203



























































54
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
65,
66.



55
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
61.



56
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
61.



57
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
60.



58
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
65.



59
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
69.



60
From
“Nanabushu
And
The
Winged
Startlers,”
told
by
Midasug’j.

Jones,
Ojibway

Texts,
187,
189.



61
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,59.



62
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
60.



63
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
62,
63.



64
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
in
Michigan,
98‐99.



65
As
Spack
points
out
in
American
Second
Tongue,
“students
spent
much
of
their

day
doing
manual
labor.

Insistence
on
vocational
training
as
a
goal
of
education
was

already
an
institutionalized
goal
in
American
education
for
freed
slaves,
the
very

population
for
whom
Hampton
was
created,
as
well
as
for
other
minority
and
poor

populations.

This
development
coincided
with
a
prevalent
belief
that
backward

peoples
could
slowly
advance
through
a
process
of
evolution.

The
purpose
of

education
was
to
help
students
overcome
hereditary
deficiencies
by
building
moral

character
through
hard
work.”
Spack,
America’s
Second
Tongue,
70.



66
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
in
Michigan,
100,
102.



67
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
11.

The
title
of
this

text
asserts
Blackbird’s
determination
to
self‐represent.

This
places
him
in
a

favored
position
of
insight
and
accuracy,
despite
his
lack
of
influence
over
the
major

policy‐makers
in
the
American
government.

In
effect,
the
text
thus
titled
acts
as
a

counterweight
to
the
seemingly
unassailable
forces
that
would
undermine
the




204



























































stability
and
security
of
tribal
peoples
by
providing,
at
the
very
least,
a
record
of

dissent.



68
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
14,
11.



69
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
15.



70
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
17.



71
Brenda
Child’s
excellent
Boarding
School
Seasons
chronicles
the
boarding
school

experience
by
featuring
archival
letters
written
by
the
students,
parents,
and

administrators
of
the
Flandreau
school
in
South
Dakota
and
the
Haskell
institute
of

Kansas.

This
correspondence
reveals
the
gulf
between
the
idealized
process
of

civilization
and
the
actual
business
of
running
institutions
dependent
on
the
intense

manual
labor
of
the
attending
children.




72
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
17.



73
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
11,
16.



74
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
16.



75
Blackbird,
The
Indian
Problem,
from
the
Indian’s
Standpoint,
18.



76
From
“Nanabushu
Kills
Another
Brother,”
told
by
Wasagunackank.

Jones,

Ojibway
Texts,
40.



77
Blackbird,
History
of
the
Ottawa
and
Chippewa
Indians
of
Michigan,
71.



78
Arendt,
The
Human
Condition,
4.



Chapter
Two



1
Womack,
American
Indian
Literary
Nationalism,
92.





2
Womack,
American
Indian
Literary
Nationalism.
92.



3
Genuisz,
Our
Knowledge
is
Not
Primitive,
14.



4
From
“The
Beast
Men,
”as
told
by
Jacques
LePique.

Kidder,
Ojibwa
Naratives
Of




205



























































Charles
and
Charlotte
Kawbawgam
and
Jacques
LePique,
1893‐1895,
93.



5
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
xiv.



6
Silko,
“Interior
and
Exterior
Landscapes,”
5.



7
From
“The
Great
Skunk
and
the
Great
Bear
of
the
West”,
remarks
by
Homer
H.

Kidder.

Kidder,
Ojibwa
Naratives
Of
Charles
and
Charlotte
Kawbawgam
and
Jacques

LePique,
1893‐1895,

101.

8
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
x.




9
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
xi.




10
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
25.




11
From
“The
Man
from
the
World
Above,”
told
by
Jacques
LePique.

Kidder,
Ojibwa


Naratives
Of
Charles
and
Charlotte
Kawbawgam
and
Jacques
LePique,
1893‐1895,
86.

12
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
25.




13
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
26.




14
Harjo,
Reinventing
the
Enemy’s
Language,
20.




15
Bruchac,
Survival
This
Way,
xi.




16
Teuton,
Red
Land,
Red
Power:
Grounding
Knowledge
in
the
American
Indian
Novel,,


36.



17
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
135,
136.



18
Ortiz,
Speaking
for
the
Generations:
Native
Writers
on
Writing,

xviii.



19
Vizenor,
The
People
Named
the
Chippewa,
24.



20

Johnston,
Ojibway
Heritage,
61

21
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
58.





206





























































22
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
8.



23
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
9.



24
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
11.



25
From
”Winabojo
and
the
Medicine
Man,”
told
by
Odinigun.

Densmore,
Chippewa

Customs,
100.

26
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
xv.




27
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
13.




28
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
14.




29
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
14.




30
Tymoczo,
“Translation
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction,”
159.




31
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
114.




32
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
114.




33
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
63,
61.




34
Silko,
“Interior
and
Exterior
Landscapes,”10.




35
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
114,
115.




36
From
“Winabojo
and
the
Medicine
Man,”

told
by
Odinigun.

Densmore,
Chippewa


Customs,
100

37
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
7.




38
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
53.




39
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
5.







207



























































40
From
“Nanabushu
and
the
Wolves,”
told
by
Midasug’j.

Jones,
Ojibwe
Texts,
245.

41
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
1.




42
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
1.




43
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
2.




44
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
2.




45
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
30.




46
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
51.




47
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
58.




48
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
60.




49
Baraga,
Chippewa
Indians,
53.




50
Bruchac,
Roots
of
Survival,
73.




51
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
24.




52
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
24.




53
Warren,
History
of
the
Ojibway
People,
26.




Chapter
Three



1
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
75,
n.
61.



2
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
130,
n.
100.



3
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
35.



4
Geniusz,
Our
Knowledge
is
Not
Primitive,
6.






208



























































5
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
xiv.



6
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
xiv.



7
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
96.



8
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
74.



9
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
75.



10
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
78.



11
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
75.



12
Gunn‐Allen,
“The
Sacred
Hoop:
A
Contemporary
Perspective,”
255.



13
Nabakov,
Where
the
Lightning
Strikes,
xi.



14
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
83.



15
Nabakov,
Where
the
Lightning
Strikes,
xiii.



16
Deloria,
Jr.,
The
World
We
Used
To
Live
In,
194.



17
Deloria,
Jr.,
The
World
We
Used
To
Live
In,
195.



18
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
18.



19
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
30.



20
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
40.



21
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
40.



22
Nabakov,
Where
The
Lightning
Strikes,
??????



23
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
41.






209



























































24
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
45.



25
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
47.



26
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
21.



27
It
is
a
common
fate
in
Indian
Country,
as
D’arcy
McNickle
reminds
us
about
the

“cottagers”
who
provided
income
for
indigenous
peoples
during
the
tourist
season

and
its
demand
for
authentic
experiences
and
handicrafts.

Furthermore,
the
manual

labor
in
which
boarding
school
students
were
trained
was
also
sometimes
buffered

by
the
“outing
program”
intended
to
give
students
practical
experience
in
the
white,

English‐speaking
world,
but
mainly
supplied
white
households
with
cheap
domestic

labor.

The
outing
program
is
discussed
in
fascinating
detail
in
the
book
Boarding

School
Seasons,
by
Brenda
J.
Child.

28
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
22‐23.




29
Vizenor,
The
People
Named
the
Chippewa,
7.




30
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
80.




31
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
80.




32
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
69.




33
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
69.




34
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
69.




35
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
70.




36
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
70.




37
Kidder,
Ojibway
Narratives,
125.




From
“The
Court
Oreilles
Origin
Myth”



1
To
me,
this
story
alludes
to
the
cultural
contempt
often
displayed
by
Europeans

and
Americans
who
were
at
the
same
time
benefitting
from
the
unfamiliar
survival

tactics
of
the
(typically
hospitable
and
welcoming)
tribal
peoples
they
would




210



























































encounter.

It
seemed
a
good
fit
between
Kidder’s
somewhat
naïve
resistance
to

tribal
beliefs,
and
the
more
overt
criticism
expressed
by
Thoreau.

Barnouw,

Wisconsin
Chippewa
Myths
&
Tales,
62‐64.



Chapter
Four



1
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians:”
A
Bilingual
Petition
of
the
Chippewas
of

Lake
Superior,
1.

Though
the
introduction
from
which
some
of
the
quotes
are
drawn

was
written
by
Canadian
scholars
at
The
Centre
for
Teaching
and
Research
of
Native

Canadian
Languages,
I
will
list
the
authors
of
this
work
as
“ogimaag,”
which
is
the

Anishinaabemowin
word
used
to
refer
to
more
than
one
leader.

This
is
to
convey

the
nature
of
the
document
as
a
group
effort,
intended
to
reflect
the
concerns
of
the

many
tribal
people
being
represented
by
those
individuals
who
wrote
and

presented
the
Statement
to
the
U.S.
government.



2
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
1.



3
Emerson,
“Nature,”
35.



4
Emerson,
“Nature,”
36.



5
Emerson,
“Nature,”
36.



6
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
1.1,
1.2.

I
am
using
the
same
manner
of

distinguishing
the
sections
and
lines
of
the
text
as
that
found
in
the
bilingual
section

of
the
publication.

The
“English
only”
section
of
straight
translation
uses

conventional
page
numbering,
which
I
will
employ
at
such
times
as
I
am
quoting

from
that
particular
section



7
Emerson,
“Nature,”
36,
37.




8
Emerson,
“Nature,”
37.




9
Cronin,
“History,
Translation,
Postcolonialism,”
34.




10
Cronin,
“History,
Translation,
Postcolonialism,”
35.




11
Cronin,
“History,
Translation,
Postcolonialism,”
41.




12
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
44.







211



























































13
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
74.



14
Emerson,
“Nature,”
37.



15
Simon,
Changing
the
Terms:
Translating
in
the
Postcolonial
Era,

“Introduction,”

48.



16
Ortiz,
Speaking
For
The
Generations:
Native
Writers
On
Writing,
“Introduction,”

xvi.



17
Hawthorne,
“Mr.
Thoreau,”
American
Notebooks.



18
Hawthorne,
“Mr.
Thoreau,”
American
Notebooks.




19
Keiser,
The
Indian
in
American
Literature,
231.




20
Keiser,
The
Indian
in
American
Literature,
232.




21
Sayre,
Thoreau
and
the
American
Indians,
x.




22
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
3.1.




23
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
3.2,
3.3.




24
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
120.




25
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
122.




26
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
122.




27
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
122.




28
Murphy,
Hemispheric
Imaginings,
17.




29
Murphy,
Hemispheric
Imaginings,
46.




30
Fanuzzi,
Abolition’s
Public
Sphere,
173.







212



























































31
Fanuzzi,
Abolition’s
Public
Sphere,
179.



32
Fanuuzi,
Abolition’s
Public
Sphere,
179.



33
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
7.5.



34
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
7.6.



35
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
4.7.



36
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Indians,”
4.8
–
5.2.



37
LaDuke,
All
Our
Relations,
115.



38
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
6.



39
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
6.



40
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
7.



41
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
6.



42
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
7.



43
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
32.



44
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
10,
78.



45
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
32.



46
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
65.



47
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
66.



48
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
70,
71.



49
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
78.






213



























































50
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
78.



51
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
78.



52
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
79.



53
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
82.



54
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
90.



55
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
95.



56
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
112.



57
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
107.



58
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
107.



59
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
30.



60
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
120.



61
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
121,
120.



62
Fannuzi,
Abolition’s
Public
Sphere,
200.



63
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
122.



64
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
97.



65
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Language
of
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Tribes,”
310.



66
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
30.



67
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
30.



68
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Language
of
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Tribes,”
311.






214



























































69
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Language
of
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Tribes,”
312.



70
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Languages,”
313.



71
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
134.



72
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
135.



73
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
136.



74
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
136.



75
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
39.



76
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
136,
137.



77
Warner,
The
Letters
of
the
Republic,
41.



78
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
140.







79
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
141.



80
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Languages,”
314.



81
Prince,
“Notes
on
the
Eastern
Algonkin
Languages,”
314.



82
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
157,
158.



83
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
159.



84
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
162.



85
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
163.



86
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
164.



87
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
201,
253.






215



























































88
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
172,
190.



89
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
169.



90
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
178.



91
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
179.



92
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
168.



93
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
168.



94
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
35.



95
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
174.



96
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
47.



97
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
46.



98
Habermas,
The
Structural
Transformation
of
the
Public
Sphere,
47.



99
Thoreau,
The
Maine
Woods,
217,
277.



100
Ogimaag,
“Statement
Made
By
The
Chippewa,”
14.7.



101
Ogimaag,
“The
Statement
Made
By
The
Chippewa,”
16.4.



Chapter
Five



1
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
cover.



2
McNickle,
Native
American
Tribalism,
8,
9.



3
McNickle,
Native
American
Tribalism,
15.



4
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
title
page.






216



























































5
McNickle,
Native
American
Tribalism,
11.



6
Womack.

Red
on
Red:
Native
American
Literary
Separatism,
17.



7
The
genre‐related
breakdown
of
courses
offered
by
myriad
English
departments

proves
his
point.

Indeed,
the
current
movement
toward
interdisciplinary
studies

indicates
the
burgeoning
awareness
of
the
limits
of
the
category.



8
Womack,
Red
on
Red:
Native
American
Literary
Separatism,
17.



9
Jonhston,
Ojibway
Heritage,
8.





10
Vizenor,
The
People
Named
the
Chippewa,
7.




11
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
12.




12
Copway,
The
Traditional
History
and
Characteristic
Sketches
of
the
Ojibway
Nation,


1.



13
I
would
also
here
mention
how
this
resonates
with
my
own
difficulty
in
locating

and
procuring
a
copy
of
his
work
in
the
21st
century.



14
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
3.



15
All
story
excerpts
in
this
chapter
are
from
“Chickadee
Boy,”
told
by
Kawbawgam.


Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
109.



16
Interestingly,
this
is
a
dance
troupe
he
formed,
inspired
by
Catlin
and
later


meeting
up
with
him
in
France.

I
learned
this
from
the
text
The
Transatlantic
Indian,

1776­1930,
written
by
Kate
Flint.
I
agree
with
her
conclusion
that
“Maungwudaus
is

a
clear
example
of
a
First
Nations
member
preferring
to
act
–
and
being
prepared
to

act
–
as
an
impresario
for
performers
who
are
his
own
people;
what
we
know
of
his

life
bears
witness
to
the
weight
he
gave
to
personal,
and
tribal,
autonomy.”
Flint,
The

Transatlantic
Indian,
1776­1930,
82.



17
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
4‐5.



18
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
109‐110.






217



























































19
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
6.



20
Densmore,
How
Indians
Use
Wild
Plants
for
Food,
Medicine
&
Crafts,
386.



21
LaDuke,
Recovering
the
Sacred:
The
Power
of
Naming
and
Claiming,
12.



22
LaDuke,
Recovering
the
Sacred:
The
Power
of
Naming
and
Claiming,
12.



23
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
110.



24
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
3.



25
Flint,
The
Transatlantic
Indian,
1776­1930,
9.



26
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
110.



27
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
9.



28
Jones,
Ojibwa
Texts,
311.



29
Jones,
Ojibwa
Texts,
341.



30
Jones,
Ojibwa
Texts,
343.



31
Jones,
Ojibwa
Texts,
343.



32
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
58.



33
Johnston,
Ojibway
Heritage,
21.



34
Densmore,
Chippewa
Customs,
60.



35
Flint,
The
Transatlantic
Indian,
1776­1930,
2.



36
Flint,
The
Transatlantic
Indian,
1776­1930,
24.



37
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
4.






218



























































38
Maungwdaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
4.



39
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
110‐111.



40
Tymoczko,
"Translations
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction,"

151.



41
Of
course,
this
again
suggests
a
certain
equivalency
of
circumstances
that
at
least

is
partly
suggested
by
Maungwudaus's
comment
that
"The
Irish
are
very
kind‐
hearted
people.

The
country
people
make
fire
of
turf;
many
of
them
are
very
poor;

the
British
government
is
over
them."

Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa,
8.



42
Tymoczko,
“Translations
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction,”

156.



43
Tymoczko,
“Translations
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction,”

155.



44
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa,
3.



45
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
111.



46
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa
Indians,
5.



47
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa,
4.



48
Maungwudaus,
An
Account
of
the
Chippewa,
6.



49
Again,
my
thanks
to
Helen
Roy
for
helping
me
with
these
translations.



50
Emerson,
“Nature,”
37.



51
Emerson,
“Nature,”
36.



52
Tymoczko,
“Translations
of
Themselves:
The
Contours
of
Postcolonial
Fiction,”

155.



53
Kidder,
Ojibwa
Narratives,
111.






219


































































































Bibliography























































220



























































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