Recovering Native American Writings in the Boarding School Press

by Jacqueline Emery

  It was to be a gala day for the Sioux upon the Cheyenne in that moon of Wee-pah-zoo-ka! (June berries.) Every maiden of any pretensions to beauty was intent upon surpassing her competitors in extravagance of attire. Many used the placid waters of a pond near by for their looking glass, many grouped together painted each other in turn. As for the young men, their toilet was made in similar fashion; with few exceptions they say in groups of six to ten, while one small hand mirror or perhaps only part of one did service for all.

  The young maidens used generally but two colors—red and yellow; the young braves used anything for variety and always endeavored to out-do each other. In consequence of this singular taste, their faces looked not unlike the colors of a crazy quilt. Really handsome, however, were their blankets and buckskin shirts, embroidered with porcupine and set with elk’s teeth, and with profuse fringes down the seams. Their long braids of hair were wound with otter skin and heavily scented. The aboriginal dude was the most picturesque of them all!

  The day was half over and all had completed their painting—even the antiquated women had smeared their wrinkled faces with a dull red, and the old men surpassed them by generously painting their hair as well. But the young people upon calico ponies, with gorgeous bridles and blankets—they really were objects of interest!

  It was accorded to Fire Lightning to have his event come off first. All entered the Ogallala circle. The chieftain stepped into the ring with native dignity and addressed his audience thus:

  “Ye people of the different bands of the Dakotas, hearken: My second son has just returned from a successful war-path. The war-chief reports that his conduct upon the battlefield was worthy of his ancestors. I beg the people to join with me in celebrating the beginning of his public career. It is my purpose to give him a new name with your approval.” (“How! how! how!” was the response from all sides.) “I name him Red Cloud. Remember at the eve of day the red clouds appear in the west to denote the promise of a bright day to follow.”

  At this point he turned to the herald; the latter announced that the ten horses with fine aboriginal saddles would be brought into the circle by young Red Cloud.

  “He looks very young. I do not believe he is over fifteen winters,” whispered a pretty maiden of chieftain’s blood to her girl companion.

  “But they say that he is seventeen, and hunts the buffalo with a skill of an old hunter,” replied the other.

  The old women and men struggled feverishly for a good position, for it was understood that Red Cloud would distribute these ponies among the poor and old, which he did gracefully and kindly. From that day the young brave was considered a man.

  Now came Grey Eagle’s feast. He had announced that his boy, Lame Deer, would have his ears pierced. An Indian is not happy unless he wears earrings, and it was the fashion that the ear-piercing should be done publicly and some savage wealth change hands because that also shows the social position of the parents.

  As had been heralded, Grey Eagle gave away three ponies; among them his own war-horse. Few warriors can part with their favorite pony.

  An old medicine man was appointed to pierce the little boy’s ears. He did not use an awl or a needle, but a very sharp-pointed knife. The boy was now called upon to display his courage. He simply tightened his lips and his eyes were fixed upon the blue sky. He uttered no cry. (This was the same chief who grew up to fight General Miles on the Little Big Horn the winter following the Custer battle, and was killed.) He was a small but bright-looking boy with long black hair, and wore upon his head a warrior’s son’s eagle feather.

  Grey Eagle was a man of intense feeling, yet he possessed a great deal of humor. He rose and addressed the throng: “I have invited you to partake of my meat. I will now tie a leather cord to the mane of each pony. A duplicate is to be thrown up into the air, and whoever catches it will be entitled to keep the pony that wears the cord.”

  This unexpected proposition took the general fancy. Of course, every one would like to see one of the cords fall into their hands.

  The big Indian drum was sounded and savage music rent the air. A strong brave sent the cords over the heads of the crowd, one at a time. The result was a general turmoil.

  Everybody rushed toward the flying object—a confusion of upraised arms and swinging lariats! Old warriors were as free to give excited war whoops as any of the younger men, while women with their characteristic screams augmented the already intolerable noise.

  The first cord was knocked about over their heads until it fell into the hand of a warrior. The disappointed contestants greeted its fall with a tremendous yell. All were on the utmost look-out as the next was thrown high into the air. Savage excitement neared its height and many were injured in the fray. At this instant the crier shouted above the din:

  “The last cord will now be sent up!”

  “Ugh! ugh!” exclaimed many a young brave, “I must catch this cord, or I am no athlete.”

  Then came a terrific clash of bows, clubs, and nude bodies. The struggle, though a playful one, seemed desperate. The cord was kept on the jump from man to man, until finally it went under their feet. This change of position was even more dangerous to the contestants but no one heeded the danger.

  At last a tremendous whoop went up. The crowd parted and a brave came out with the last cord in his hand. He did not resemble a human being so much as a buffalo bill or a black bear. The dust, the disarrangement of his massive hair, and the demoralization of his painted face made him anything but pleasing to behold. But as he approached there was satisfaction written on his hideous countenance, for he had won the prize!5

  A True Story with Several Morals, 1900

  Not many weeks ago some of the Oklahoma Poncas went to South Dakota to visit their friends and relatives at Niobrara. Of course everybody was delighted. All the stories of old days were told in turn and the pipe of peace and the pipe apiece were filled and refilled.

  But there came a time when the stories and provisions were exhausted and the young men strayed off to a neighboring town, in search of food and amusement.

  One of them spied a strange thing. He saw a white farmer who had just sold some vegetables walk up to a slot machine and drop a dollar into it.

  “Ugh!” said the Indian, when he saw a keg of beer roll out.

  A council was held immediately. A collection was taken up among the Indians and the nickels and dimes resulting changed for a silver dollar. The keg of beer rolled out and was soon upon pony’s back, travelling toward the Indian village.

  After it reached there, all the old stories were told over again, but this time with an accompaniment of songs, wailing, and shooting.

  When quiet was restored at last, one young Indian lay dead. The murderer was sitting by in deep meditation.

  “Ugh! I will go with him, before his spirit has gone too far. No white hangsman shall avenge his blood. I will go to his aged mother and will give her the gun that killed him, to kill me with it.”

  He went; and the old woman did not argue the matter with him but immediately took the gun and shot him dead. If all the white murderers should follow this Indian’s example, they would save much time and money for their trial and execution.6

  Indian Traits, 1903

  It is natural that the subject of the Indian should be of the deepest interest to me. It is natural for me to cling to the early training that I received—training that was instilled into the very fibre of my being—training that this civilization of steam, machinery, and electricity cannot wipe out. There is a cry that sometimes comes to my soul: “O let me go back to my childhood and primitive man and the love of Mother Nature!”

  God made the Indian a part of Nature and made him to understand the Great Mystery as the Power of the universe. The Indian in the days that are past, in this beautiful country, had everything that a wild man could wish for. The Great Mystery was so generous to him that he made no effort other than to keep to the nomadic life and follow the profession of the chase. The climate
was always congenial to him, whether in the blizzards of the Dakotas or the hot suns of Arizona. He saw God in His handiwork; the lofty peaks, the mighty river, the rushing falls, the proud oaks and pines spoke of His power. At times you would see the Indian youth standing upon a precipice commanding a most impressive view, in the act of offering his silent prayer to the Unknown God—the Great Mystery. He never expected to see his God and never expected to talk with Him except through Nature. Daily he sought for a sign.

  The Indian hunter never set out in the morning until he had first raised his hand and offered his filled pipe, silently recognizing Him who controls all things, even the fortunes of the chase. He then chased the deer all day and came back to his tent at night satisfied, whatever the result of his day’s labor. He must often endure the severest exertion to supply food for his children. The Indian did not shirk that tremendous duty which presses upon us all—the duty of providing for his family.

  Now what was it that made the Indian peculiarly interesting to all who study primitive man? Was it not a certain native power of faithfulness, as displayed in close observation and patience in practice? His eye swept the ground, and the moment he saw a footprint he knew whether it was that of a deer or a moose, a bear or a buffalo. He knew whether that track was made an hour ago or the day before yesterday, and he knew approximately where the animal was. He had been thoroughly taught. As a boy he had made that footprint with his own fingers in the sand or the mud until he knew it. And from that time on he continued to observe until the language of the footprints was as clear to him as hand-writing. This is an education. It is a profession.

  At night the father comes home with a detailed account of his day’s experiences. The child sits there with his mouth and eyes wide open, and eagerly catches everything that is said. Afterward the old grandfather, or grandmother perhaps, tells one of the old legends, or a personal experience that was something like that of the father, perhaps something humorous. If there was anything new in the day’s experience they would note and discuss it. So the boy learned his lessons. His teacher was not a brilliant young lady. It was a wrinkled, wise old woman who was his teacher. Beyond all this the child was so impressed with the Great Mystery taught from childhood that he listened for its voice everywhere. He could not get away from that thought. Sometimes in the night, when he was older, he would go away from the camp and visit alone the summit of the highest hill. There he would sit looking out and meditating upon a mighty Power.

  Indian customs, it has been said, are atrocious, barbarous, in the wild life. This is true of all the primitive races and it is true in civilization. I cannot see that war is beneficent at any stage of man’s progress. When I read that one iron-clad man-of-war blows up another, drowning many like rats or mutilating them beyond all recognition, then I say: “O civilization, where is your blush? Where is your shame?” It is true that the Indians fight sometimes, but I see those things wherever man exists. I will speak now of that side of war which the Indian supposed to be instituted by the Great Mystery to test and to develop man’s higher nature. Many people suppose that an Indian warrior in his war-paint and scalp-belt must necessarily have butchered many of his fellow-creatures. As a matter of fact, he may not have killed a single man all his life long. Some men go into battle armed with a stone war-club and quiver full of arrows; some carry only a staff. When an enemy falls they rush forward and touch the body, simply to show their bravery. This act entitles a man to wear an eagle feather. There are, it is true, treacherous and cruel men among the Indians. There are also many such in every city.

  In order to be a really great man the Indian must be a feast-maker. There was no such thing as money in our life—one of the most powerful things to influence men, both for good and evil. In those days fine muscles were demanded—wonderful endurance, which it took much practice and self-denial to gain. In order to be a feast-maker it was necessary to be a fine hunter, and in order to be a fine hunter it was necessary to have a fine body. And you know it takes a good deal of moral fibre to make and to keep a fine body! We did not have sleepless nights in those days, and we did not need to have our food digested before we took it! In order to be a warrior or a chief, a man’s nervous system must be kept near to perfection up to the age of sixty-five. Among the Sioux tribe personal worth was the first thing required in choosing a chief. Only a man of spotless character could attain that high position. That was the way then. There is a great difference now. Indians of no standing have been made chiefs by the American press. A number of such chiefs are not recognized by their own tribes.

  But we have lost a good deal. We don’t blame civilization. We had to rough it with the bad element upon the frontier before civilization really came. Some of these frontiersmen are good men—men who make civilization march along. But there is a class of people who come among us for another purpose. They ruin the innocent and childlike races of this continent, and through contact with them we have lost much in the way of honesty and upright living. The Indians are not natural lawbreakers. They had unwritten codes of law that none could break.

  Among many the Indian is misunderstood as to his home life; it is claimed that the women have to do all of the work. But the tepee has few rooms to sweep and tend and no windows nor bric-a-brac to wash and dust. The woman has the whole management and care of the home and she does her womanly duty faithfully and gladly. The man is not idle. He must go out and follow the hunt to provide food. It may take him the whole day to find it. Many times there is danger from an enemy—he must defend the home. But unless engaged in either of these ways the Indian stays at home. He goes out to council meeting. Besides his council, or his club, he has no outside demands. He has perfect confidence in his wife. He comes home perhaps after hunting all day in the rain. His wife will be so kind as to take off his wet moccasins and put on dry ones, provide his food, set it before him, and he is perfectly happy. After supper he has a little smoke and recounts the experiences of the day. The old men tell stories and legends and they all laugh and enjoy themselves.

  What about the sons and daughters? In those days it was not considered good taste for a young man to go away from home for his pleasure. All the laughing was done in the family circle. The daughter had even more restrictions. That old grandmother was a severe chaperone. When the girl got to be about fifteen years old the grandmother took her in hand, and a young man couldn’t get a peep at her even through a hole in a blanket!

  All of these things were customary fifty or more years ago. Our old rules of conduct have broken down through contact with civilization. Even in my own time a good many of the Indian customs had fallen into disuse.

  The child was trained before it was born, and when it was born it was taken out under the branches to hear the birds and become Nature-born. We were taught to think quickly. We attained accuracy by the coordination of the muscles and the eye. Keenness, swiftness, strength—that was part of us. You say this was intuitive, but it was not. It was taught us from the cradle. These things made the Indian love his family and his country, and made of him a strong, devoted warrior to defend his people.7

  The Indian’s View of the Indian in Literature, 1903

  The Indians in general are not readers. Of the great mass of that which has been written about them, they know little or nothing. Here and there a book or a magazine article falls into the hands of one who can read and is translated to the old people, bringing a smile of contempt upon their faces. The pictures drawn therein are altogether foreign to their real life and mode of thought. Nor is it strange that this should be so. By their long-established habit of reticence and reserve, they have never been ready to show their inmost thoughts to the casual visitor. It is their pride to discern the characters of others before letting their own be understood.

  Many of the forces which most strongly influence the minds of other men do not exist for the Indian. His strongest impulses to action came to him in the field, either of hunting or war. These motives cannot be learned by the strange
r, as he lounges among the sluggish and apathetic reservation Indians. Neither can you obtain such knowledge through the illiterate interpreter, who is not at all able to portray character as the Indian himself might reveal it, in vivid descriptions of his own experiences in battle or the chase. The mirthful, humorous side of his temperament cannot possibly be known except by an intimate. It is never shown to the chance comer; one must live with him in his own home until all strangeness is worn away.

  It is true that something of the red man’s nature may appear through his modern and freer way of living, but that also is modified by his recent adoption of the “white man’s way.” These new manners, not being fully assimilated to his native ideas and practice, too often serve to make him appear ridiculous.

  The mind of the Indian nowadays is further hampered by the authority held over him upon the reservations. He is no longer free and spontaneous in expressing his thoughts, but rather feels obliged to say in a general way what he thinks will be pleasing to the white people. Even when questioned concerning old stories and customs, he commonly tones them down and introduces later ideas which he imagines will be more acceptable.

  Occasionally, when greatly provoked, he may speak freely, but then it is apt to be more in the white man’s way than the old Indian fashion, which was dignified even in anger. Such occasions used to be rather to his advantage than otherwise, as his noblest eloquence and most admirable self-control were displayed under trying circumstances. It is quite the contrary now that the old barriers of speech are broken down. His simplicity of expression, which was original and peculiar to him, is fast disappearing. The great orators are nearly all gone. Even the old chiefs nowadays have heard so much of the official talk of Government agents and commissioners that they unconsciously drop into the hackneyed commonplaces of speech.