My Song: The Song of the Mountain Woman
I sing my song at the Salmon Ceremony, as I said, in the longhouse and on other occasions. I remember my mother telling me when she was sick (the last time she was sick), a day or so before she died, “Don’t ever let a year go by without singing that song. Sing it at least once in the longhouse or in some celebration in La Conner.”
The song I sing—should I say, my song—is the song of the Mountain Woman. It is the vision of a woman coming from the mountains, who first appeared to one of my great-grandparents, the one my father named me after [Hialth]. But I never saw her. I never ever heard the song until I heard it when I was sick.
I was very sick. I caught a cold when I went to Seattle to see Wayne’s father. It was bitterly cold, and the boat he worked on came in from Port Townsend, Port Angeles, and Victoria, B.C. I got there in the afternoon and I went walking down a bitterly cold street to the Colman dock. I was already feeling sick. I came home and I could not get up the next day, and I had a high fever. So a bad cold turned into pneumonia and pleurisy, and that was when I heard this song.
I was very sick, but I could hear Wayne say something. He was a year and a half old, and I could hear him, sometimes, crying a couple of times, and my mother taking care of him. Dr. Howard came all of the way from Everett. He was a good friend of my father. They met each other in 1890 when they were about the same age. The road between here and Marysville was miles longer than it is now—a winding road full of ruts—but he came in the evenings to see me. Wayne’s father told me afterwards that Dr. Howard told my folks he didn’t know whether or not I was going to get well. “She is very sick.” Wayne’s father said that every morning my father and mother walked out to the woods (because this road wasn’t there), where they would weep and cry because they thought I was going to die.
All I remember about those awful days was trying to breathe, with that pneumonia and pleurisy. It didn’t dawn on me until sometime afterwards that it was the hardest time of my life. It was so hard to breathe in such shallow breaths. My fever was high. The doctor was an outstanding physician and surgeon. Dr. Howard gave me medicine every few hours; it cleared up the fluids that were in my lungs. Pneumonia was a killer all those years ago because they didn’t have the medicines, such as antibiotics, that they have today. I went through days and days of high fever. The doctor came, but the days went by, and it didn’t seem as though I could see anything—everything looked grayish. I could vaguely see my mother come in and give me some soup or broth, eggnog or something.
One morning, early, everybody was asleep, but somebody would always sit by my bed and stay with me all night. That time it was my father. I had a dream. I was in my dream, but it just seemed so real. I was standing just about in the middle of a bay somewhat similar to Tulalip Bay, but not really like it exactly. It was a bigger bay, although it looked like my home—a bay in Puget Sound with islands and green trees—but it all looked farther away. I was standing in the middle of this strange bay, and the wind started to blow, and it just as rapidly built up into a raging storm. The waves began to come into the beach where I was standing, and the water began to look really black, and it had whitecaps—rolling waves that were white up on top—and the sky was very dark and black. Dark, dark clouds were rolling across the bay. I was looking around the whole bay, and I found out I was alone. I looked in back of me, I turned around and looked all around this whole place where I was all alone. I could see myself. I looked small and, hanging on the back of my shoulders, I had my shawl, the one my father bought me, a pretty plaid shawl.
As I watched, these big black waves came in, and they turned into what looked like alligators or crocodiles: very big lizards with their mouths wide, wide open. Their teeth were what was white on the waves, and they were rolling right in almost at my feet. As I say, I looked all over. The wind was shrieking and whistling. I was very frightened. After I had looked all over and I didn’t see anybody, I thought, maybe this is where I die. Those awful animals are going to crawl out of the water, and they are going to kill me. As I was looking all around, then I heard the drum beat. It seemed to come from up in the sky. I could hear it so plainly. Then I heard this song, and I started to sing it and I started to dance up and down the beach. I said to myself, “Nothing is going to frighten me. If this is where I die, I will meet it like my grandparents always said: ‘Whatever happens, you meet death with bravery and dignity.’ ” So, I thought, this is what I have—bravery and dignity.
But I started to dance because of the drum. It got louder. I was dancing like I always dance. I had my arms out, because it seemed as though I was also to pacify these awful, awful animals that were rolling in on these waves. As far as I could see, the whole bay, all of Puget Sound, was covered with those black animals: huge things with white teeth and their mouths wide open. I started to dance, and as I was going up and down the beach, I felt as though I was as light as a feather. I was dancing, and I stopped and looked across the bay, and I looked at my feet. Those awful animals had turned into leaves and wild flowers that were scattered along the shore. At the time, I didn’t say “Oh, wild flowers,” because I didn’t realize then. No. I looked and I thought, “It’s not something that is dangerous.” I could keep on dancing, and I could hear the song. The drums were getting louder, but I was still all alone, and the drums were still beating, and I was feeling better as I was dancing. Then, I woke up.
My father was sitting beside my bed. He was holding my hand and he was watching me. He had both of his hands on my one hand. He was holding me quite firmly. As soon as I woke up, he said (of course, he was talking in our own language), “You’re awake now?” Kl’owťču. It was halfway like a question: “You’re awake now?” I said, “Yes, I’m awake. I had a dream. I was dancing on a beach all alone. The drums were beating, and they were coming from somewhere, it seems like from the sky, but I couldn’t really sing the song that I heard. I was gasping. I kind of remembered the melody, and I started to sing it, gasping along, but I didn’t finish it. My father picked it up. He started to sing it the way he heard it. He was still holding my hand. He said, “Oh, you are going to get well. That’s going to be your sqəlalitut. Now you’ll remember. That is going to give you the courage to live for a long, long time.” Live right. They always used the word “right.” Live right for a long time.
A year or two later, I sang that song in La Conner in the longhouse—the old, old longhouse. I think their longhouse is older than ours, I mean at Tulalip. My father said he used to hear that song when he was small. He hadn’t thought about it for years and years until I tried to sing it. Then he remembered that he had heard it when he was very, very small. But he couldn’t remember where he heard it. It must have been in the longhouse in Skykomish, because he used to be there quite a bit. Anyway, I sang that song in La Conner. Way back then, I could get around. I always went around the room. I remember my folks saying, “You stop at every corner of the longhouse.” The song stops; then you start your song again. My mother and my father said that that was what he heard when he was so little. My father said the Indians from way up the Skykomish River would come down here and sing.3 The first song they sang was my great-grandmother’s song. Then the whole longhouse of Indians would sing her song. My father called it a blessing on the entire longhouse. So, that is my song.
My song is going around quite a bit. I’ve met some Indians, men and women, from Spaulding, Idaho, who said they heard that song in the Miss American Indian program in Sheridan, Wyoming—a big Indian gathering that is very well known among Indians. Tribes come there from all over, even from Mexico. They said, “If you ever want to see the most beautiful costumes, it is the Mexican Indians.” I think those people, Mexicans, came to Albuquerque for an Indian gathering. They didn’t get there very often. These people from Sheridan said they knew my song. They said, “We heard your song.” The girls from Yakama went around a meeting at the longhouse. Then I heard my song; it was sung by a Yakama woman in Seattle and
her two girls. I said, “Oh my!” It was pretty much my song! They are not supposed to do that—sing a person’s song without their permission—but the Yakama do. It isn’t nice to say, but you hear a lot about it.
I sang my song quite a bit at Treaty Day time. I sing that song every time I go into the longhouse, or wherever the Indians are, they ask me to sing it. I sing it at the Salmon Ceremony and on Treaty Day, shall we say, for the Indians who are putting it on, managing it; they ask me to sing. Of course, all of these Indians here on this reservation know that song. My mother and the others said that it is the song of the Mountain Woman because it came from way up the Skykomish River, from my father’s father’s people. I think that is kind of interesting. Their longhouse was the farthest one up. Its name had something to do with ferns, like a fern glade or a hillside or something to do with ferns, and it must have been a certain kind of fern because we have a couple of varieties of ferns. My mother said, “Don’t let the year go by without singing that song. You be sure and sing it.”
The Skykomish, Snoqualmie, Nisqually, Swinomish, and Snohomish languages are all pretty much the same. There are differences, but I could always understand them when I was little. They still say I’m from a different tribe of people. My people came from way up the Skykomish River—or part of them did. My grandmother, my father’s mother, her people came from ibw;b and also dzəwad, or Possession Point. They are divided up according to the way they are married. I remember when Indians came to visit, and they stayed with us a year or more. They would help with things. The women washed dishes, cooked, mended, sewed, and scrubbed floors. The men went out to hunt or sawed wood, just for the family.
Once in my life I’ve been way up on the Skykomish River. It is beautiful country. I remember my mother saying the most beautiful songs came from those people—the Skykomish people from up that river. They had majestic scenery. My father’s father’s guardian spirit songs came from there, and once in a while I have seen pictures of their mountain places. Of course, they might also call them mountain hunters. Hunting in the mountains, my father said, was different from hunting on Whidbey Island, where our people used to go. The Snohomish Tribe used to go with the Skykomish, too—way up into the mountains for mountain sheep. My mother always called them mountain sheep. Of course, I never really knew there were also mountain goats. They looked the same to me until I saw them on television. Where would I see them? I wouldn’t be hunting up in the mountains! The Skykomish River is really beautiful.
Ezra Meeker, in his book Pioneer Reminiscences, talked about hearing canoeloads of Indians singing in different parts of the Puget Sound. You could hear them from far away—a couple of miles or more. They came over the water at sunset or any time during the day. Indians kept time singing as they went paddling along during reasonably happy times. Then they didn’t sing anymore. By that time, they were moving onto reservations, where they were supposed to be learning the white man’s ways and being Christianized.
I guess you might say people of all places—even working people—have pressures on them. Also, from the time you are little, from your church or whatever, you have to learn the precepts of your church, and then you have to struggle through school. My father said that was one of the reasons Indians of Puget Sound and western Washington had young people search for a guardian spirit all through the teenage years. It gives the young people a goal and an ideal to work toward. I don’t know how the young Indians of today are.
I remember my parents talking about how scattered we are. Our tribe is no longer living in one place together. We are miles and miles apart. Living miles apart you don’t feel that you are neighbors. We all know how troubled we are. I used to hear the Indians the few times they had meetings. They would talk, one speaker after another, and would always encourage each other. They knew we are all cousins and together. I think the young people don’t feel that way today. We no longer have our Indian language to unite us.
Now our people don’t know our children. I never see who the children are who live near Quilceda Creek, for instance. They wouldn’t know me from anybody else. I am just unknown. We don’t have the loving interest, loving care for one another, that we used to have. It is all gone. All forgotten. Some of our Indian boys and girls who are in junior high school are quite discouraged, almost mixed up. They don’t want to go to school because the white children call them names, and they don’t like it. They would rather drop out of school than to keep going. When they drop out in the eighth or ninth grade, then they aren’t prepared for any kind of work except laboring or work in the fields.
Wayne was telling me to write something to encourage the young people, and we could put it in our tribal paper. I think about it, then I don’t do it. I remember my parents and everybody would talk about how scattered we are. We live miles apart from one another. We don’t feel we are members. Although we feel we are tribal members. When I was little we would have tribal meetings, one speaker after another, and we would encourage one another. They would emphasize that we are all cousins. We are together. But I think the young people of today don’t feel it that much. We no longer have our Indian language to unite us. That’s what I was going to do. I wanted to tape record Book 1 or Book 2 of Professors Hess and Vi Hilbert’s book. It is the Skagit language, but it is like this language; although some of the words are different. I thought of reading them page by page. I think Vi did do that, but Wayne said he couldn’t understand her. One of our young people at the tribal office was trying to read that book—the book of Indian language—and he is rather far off since he is listening to Vi and her pronunciation is not understandable here.
Indian Healing
One of my father’s uncles was an Indian doctor.4 My father’s father’s people were born in Skykomish in a longhouse, the one that is farthest up the Skykomish River. We used to know the name of it. The name had something to do with ferns—like a fern glade. It must have been a certain kind of fern because we have a couple of varieties of ferns.
In all of American history, shall we say, or even local state history, Indian doctors did not have a good image. When I was a little girl in an Indian boarding school, I used to get frightened because some of the girls talked about Indian doctors. They said, “You have to be sure you walk properly in front of them, or they will look at you in a certain way and you are going to get sick and you are going to die. They can do that to you.” Well, that used to frighten me.
My father told me when I was fourteen years old, “Don’t be frightened of him, an Indian doctor. If you are frightened, you will weaken yourself; so always remember you are brave and strong.” Even in the last fifteen years, I have heard people talking about Indian doctors: “Oh, you better not be doing anything wrong when you are around them.” Those people would really terrify you, but it is mostly talk. Gossip is really all it is. It gets talked out.
I don’t know whether to talk about them. As I say, the Indian doctors had a bad image. My mother was the last one I know of who said my father’s uncle was a very good Indian doctor. If he was asked to heal, he could. My father remembered a boy his uncle healed. An Indian boy about four or five years old ate wild blackberries where his family was camped in the Puyallup Valley to pick hops in the summer. They used to tell us when we were little, “Don’t gulp the berries down. Look at the berry when you pick it off. It might have some grass seeds, and there are certain kinds of grass seeds that, if you swallow them, will get stuck in your throat. It won’t go down, and you can’t get it back up.” So we always looked at them very carefully to see that everything was off of the blackberry. I guess this little Indian boy ate the blackberry without looking. His mother and others tried to get it out with their fingers. Somebody tried to help him. The boy cried and cried and was frightened. The people said, “We better get a real doctor, a white man doctor.” They said there was one somewhere in the valley. So somebody went on horseback, and the doctor finally got there. He looked at the little boy, looked in his throat. That little boy was j
ust so tired; the doctor tried to use something to get it out, and he started to bleed. So then the little boy was crying and crying. Then the people were sick with worry. There they were in a hop field, and the doctor left and the little boy was in a bad way.
Somebody there knew my great-uncle was an Indian doctor, and they came to ask him if he would come and see what he could do to help the little boy. He talked first. He said, “I will try, but I want you to know that if the white doctor has already looked at him and said there is nothing he could do, I don’t know what I could do. But I will try.” He got ready and went to the camp of migratory workers. A lot of people were standing around the boy. He was very, very sick—so weak. He had cried so much, and the mother also cried. My great-uncle had some of his people with him, and, of course, they had seen him before and heard of him, but at times like this, the women always left. The women left the place; just the men remained, and the drums beat. The doctor, first of all, began his work by concentrating. My great-uncle reached over and took the little boy and put his mouth to this little boy’s mouth and sucked very hard. In our language that is called utu?tt. The grass came right out of his throat. So my great-uncle took it (they had a basin of water) and put it in there. Of course, they sang some more to help the little boy and to kind of soothe his head and chest and arms. My great-uncle said to let him gargle with some Indian herbs. There was nothing wrong with the little boy the next day. He was running around.
The Indian doctor just thought about it and certainly did something no white doctor would do. My great-uncle said they get paid a lot, but he wasn’t expecting anything because he was not the first doctor they called. He probably got one or two horses. It took them a long time to get those horses over here. You have to come through a little narrow trail over Snoqualmie Pass.
Tulalip, From My Heart Page 36