Culture Keepers

Multifaceted Artist and Mentor Honored

ColavecchioS — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 15:50:00 +0000

Culture Keepers

Multifaceted Artist and Mentor Honored

From Issue: Winter 2025/Spring 2026 / Vol. 26 No. 4

by Vincent Schilling

Steven Tamayo is a man of many talents. Some know him as a traditional Sicangu Lakota artist who can do everything from tanning buffalo hides to sewing delicate feathers and glass beads onto regalia. Those who have learned time-honored techniques from him call him their teacher. Still others know him as a storyteller, a painter or a digital artist.

Traditional artist Steven Tamayo tells creation stories while his art is projected behind him at the at the Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha, Nebraska.

Photo courtesy of Steven Tamayo.

Tamayo teaches bustle making and other traditional arts at his organization, the Bluebird Cultural Initiative in Nebraska.

Photo courtesy of Steven Tamayo.

Lakota artist Amorette Bullhead holds her completed bustle, which would be worn on the small of a dancer’s back.

Photo courtesy of Steven Tamayo.

In September 2025, this multifaceted artist and mentor received a Bess Lomax Hawes National Heritage Fellowship award from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA)—one of the highest honors in the folk and traditional arts in the United States. “Art is my savior,” he said in a NEA video tribute to him. “It is my reconnection to who I am.”

This was just the one of the honors he has received and notable projects he has worked on during his career. In 2014, he gifted buffalo hide robes to Willie Nelson and Neil Young while they were at the Dakota Access Pipeline protests in Standing Rock and he created a tipi that was presented first to former U.S. President Barack Obama before it became part of the National Museum of the American Indian collection. In 2022, Tamayo received a Creative Capital Award, a grant that enabled him to create 13 buffalo robes, one of which has been displayed in the Library of Congress. He was also chosen to be one of the beaders for Lily Gladstone’s 2024 Academy Awards gown, which was on display at the museum this past year.

Tamayo’s journey to becoming the leading artist and educator he is today started at an unlikely place. After serving in the U.S. Army in the 101st Airborne Division, Tamayo returned home to Council Bluffs, Iowa, in 1987 as a single father and took the only job he could find—working at a meat packing plant. In 2000, he moved his family to the Rosebud Reservation, home of the Lakota peoples in south-central South Dakota. There, he used his experience with animal hides at the plant to learn from elders how to tan those of the buffalo raised on tribal lands and craft them into traditional robes.

He decided to pursue a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Sínte Gleska University in Mission, South Dakota. After graduating in 2011, he developed Native art curricula that he taught at the school. In 2014, he received the Nebraska Arts Council’s Governor’s Art Award for excellence in cultural artistic expression.

The NMAI has long been aware of Tamayo’s many skills. One day about 20 years ago, he was tanning a buffalo hide in his front yard when he was visited by a NMAI staff member who invited him to be an intern at the museum. At NMAI and even after his internship was completed, he consulted on several exhibitions that featured traditional Native clothing, including 55 Native dresses for the exhibition titled “Identity by Design.”

Kelly McHugh, head of conservation at the NMAI, said Tamayo is “the embodiment of Indigenous values.” She said, “He’s been real instrumental in teaching us. It’s always been this amazing exchange.”

The regalia work perhaps closest to his heart is making bustles. Men wear bustles—which are made of eagle, hawk or other feathers spread in a circle like a turkey tai—on the lower back of their dance regalia. While he was at the Rosebud Reservation, Tamayo said, “I came across the Lakota bustles. That just kept my curiosity going.”

He began working with Howard Wolf, a World War II veteran and Umoⁿhoⁿ (Omaha) elder. Tamayo studied a variety of traditional artforms under Wolf’s direction, including the Xaxe’, or Crow belt—a bustle consisting of conical rows of raptor feathers and a stuffed crow attached to its backboard to show prowess in war. “He explained that this crow belt was one of the highest honors of the Omaha people,” said Tamayo.

So when Tamayo returned to the NMAI as artist fellow last fall, he extensively studied bird feathers and 16 different types of bustles as well as bird feathers in the collections of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History and the NMAI.

As part of his NMAI fellowship, Tamayo has been teaching bustle making to artists in Indigenous communities on the Rosebud Reservation and in Lawrence, Kansas, as well as through his nonprofit organization Bluebird Cultural Initiative in Omaha, Nebraska. He will continue these workshops in other communities across the country.

As his organization’s cultural program director, Tamayo teaches Indigenous youth and young artists how to create Native regalia, tribally specific adornments, drums and bows and arrows to connect them with their Native cultures. Tamayo said he founded the Bluebird Cultural Initiative because “the elders and the kids in my community, they just don’t have that support. There are no monies allocated to help them. I can’t tell you how many items I could purchase just to help and show our kids how to make moccasins and regalia,” he said. “They and I needed an outlet.”

His daughter, Nicole Benegas, serves as the executive director of Bluebird Cultural Initiative. She said, “We reach out to a lot of very high risk youth. So within all of this work, he does a lot of education on origin and creation stories and delves into the meaning and symbology behind everything. It’s really good for [their] mental health.”

Benegas reflected, “I definitely had the privilege to grow up having such opportunities to be in cultural settings. Throughout my entire life, my father has been dedicated to teaching and learning the origin stories and traditions and how to live a good way of life and be a good relative. It definitely has impacted how I see myself and how I raise my children and
my grandchildren.”

In 2025, the Nebraska Arts Council presented the Bluebird Cultural Initiative with a Heritage Award for its excellence in preserving cultural tradition. In spite of her father receiving so many awards, Benegas said, “He’s a very humble person who has always grown up with a lot of those values. He doesn’t like to be pushed into the limelight, and he doesn’t do it for recognition. But it is very nice to see that other people acknowledge that for him.”

Tony Chauveaux, the NEA deputy chairman for programs and partnerships, said Tamayo “sustains traditions that strengthen our nation’s cultural heritage. In honoring him, we celebrate both his artistic excellence and his commitment to sustaining Lakota culture for future generations.”

Authors

Vincent Schilling

Vincent Schilling is an Akwesasne Mohawk journalist, public speaker and author.

Weaving Ties to Ancestors

ArtmanM — Thu, 22 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Culture Keepers

Weaving Ties to Ancestors

From Issue: Spring 2025 / Vol. 26 No. 1

by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Last summer, about a dozen visitors gathered at the Kaua‘i Museum in Līhu‘e, Hawai‘i, to learn “ulana lauhala,” or the weaving of leaves from hala trees. This ancient technique has produced everything from household items such as baskets to sails on vessels that carried Polynesians from the Marquesas Islands some 2,500 miles to the Hawaiian Islands more than 1,000 years ago.

Eugene Punzal shows bracelets he made to demonstrate the ancient practice of "ulana lauhala,” or weaving of hala tree leaves.

Photo by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Punzal teaches visitors to weave hala leaves at the Kaua‘i Museum.

Photo by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Creating hats begins with weaving the top and working down to the rim.

Photo by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

“We used to weave as a necessity for our homes,” said Maile Andrade, a multimedia artist and retired professor at the Kamakakūokalani Center for Hawaiian Studies at the University of Hawai‘i–Mānoa on O‘ahu. “Now we weave for another necessity, which is to bring our culture back and to relate to our ancestors,” she said.

As cloth made of cotton and other materials became available when Europeans arrived in the Hawaiian Islands during the late 18th century, hala tree leaves and the skill needed to weave them became less in demand. Andrade said many of the lauhala items produced in Kona on the “Big Island” of Hawai‘i during the 1920s through 1940s were done so for trade with coffee plantations. “They would bring their stuff to the store and trade it for sugar, flour and groceries,” she explained. “Ulana lauhala became important for the family to survive. But the way they learned how to weave was within the family.”

Andrade said to help her reconnect to her ancestors, she will visit her peoples' items in museums. “These objects are our ancestors. When you pick up an old basket, you are learning from it. That ancestor is talking to you,” she said. “When I am weaving, I’m thinking about that person and that time and it reconnects me to this place now.”

Because neither Andrade’s Native Hawaiian mother or Chinese father were weavers, she sought out master teachers during the time of cultural revival on the islands known as the “Hawaiian Renaissance” in the 1970s. “They realized that if they didn’t teach, the practice would be lost,” she said, adding that cultural knowledge is not necessarily inherent, but rather something that is learned. She said, “I consciously chose to be an artist and to practice my culture.”

Ulana lauhala is considered sacred knowledge. To preserve it, some instructors have chosen to teach the technique to both Native Hawaiian and non-Native individuals. The Kaua‘i Museum frequently offers ulana lauhala workshops for all its visitors.

As is done in many traditional Hawaiian gatherings and ceremonies, instructor Eugene Onio Punzal began the weaving workshop at the museum by blowing a Pū, or conch shell horn. Its bellowing hum was then followed by a group chant titled “Mele Oli Aloha No Kaua‘i (“A Love Song for Kaua‘i”) to honor the sun and the land.

Once the ceremony was complete, Punzal began flattening, stripping and cutting 3-foot-long hala leaves. His modern tools included a pasta maker equipped with a tiny row of blades to separate the narrow strands for weaving. “Back in the day we wouldn’t have these machines,” he reminded the students. Traditional tools would have included seashells to cut the leaves and stones to hold their strands down while weaving them.

About 600 species of hala exist in coastal areas ranging from Hawai‘i to West Africa. In Hawai‘i, the hala species Pandanus tectorius grows wild along its beaches. But it is vulnerable to invasive insects such as the hala scale insect that was introduced to Maui in 1999.

Even though the hala species that have thorns are more durable, for his class, Punzal said he chose leaves without thorns because they are “easier to work with.” The students made their bracelets from two different kinds of hala, a dark brown plant from Samoa and a light brown one gathered on Kaua‘i. The small strands were moistened constantly with water to keep them pliable. The intersecting strands have names in the Hawaiian language: the “moe” are the “lying down,” or “sleeping” strands that wrap flat around and through the “kū” strands, which alternate above and below the “moe” and are said to be “standing up.”

Punzal, who was born in Hawai‘i and is of Filipino decent, is one of the non-Native residents who have learned and are passing on this technique. He began learning how to weave coconut leaf hats, or “launiu,” but eventually turned to weaving hala leaves 12 years ago. In addition to learning from other teachers, he studied for three years under Andrade.

Punzal has since served on the board of the Malie Foundation, a scholarship-granting institution geared toward the preservation and perpetuation of Hawaiian culture. He has been demonstrating ulana lauhala at the museum for nearly three years. There, he and his Native Hawaiian assistants—Leslie Scales, Noe Mahi and Kanani Kaye—call their group the “ulana ‘ohana,” or “weaving family.” At the workshop, they bustled around helping students who were attempting to learn the painstaking practice.

“This is a ‘kuleana,’ or responsibility, we all share,” said Mahi (who passed away after being interviewed). “Uncle Onio is our ‘kumu ulana,’ or weaving teacher. When he goes, his craft goes with him.”

“When I first started these classes, they were designed for tourists,” he said. “But now 70 percent of the participants are locals because there are no other opportunities to learn this. People tell me their grandmother used to weave lauhala, and they wished they had learned also. Some people still have the tools for doing this, but they don’t know how to use them. The museum classes have become a new opportunity to learn how.”

“Onio is reaching people that I can’t reach, and he is doing a service for us,” said Andrade, who joins about 40 weavers virtually or in person to weave together every few months. She said, “If I am teaching a Native person, I am teaching a certain way. If I am teaching others, I teach them how to see like a Native Hawaiian, to know where this cultural practice is coming from.”

Andrade has recently learned how to make the sails from master weaver Pōhaku Kaho‘ohanohano and gathered a group of weavers to create one that can be attached to a traditional canoe that she can sail from Kaua‘i, just like the first voyagers to land on the Hawaiian islands. “I teach my students it’s not about the individual but about the village,” Andrade said. “By practicing our culture together, we are honoring our ancestors.”

Authors

Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Tony Tekaroniake Evans (Mohawk) is an author and award-winning journalist.

More than Meets the Eye

ArtmanM — Wed, 06 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Culture Keepers

More than Meets the Eye

From Issue: Summer 2025 / Vol. 26 No. 2

by William C. Meadows

In the Kiowa Tribe’s community center in Carnegie, Oklahoma, two teams sit across from each other. One player is hiding two pieces of carved bone in his closed hands, one of which is decorated with markings. On the other team, one player is trying to guess in which hand he is holding it. As the room fills with drumming, rattling and singing to distract the guesser, the tension builds. He gestures to indicate in which hand he thinks the player is hiding the decorated bone, but when the man opens his hand, it is the wrong one and he smiles, victorious. Once again, he has fooled his opponent. The room explodes with claps and cheers from the winning “handgame” team.

In the Kiowa handgame, the team with the least sticks wins. Sticks are removed when an opponent guesses wrong. Here, the score rack shows the Crow team (left) is far behind the Kiowa team (right).

Photo by William C. Meadows

Typical items hid during a handgame include an elk tooth (top) and “hairpipe” beads or tubes, whether plastic (middle) or bone (bottom).

Photo by William C. Meadows

At Red Buffalo Hall at the Kiowa Tribal Complex in Carnegie, Oklahoma, Comanche player C.C. Whitewolf (center, standing) tries to determine in which hands his Crow opponents are actually holding the marked game pieces.

Photo by William C. Meadows

Like many traditional Indigenous games, the handgame is a pastime men, women and children used to play primarily in winter, when long, cold nights forced them inside. It was played mainly by tribes in the western United States and Canada. However, over generations, it has become a phenomenon across these countries, with some tournaments offering large monetary prizes to winning teams.

Some tribal stories say the game was a gift to people from “tricksters” such as Coyote. As skilled players were thought to have great power, animals and people played the game to chase away ancient monsters. Handgame pieces from some archaeological sites have been dated to as far back as 5,000 years ago.

The game has many variations, differing in the number of playing pieces, rules and points. However, in most versions, players sit in two groups, each team facing one another. One to four items—such as a single elk tooth or pairs of small carved bones or tubular beads called “hairpipes”—are hid in the closed hands of players on one team while someone from the other team attempts to correctly guess in which hand a designated game piece is hidden. Guesses are made with hand signs, which in the past allowed tribes to play each other regardless of what language each spoke.

Score is kept with a set of wooden sticks, often positioned between the two teams. Each time a hider is missed by the guesser, the hider’s team scores a point. When the pieces are correctly guessed, the teams switch roles, and the other one then hides or guesses.

Like poker, the skill involves trying to fool the other team by not giving away that you are holding the piece or, similar to noticing a poker player’s “tell,” by determining the hiding and guessing patterns of your opponents. “If you’re hiding, it is how you outwit the guesser, and, if you’re guessing, you really got to try to outdo the hider,” explained long-time Comanche Camp 7 team captain Carl Atauvich. “It’s just really competitive.”

Also like poker, some believe in a player’s power or luck. On some teams, the medicine man, or captain, engages in prolonged preparations of the pieces being hid prior to giving them to the hiders. In earlier times, a single item was hid, and players and medicine men skilled in sleight of hand could deceive opponents by throwing it from hand to hand undetected. If caught, the player was disqualified and any bets forfeited. Today, after hiding the pieces, players must keep both hands visible in front of them and open both hands after each guess to prevent any cheating.

In “free-for-alls,” players can be on either team and change sides after each game. The unpredictability of the spirited competition combined with the drumming and singing adds to the drama. A team may have a winning streak and sweep the game, or the game may go back and forth with a close score, each side guessing the other repeatedly until one side finally gets the winning point. “That’s a good handgame,” Kiowa player Jack Yellowhair said, “fighting for that [last] one.”

In addition to bringing tribes together for entertainment and socializing, as Jack’s son, Jackie Yellowhair, explained, “One of our first forms of commerce was this handgame.” Instead of money, two sets of arrows, jewelry, blankets, robes, saddles, horses and other items were matched between individuals on opposing sides and placed together prior to beginning play. The winning side received the paired items, with each winner essentially doubling their bet.

Today, tribes might host match games between two teams or tournaments between a group of particular teams to determine the ultimate winner. Such tournaments are held year-round, with prizes ranging from several hundred dollars to $40,000. Oklahoma holds a statewide handgame tournament in May. Each November, a Crow team from Montana comes to Oklahoma to play a series of games against the Kiowa, Comanche, Cheyenne and others. In May, a Kiowa-led team from Oklahoma reciprocates by playing in the annual Crow Handgame Tournament in Montana.

The game is often taught in public schools and universities in Native communities, some of which have their own handgame teams. Handgames are also played online, the primary rule being a hider’s hands cannot be out of sight, to prevent any possible cheating. This form gained popularity during the COVID-19 pandemic as teams could play others they normally could not due to distance. The First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City has a virtual handgame exhibition that enables a player to compete against animated players on a screen.

As the traditional Native game most widely played by young children through seniors in the United States, the handgame has formed a distinct community of players and teams that has created lasting bonds. “We just basically want to have fun,” Cheyenne player and handgame tournament organizer Mary Beaver said, “Whether it be Comanches or Kiowas, we see each other weekend after weekend. And a lot of friendships have really developed from that,” she said. “That’s our family. That’s our way.”

Authors

William C. Meadows

William C. Meadows is an author of several books about Native veterans and a professor of Anthropology and Native American Studies at Missouri State University.

Making Their Marks

ArtmanM — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 11:00:00 +0000

Culture Keepers

Making Their Marks

From Issue: Winter 2024 / Vol. 25 No. 4

by Vincent Schilling

Nakesha Edwards and her identical twin sister, Nakiya, are etching their own way in a long path of Swinomish artists. While they were in a wood-carving class in their community’s La Conner High School, they caught the attention of their uncle Kevin “wah lee hub” Paul, a Coast Salish traditional master carver who taught North Pacific Coast Native art at their school. “One of the goals I had was that a tribal member would pick it up, fall in love with it for the art itself and keep it alive,” he said. “I saw there was talent in these two girls, Nakiya and Nakesha. They just excelled. They learned the techniques that I do—how to paint, how to carve.”

One of the projects that has been closest to Nakesha Edwards’ heart was restoring her grandfather’s funeral totem pole.

Photo by Patricia Paul

The funeral pole Nakesha Edwards restored.

Photo by Patricia Paul

Nakesha Edwards designed this digital logo for the Samish Indian Nation in 2024.

Image courtesy of Nakesha Edwards

Nakiya Edwards holds a traditional Salish drum with a sea turtle design, which she created in 2019 for her daughter who is of both Swinomish and Native Hawaiian heritage.

Photo courtesy of Nakiya Edwards

In addition to being enrolled members of the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community in northwest Washington state, the sisters have family ties to the Upper Skagit, Samish, Snoqualmie, Yakama and Klamath Tribes. The “formline” art of these and other Coast Salish peoples in the North Pacific Coast of the United States and Canada often have designs made with shapes that are ovoid or that resemble a “U” or “S.” Nakesha and Nakiya use their knowledge of Coast Salish designs to create traditional art. Nakesha also incorporates these designs into various digital works that reflect her heritage. Both artists have used their talents to raise awareness of Indigenous issues or promote well-being.

Porter Swentzel, the chair and a former professor of the Indigenous Liberal Studies Department at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA) in Sante Fe, taught several classes at IAIA that Nakesha attended. Swentzel, who is from the Santa Clara Pueblo in New Mexico, said he learned a lot about Coast Salish style from his student. “From the very beginning, Nakesha really showed a lot of pride in her home community, especially the art tradition. … I was her professor, but she was also mine.”

Nakesha focused on Coast Salish carving for her senior project and after earning a bachelor's in Indigenous Liberal Studies from IAIA in 2021 and a master's of Legal Studies from the University of Oklahoma in 2023, she returned to her community the following year to share her Coast Salish art skills. The timing for Nakesha and the Samish community was perfect: the Samish Indian Nation welcomed her as their new artist in residence at their Beaver Lodge Carving Studio in Anacortes, Washington. The tribe created the studio in 2008 to provide a workspace for local artists and opened it to the public in 2014 to enable artists to share their knowledge.

At the lodge, Nakesha learned from other community artists while practicing her own art. Jackie Ferry, the citizen services senior director and tribal historic preservation officer for the Samish Tribe, said selecting Nakesha was also a win for artists in the community who wanted to come learn about Coast Salish art. “It’s hard to find someone who knows both styles—the more local, regional style as well as the northern style,” she said. “So being able to find somebody who has the skill to do the art and the knowledge behind it and how to advise others if they wanted to create something in a regional style was pretty ideal.”

The experience allowed Nakesha to create and share her art while gaining a closer connection to her extended family and other tribal communities. “Being selected gave me an opportunity to come into the community,” said Nakesha. “I got to know other Coast Salish artists, carvers and people who work on canoes. … I got to meet relatives I hadn’t even known before.”

Though Nakiya feels passionate about her work, she explained she fell into the role of a traditional artist through a bit of a fluke. Because they were twins, when Nakesha left for college, “everyone just assumed I was the one carving. Everyone was contacting me, and it was really for her. I just ended up getting into that role.” Nakiya has since created various artworks, from traditional drums and plaques to restoring “story poles” that tell a tribe’s origin.

Since Nakesha returned to her home community in 2024, she has incorporated her heritage into many digital works, including logos for the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community and Samish Indian Nation, the latter to raise awareness about missing and murdered Indigenous people. She wishes to help others, both in her job as the mental health program manager working to develop programs for youth and as an artist.

Now, Nakesha and Nakiya have worked collaboratively. They painted wooden plaques with four out of the five traditional salmons in the Salish Sea for each of the four main conference rooms in the Skagit Public Utility District’s newest building. “I just love the idea of us creating together,” Nakiya said. Her sister’s kindness, she said, “makes my heart warm. I look up to her.”

Nakesha is in the process of carving and painting plaques with motivational messages for the Swinomish’s Didgwálič Wellness Center. She hopes her designs might one day be on clothes or book covers, but her “ultimate goal” is to carve a totem pole. “I would love it if my uncle Kevin could help guide me through that. I did restore my grandfather’s funerary totem pole. Now I want to be able to start from top to bottom, the whole process.”

Paul said he was inspired by Nakiya and Nakesha’s passion for their ancestral artforms. He told them, “You have to find your own feel for it and not to be in love with it for just money. I feel in my heart seeing the success that they’re having, and it makes me feel wonderful.”

Authors

Vincent Schilling

Vincent Schilling is an Akwesasne Mohawk journalist, public speaker and author.

Far From the Finish Line: Indian Relay Horse Racing Perseveres Through Generations, Despite Its Risks

ThorneLE — Wed, 12 Jun 2024 18:33:31 +0000

Culture Keepers

Far From the Finish Line: Indian Relay Horse Racing Perseveres Through Generations, Despite Its Risks

From Issue: Summer 2024 / Vol. 25 No. 2

by Lori Ann Edmo

The fast-paced world of Indian relay horse racing is not just a sport to the Native competitors who participate. It is a cultural and spiritual tradition handed down through generations. “The horse is part of our spiritual life,” said Ervin Carlson, an owner of a relay race team in Montana. “That’s how much they mean to us—the main thing is the horse spirit.”

Riders take off at the start of the 2023 Indian Relay Race at the Eastern Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot, Idaho.

Photo by Jeremy Shay/Sho-Ban News

Teland Brunette (Shoshone-Bannock) is in the lead during the first lap of a “chief race,” so-named as the riders wear headdresses.

Photo by Jeremy Shay/Sho-Ban News

During the men’s and women’s relay races, riders such as Autumn Charges Strong (Crow) must dismount after each lap and then jump onto another horse three times to finish the race.

Photo by Lori Ann Edmo/Sho-Ban News

Autumn Charges Strong (Crow) dismounts during a relay race before jumping onto another horse to complete another lap.

Photo by Lori Ann Edmo/Sho-Ban News

Autumn Charges Strong (Crow) mounts a fresh horse to continue the relay race.

Photo by Lori Ann Edmo/Sho-Ban News

In a scene from the documentary “Relay Race,” Myles Murray (Blackfeet) paints his horse with an arrow to help with his breathing as it runs.

Photo by Charles Dye/Montana PBS

In a scene from the documentary “Relay Race,” members of a relay team bless their horse with smoke prior to the race.

Photo by Charles Dye/Montana PBS

At the 2023 Eastern Idaho State Fair, Prairie Caldwell (Shoshone-Bannock) rides a horse painted with symbols that provide power and protection during a race.

Photo by Kyle Riley (Riley’s Hotshots)

Lexie Teton (Shoshone-Bannock) is a “back holder” for her team, which means she holds the reigns of a horse while waiting to pass it on so a rider can mount it during a race.

Photo by Jeremy Shay/Sho-Ban News

Frankie Gould (Shoshone-Bannock) runs beside Tanaya Rodriguez (Shoshone-Bannock) in a youth race.

Photo by Jeremy Shay/Sho-Ban News

Indian Relay team owners Lance Tissidimit (Shoshone-Bannock) and Alonzo “Punkin” Coby (Shoshone-Bannock) cool down one of their horses after a training session in the hills near their home in Fort Hall, Idaho.

Photo by Charles Dye/Montana PBS

Relay racing is hard work, requiring dedication and commitment for a race that lasts only minutes and requires one rider, bareback horses and whirlwind laps around a dirt track. Those who compete say it is worth it because of the challenge and that it is a family tradition. For the Carlsons, who are of the Blackfeet Tribe in Montana, and the Tetons, who are of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes from their Fort Hall Reservation in Idaho, this tradition has been handed down over five generations.

Miaus Teton said he grew up around racing but realizes he can’t ever step into his grandfather Leo’s shoes as a rider. “I’m just trying to do my part and carry it on—the tradition,” Teton said.

A Fast Start

The Fort Hall Indian Reservation of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes in southeastern Idaho is known as the birthplace of the Indian relay race. The Shoshone people obtained the horse from the Comanche people, who once were part of the Shoshone Tribe before migrating eventually to Oklahoma during the late 1600s and early 1700s. Lewis and Clark documented the Shoshone people owning horses in their journals in 1806. The Shoshone and Bannock peoples would patrol their tribes’ homelands on horseback to protect themselves from encroachment of white colonialists, and the animals were key to many battles.

According to Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) records, horse racing may have begun in this area as early as 1860, when a Bannock man known as Ocean served as a Pony Express rider between Fort Hall and Fort Boise in Idaho. Pony Express riders would ride over long distances carrying mail from one post to the next, and they would need to change horses quickly and often to finish their routes. Although Ocean only spent a year with the mail route company, the experience apparently was enough to give the Indian relay races a start, said Sam Hernandez, a retired BIA civil engineer who has studied much of the history of Fort Hall.

Fort Hall was constructed in 1834 by Nathaniel Wyeth, then sold to the Hudson Bay company, which operated as a trading post. A monument still stands at the site. While Hernandez was still working for the BIA, he was able to arrange for aerial photos of the bottomlands near this monument along the Snake River in the Fort Hall Bottoms. The photos revealed a circular oval similar to a racetrack. Hernandez believes that racetrack was used as tryouts for Pony Express riders, who would practice jumping off and quickly getting back on horses. He said tribal elders told him that the birth of Indian relay races was in this area.

According to Shoshone-Bannock oral history, Indian horse relay racing developed on the tribes’ reservation during the 1920s. Among the famed relay racers is the late Keno Coby Jr., also known as Yambasi, who according to his family members was a top relay rider from 1925 to 1935. He won races at the Eastern Idaho State Fair and War Bonnet Round -Up rodeo in Idaho and the Pendleton Round-Up rodeo in Oregon.

The Thrill of the Race

Several tribes have adopted this style of horse racing, and today tribes across the United States and Canada hold such races throughout the summer and into the fall. The Shoshone-Bannock Indian Festival in Fort Hall in August will feature more than 20 competing relay teams. The World Championship Indian Relay is typically held in the summer at the Sheridan Rodeo in Wyoming. One of the biggest races in the United States is the Muckleshoot Gold Cup held in June at Emerald Downs in Washington state. The Horse Nations Indian Relay, which runs from June to September, culminates with the Championship of Champions in September in Wyoming. During the fall, the Fort Hall Indian Relay Association also hosts the National Indian Relay Championship at the Eastern Idaho State Fair and the Pendleton Round-Up in Oregon still has relay races today.

While the style and length of races may vary some per location, an Indian relay team includes three horses, one rider, a holder, a “mugger” and a back holder. A race typically begins with the drop of a flag or the sound of a horn, at which point the rider either leaps onto a horse who is being held by a holder or the rider who is already on a horse who then takes a running start. The horse and rider race around the track at full speed until they return to the exchange area, where the rider leaps off and jumps onto the second horse that had been held by a back holder for another loop around the track. The mugger has to catch the rider’s first horse and hands it off to a holder. The rider does the lap again for a third time to finish the race. It can be chaotic during the exchanges, and that is when the excitement happens.

Some associations have a variety of races. The Fort Hall Indian Relay Association, for example, offers races for youth, women and men. For the youth, boys and girls ride their ponies from the end of the racetrack to the finish line, about 350 yards or more. They also offer a youth relay in which children have their own teams but run shorter distances within a rodeo arena. During the “ladies’ race” (also called the “maiden’s race” elsewhere), women ride their horses bareback once around the track, and during ladies’ relay, the teams use two horses instead of three. Other races include the “mile race” in which both men and women can ride and the “chief race,” during which men wear headdresses made out of artificial feathers while racing once around the track. During the “warrior race,” men begin the race by running about 25 yards before jumping on the back of a bareback horse to race around the track.

Preparing for a Tough Track

Before a team steps onto a track, however, a lot of preparation must happen, including picking the right horse and training it and its rider. Ervin Carlson has horse racing on both sides of his Blackfeet family. His dad, Charlie Carlson, relay raced during the 1940s and rode and ran racehorses along with his brothers. Ervin also learned horsemanship from his maternal grandfather, John DeRouche, who raised him.

The family has two teams they have run for the past five years: the Carlson team and his son Tony’s Two Medicine team, for which Cody Carlson rides. “When we end up in a race together, we always root for either team,” said Ervin. “We are one family.”

In picking horses for their teams, Ervin buys them off the racetrack. He first observes them in the paddock. He wants one that can stand still in a relay exchange. He also checks their breeding and looks for horses with speed. “I pride myself in picking horses,” he said. Once chosen, the horses must be cared for constantly to maintain their condition. “They’re one of your family,” Ervin said. “You have to take care of them before you feed yourself.”

Prior to racing, the team prays for their horses and paints them to tell a story. “Each marking has meaning,” said Chazz Racine, the Carlson team’s rider. A shield painted on the horse’s chest, for example, is for protection. Paint on the knees is intended to keep the horse running strong. And an arrow from the neck all the way down his body is intended to help with the horse’s breathing during the race.

Racine has been racing since he was 12 years old and takes his horsemanship seriously. To keep in good shape, he eats healthy foods and gets ready for the season by jogging, stretching and working out at a gym. When relay time is nearing, he starts hitting the training harder to improve his breathing. “I have to stay fit all through the winter,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how much strength [it takes].”

Racine rode bucking horses in rodeos for a number of years and knows relay racing is risky. Dealing with a thousand-pound animal, he has gotten banged up, kicked and bitten, and he realizes anything can happen. Being a relay rider “will test you,” he said. “You can’t give up and have to be willing to put hours in and take time to learn.”

Being One with a Horse

Relay racers have to have a strong bond with their horses. The Shoshone-Bannock Teton family team, for example, who lives in Lincoln Creek, Idaho, on the north end of the Fort Hall Indian Reservation, has had a long history of knowing how to interact with them.

Shoshone-Bannock rancher Frank Teton taught his sons, Clarence and Leo, how to handle horses when they were children. Clarence started relay racing in the mid-1980s after Leo, who was then a relay rider himself, convinced him to try the sport. Initially, the team competed with saddle horses, but Clarence said they were getting left behind in the dust, so they invested in thoroughbreds and the team took off from there. During the late 1980s, they ran at the Northwest Montana Fair in Kalispell, Montana, and won the championship three times in a row.

Now retired, Clarence still spends about six hours a day working with horses. He emphasizes knowing your horse and “being one with it.” He said one has to be gentle with the animals and talk to them while caring for them. “If you respect them, they’ll respect you,” he said.

Clarence’s son, Tyce Teton, is a holder for the team and has been involved since the late 1990s. He started out as a mugger, catching the horse during the exchange in a race. He credits Clarence with teaching him how to handle horses, and replaced his dad as a mugger on the track.

His grandson, Miaus Teton, grew up around racing but wasn’t interested until Clarence gave him a horse to exercise. While he was riding it, the horse got away from him. But instead of turning away from racing, he learned from that experience, and nearly a decade later, in 2022, he won the National Indian Relay championship at the Eastern Idaho State Fair. When asked what it feels like when racing, he said prior to the race’s start he might be “freaking out,” but as soon as the flag drops, that feeling goes away. Coming in for exchanges, however, he said, is pretty intense. “You’ve got to anchor him (the horse) down,” he said. “That’s tough in itself.”

Clarence’s other grandson, Azeri Coby, rides for a different team. His beginnings as a rider go back to being at the racetrack when he was a child with Clarence. The horse Azeri was riding started bucking, and it scared him. “I was traumatized,” he said. He stayed off horses until he was a freshman in high school. He asked his grandfather if he could ride his horse named “Gray Dog.” He rode up to the sand hill where they exercise their horses, and the horse got away from him. “I guess that’s how we get broken in around here,” he laughed. After that, he helped his grandfather with the team and got used to handling them. He began winning individual races, including the chief and the mile races, and now he has his own horses.

Clarence’s granddaughter Lexie Teton has been a back holder for the team since 2020. “I make sure the horses know who I am, and I talk to them when I need them,” she said. Few women are on the track during the regular relay, but Lexie said being at the races is fun. “I enjoy being out there with my family, and it’s a blessing to learn and be able to do what I do because not a lot of girls can handle the horses like the way I do,” she said. “It takes a lot of strength.”

At the race track, both the Carlton and Teton teams pray for their horses and the teams. It is a dangerous and grueling sport for both the horses and their handlers. But what began as a practice runs around a single racetrack two centuries ago is now and integral part of many Native familys’ lives and cultures. Mary Teton, a former ladies’ race rider and Clarence’s wife, said, “We will continue to keep racing as long as we stay healthy and our youngsters want to carry on the Teton tradition of relay racing. We are grateful for everyone and everything that was done to help our team succeed.”

Authors

Lori Ann Edmo

Lori Ann Edmo (Shoshone-Bannock) is the editor of the Sho-Ban News in Fort Hall, Idaho.

Gloves that Run the Gauntlet

ThorneLE — Wed, 20 Mar 2024 17:05:07 +0000

Culture Keepers

Gloves that Run the Gauntlet

From Issue: Spring 2024 / Vol. 25 No. 1

by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Judge Leo Timothy Arriwite spends his days dealing with legal matters in the courtroom at the Shoshone-Bannock Fort Hall Reservation in eastern Idaho, but when he returns home, he stitches together a connection to his ancestors. He has spent the last two decades tanning, smoking and sewing the “gauntlet-style” gloves that the Shoshone became known for across the West.

Toopombey Tendoy (right) stands with interpreter George LaVatta at his Shoshone-Bannock Fort Hall Reservation in Idaho in the 1920s. He wears elaborately beaded, gauntlet gloves typically seen in Shoshone ceremonies.

U.S. National Archives and Records Administration

Leo Arriwite makes gloves from brain-tanned hides, a needed accessory for which his Shoshoni people have been known throughout the West for generations.

Courtesy of Leo Arriwite

Arriwite is a Northern Shoshoni (his preferred spelling of his Shoshone band’s name). His people inhabited central Idaho in the Lemhi Mountains, southwestern Montana and Northwestern Wyoming. They are called Wihi’Naite, which Arriwite said translates to “From the Knife’s Edge.” Arriwite said, “Our traditional homelands are along both sides of the continental divide, which was known by us as the knife’s edge of the mountains.”

On August 17, 1805, the Wihi’Naite encountered the Lewis and Clark Corps of Discovery Expedition at Camp Fortunate near Grayling, Montana. At that time, the explorers’ guide, Sacajawea, who had been captured years before, was reunited with her brother, Cameahwait. Arriwite is descended from Sacajawea’s people and is a member of the band that was led by Chief Tendoy until he died in 1906. His son Toopombey was among his people when the U.S. government forced them to relocate to Fort Hall in 1907.

Arriwite grew up about 50 miles west of Camp Fortunate in Salmon, Idaho. His family would make leather for gloves, moccasins, shirts, vests and dresses. His grandmother tanned leather throughout her life, using the skills taught to her by her mother and grandmother. Although “traditional glove making by my people was historically undertaken by Shoshoni women,” Arriwite said, when the art was being lost, he decided to take on the trade. His father, also named Leo, then taught his son, Stephen Ariwite (who spells his name with one “r”). Together, the family is carrying on this long-standing tradition.

Shoshoni glove making is labor-intensive, beginning with brain-tanning deer, elk, moose or bison hides. A hide is first soaked in water for three days to loosen its hair. Then it is placed over a wooden pole so all remaining flesh on one side and hair and underlying membrane, or “grain,” on the other can be scraped off with a blade.

The hide will then be “tanned,” or finished, using the animal’s brains. This process keeps the hide from decomposing. “Each animal has enough brain to tan its own hide,” Arriwite explained. “Brains work better than chemicals because brains have an oil called lecithin which makes the hide fibers soft, whereas chemicals tend to burn the fibers, and they have to be rinsed numerous times.” After ranchers arrived, cow brains began to be used by some glove makers for tanning, but mad cow disease has reduced their availability.

The brain is boiled just long enough to make the mixture like a pudding and then worked into the hair side and then the flesh side. Then the hide is washed and the water removed by wringing it out. The hide is softened by pulling it until it is pliable.

Once the hide dries completely, it is tied into a tube shape for smoking. The white smoke used in the final process comes from a fire made with chips of wood from lodgepole pines, a tree species that can be found in abundance in the mountains and is also used for tipi poles. “The smoking of the hide is to give it color and to make it somewhat water resistant,” Arriwite said. “Some people use chemicals for smoking, but these don’t provide the same texture.”

Then Arriwite will cut out the two sides of the gloves from the tanned hide, which he then stiches together. He said his gloves are designed similar to the gauntlet gloves that his people used for ceremonies as well as during conflicts with other tribes and Europeans. Traditional Shoshoni clothing, including gloves, had beaded designs that reflected shapes from nature, including flowers and animals. He said the patterns for his gloves date back to before contact with Europeans, and the designs were drawn from stories or visions. After European contact, some Shoshoni gauntlet gloves were also patterned after U.S. military styles. Arriwite said when he first started taking glove making seriously in 2003, it took him a week to make a pair of gloves. “Now it takes me about a day and half,” he said.

Stephen Ariwite learned how to make gloves watching his grandfather while his father was at work. “It was something I wanted to get into but didn’t know how,” Stephen Ariwite said. “My grandfather did everything from scraping the hides to making the gloves.”

Not until his grandfather passed away in 2006, however, did he make his first pair of gloves. He still has them. “It felt good to know that all those years of watching gave me something I can now pass down to my children or grandchildren if this is something they want to learn in the future,” said Ariwite. “I enjoy it because it connects me to my grandfather.”

Shoshone-Bannock tribal elder Darrell Shay said the Arriwites are among a small group of Native families working in the area to keep the tanning tradition alive. “Our people are refining the art of tanning. … People know what a quality piece of buckskin is, whether tanned or not, and who does the best work. Leo has turned it into an art form.” Stephen Ariwite said Shoshoni tanned hides and gloves have a reputation around Indian Country. “Many tribes come here to buy Shoshoni hides.”

Leo Arriwite said when Shoshoni homelands were taken over by ranchers and farmers, Shoshoni gloves became a necessary tool. “They were highly prized and sought after,” he said. “Chief Tendoy, when he traveled throughout southwestern Montana, traded gloves with the ranchers and was well known for them.”

“Even nowadays, ranchers will order gloves from Fort Hall from people they know and ask for extra thick hides,” Shay said. “Regular gloves won’t hold up as well when working with the wire.”

“It gives you a sense of pride knowing people care about the quality and which family they come from and that we are not trying to mass produce them,” said Stephen Ariwite. “It’s not just about money.”

Stephen Ariwite said unfortunately not many Shoshone youth are learning the traditional tanning process, but at least his younger sister is now tanning hides. Arriwite is also teaching his wife, Toni Timbana, and youngest son, Bailey Ariwite, who watches as he makes gloves. “I’ve told him I will teach him if he wants me to. But we don’t force our culture on someone. They have to want to learn.”

Arriwite said he continues the art of tanning and glove making because it has long been his family’s custom. He said, “This is part of our identification.”

Authors

Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Tony Tekaroniake Evans (Mohawk) is an author and award-winning journalist.

Native Negotiations are a Winning Alternative to Courts

ThorneLE — Mon, 30 Oct 2023 17:00:00 +0000

Culture Keepers

Native Negotiations are a Winning Alternative to Courts

From Issue: Fall 2023 / Vol. 24 No. 3

by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

In a typical U.S. courtroom, attorneys and their clients usually sit at parallel tables, facing the front of the courtroom, ready to do battle. A judge enters, and an officer commands those in the room to “All rise” before the magistrate takes a seat on a high bench. Then they all sit, and a long debate begins.

Judge Michael Petoskey presides over a circular courtroom designed to encourage peaceful resolution of conflicts while reflecting Pokagon Band of Potawatomi culture, including floral patterns and walls that resemble a woven basket.

Courtesy of the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi

A member of the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa, Michael Petoskey serves as the chief tribal court judge for the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi in Michigan, where he has been instrumental in promoting peacemaking techniques in legal negotiations.

Courtesy of the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi

Prior to entering the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi tribe’s courtroom, tribal citizens and others who wish to use peacekeeping methods may gather in the courthouse’s Healing Fire Room.

Courtesy of the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi

Judge Timothy Connor has adopted Native negotiation techniques in his courtroom. There a table displays items tribal leaders gifted to him, including a wood sturgeon-shaped gavel and “talking pieces,” which when held by peacekeeping session participants ensure that they are not interrupted.

Courtesy of Timothy Connors

Michael Petoskey’s courtroom is quite different. He serves as a chief tribal court judge for the Pokagon Band of Potawatomi in Michigan. In a circle, he sits at the same level as the disputing parties, who can be joined by community and family members to help them come to a resolution. To encourage calm discussions, the Pokagon court house even has a healing room with a fire—a central part of many Indigenous cultures—around which people can gather before or instead of entering the courtroom. The goal is not to win or lose but to avoid a legal dispute by coming to a peaceful agreement that will help restore community harmony.

A member of the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa, Petoskey said, “At Pokagon, it’s just the way people always did things. Tying people together with good values and bringing them together as human beings is more effective than an adversarial situation.”

The Pokagon Band of Potawatomi is one of several American Indian tribes across the United States that have been returning to traditional Indigenous peacemaking practices for conflict resolution. Those who participate are referred from courts, social services departments, police or even families.

Petoskey said for many years Native traditions like peacemaking fell into disuse for a number of reasons, including federal policies that took tribal lands and limited sovereignty in federal courts. He said the suppression of Native languages and the boarding school era of forced assimilation aided the collapse. However, he said, “We are now in an era of cultural revitalization, and peacemaking is one aspect of this revitalization.”

In the United States, some 400 tribes have their own justice systems. While traditional peacekeeping laws vary in some respects from tribal nation to tribal nation, they are generally less focused on the concept of individual rights and more on wider community values of “responsibility, relationship, reciprocity and respect,” said attorney Brett Lee Shelton (Oglala Lakota). He leads the Indigenous Peacemaking Initiative at the Native American Rights Fund (NARF), which for the past decade has been promoting Native negotiation methods to settle disputes that range from child custody battles and probate to wrongful death. NARF maintains a reference library of written peacemaking materials, facilitates trainings of qualified peacemakers and provides technical and legal assistance to tribes as they develop and implement peacemaking into their modern governmental models.

“A dispute is seen as a community issue,” said Shelton. “We are looking at ways disputes were resolved for thousands of years, allowing people to continue to live together in community.”

At the heart of peacemaking negotiations is the talking circle of affected persons—extended family and community members, each of whom has a responsibility to weigh in on the issue and seek solutions. A selected “peacemaker” from the community is charged with overseeing the proceedings, which typically include the use of a “talking piece,” a stick, stone or other object that is held by the person who is speaking to ensure that they are not interrupted. Peacemakers can range from elders to youth depending on how the community wishes to handle the case and can use different techniques. For example, in the Chickasaw Nation Peacekeeping Court (Nanna alphi’sa ishtaa-asha ikbi), the peacemaker “shall have authority to use tribal cultural teachings and customs, including present-day religious teachings, if the peacemaker reasonably believes this will further the objective of voluntarily resolving a dispute.”

For tribal courts that are often underfunded, traditional methods of settling disputes have proven effective, especially in child welfare cases. Shelton said it just makes sense to not have parents “destroy one another” in court and instead try to work together with input from other family members. In 2021 he and attorney Lauren van Schilfgaarde coauthored “Using Peacemaking Circles to Indigenize Tribal Child Welfare,” a Columbia Journal of Race and Law article in which the authors call for an end to child welfare policies that were “explicitly aimed to exterminate Indigenous culture and disrupt tribal cohesion. … The [Western] legal concept of ‘family’ is rooted in a property construct in which the rights are exclusively held by the parents to provide ‘care, custody, and control.’” By contrast, Native tribes perceive an issue, particularly one related to child welfare, as “evidence of community imbalance,” so the community is obligated to respond. “Through the circle, family and community can complete their natural reciprocal relationship,” the article states.

Indigenous peacemaking techniques are also helping in juvenile offense cases. “The thinking is that a young person has done something wrong, and this is because there are relationships in their life that have been failing them,” Shelton said. “The goal is to heal that relationship or fill a gap in their support network.”

State and federal judges have begun using such approaches in their courtrooms. In Michigan this can be traced to a forum between state and tribal judges in 1992 organized by Michigan Supreme Court Justice Michael Cavanagh to avoid jurisdictional conflicts and form strategies for collaboration. “Cavanagh said to us, ‘We know we will learn more from you than you will learn from us,’” said Petoskey.

Michigan State Court Judge Timothy Connors became convinced of their effectiveness during the 1990s after observing Petoskey use them in tribal court cases, including interfamily disputes. Connors asked for Petoskey’s mentorship to help him apply it to state court cases, such as those of noncompliance with the Indian Child Welfare Act that gives Indigenous families priority in adopting Native children.

Connors said the reason state courts are following Indigenous peacemaking models is because they work. In a 2016 Judges’ Journal article, the Alaskan Kake Tribe reported a 97 percent rate in sentence fulfillment compared to 22 percent in the state court system.

Connors recalled a state court case wherein a shooter had previously been sentenced to 12 years for attempted murder. After two years of time served and during a retrial, the victim called for leniency and a peacemaking process led to a different resolution.

“I was able to tell him how I was harmed, and I got to understand what was going on with him and how he has been hurt by all this,” the victim wrote to the court. “The meeting helped both of us, and I believe he truly takes responsibility for his actions and is sorry and that he should be able to go forward and live his life without any more burdens.” In the end, the shooter was set free.

“Just allowing the circle to happen at all made this possible,” Connors said. “Both parties have moved on with their lives and are now productive members of society.”

Petoskey said he helped Connors set up his peacemaking program based on the underlying philosophy and values of Native cultures and Indigenous world-views regarding justice. Although not of Indigenous heritage, Connors has served as a judge for the Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odawa in Michigan and has walked the fine line between cultural borrowing and cultural appropriation. Appropriation is when one group takes elements of another culture without permission, reciprocity, compensation or understanding the nature of the cultural elements. “Cultural appreciation, not appropriation, is our sacred responsibility,” Connors said.

Shelton said to avoid cultural appropriation, non-Native judges and mediators should not use rituals or ceremonies. He said Connors has “done it right and with the blessing of local Native people.”

A new generation is set to carry on this age-old tradition. Carson Smith (Choctaw), a second year Stanford Law School student, helped establish a peacemaking circle at her school’s Native American Cultural Center. Rather than going to court, lawyers, administrators and students came together to discuss why buildings on campus continued to carry the name of 16th-century Spanish friar Junípero Serra. He created the California mission system that forced Native people to convert to Christianity, labor for colonists and relocate, yet Pope Francis declared him a saint in 2015. Following a series of shared story-telling sessions, Serra’s name was removed from most campus locations in 2018, and Stanford’s Clayman Institute for Gender Research was later renamed to honor psychologist Carolyn Lewis Attneave, a Stanford alumni of Delaware tribal ancestry who founded the field of Native American mental health.

Smith said she sees the Indigenous Peacemaking Initiative as a means to not only help resolve conflicts but reinforce tribal nations. “Any pathway that can serve the well-being of our tribal citizens and strengthen the ties in our communities also strengthens our sovereign powers,” she said.

Authors

Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Tony Tekaroniake Evans (Mohawk) is an author and award-winning journalist.

Waking a Language from Its Slumber

ThorneLE — Wed, 16 Aug 2023 18:25:42 +0000

Culture Keepers

Waking a Language from Its Slumber

From Issue: Summer 2023 / Vol. 24 No. 2

by Kasike Jorge Baracutay Estevez

The interpreters who arrived with Christopher Columbus in 1492 to help initiate Spain’s conquest of the Caribbean islands spoke Arabic, Italian, Ladino, Portuguese and Spanish, yet not one could understand what the “bronze-skinned” Taíno people were saying. In time, as Spanish settlers began marrying Taíno women, many Tainan words entered Caribbean Spanish. Taíno dialects as they were once spoken did not survive. No one knows when the last Native speakers of the Taíno language, Tainan, died.

The Higuayagua Taíno of the Caribbean helped produce the first Taíno dictionary, the second edition of which was published in 2023 and contains 20,000 words.

Courtesy of Kasike Jorge Baracutay Estevez

The Indigenous peoples of the Caribbean were predominantly Ta-Maipurean Arawakan speakers. Caribbean Spanish, however, contains more than 3,000 Tainan words such as “cacique” (chief) and “maiz” (corn) as well as many words now included in English, including tobacco, canoe, hurricane, guava, barbecue and hammock. The majority of Tainan words are for flora, fauna and toponyms (names of places), but many slang terms and rural words also have Indigenous origins.

Beginning in the late 1980s and building up to the 1992 Columbus Quincentenary, the Taíno identity reclamation movement rose up in the Caribbean and spread beyond. While I and others in the movement demonstrated that Taíno genes, material culture, spiritual traditions, agricultural practices and customs persisted on the islands, the absence of our Native tongue was used to remind us of just how much was truly lost.

Some people attempted to revitalize the language by sewing together all of the known Tainan words. Unfortunately, as 95 percent of recorded Taíno words are nouns, this method was limited. Other people adopted or tried to learn closely related languages, such as Lokono Dian or Wayunaiki, which are spoken by the Arawak of northern South America and Caribbean, with moderate success. But hijacking our relatives’ languages was the ultimate act of appropriation. Besides, those languages were tied to lands and histories that, though perhaps similar, were not our own.

I found myself in this curious position. I had spent 30 years collecting a sizable list of every Taíno word ever recorded only to realize that little could be done with them. Native toponyms and the abundantly recorded Taíno words or phrases were practically untranslatable. Words for flora and fauna were recognizable, but these, just as the toponyms, are mostly nouns.

For a long time, I dreamed of having a simple Arawak language to enable our people to communicate, sing, pray or recite poetry in a Native language. But the task was intimidating. First, all surviving Native words were recorded using Spanish, French or Dutch orthography. Spain has roughly 50 provinces and 17 autonomous communities, and Spanish spelling did not become standardized until 1750. Regional spelling reflects marked differences in accents, cadences and pronunciations; words for the same object differed from island to island and even sometimes within the same island.

Second, Arawak is an agglutinative or polysynthetic language—meaning that words are formed by stringing together morphemes (the linguistic term for the smallest unit of grammar). The Spanish could not be aware of this Arawak trait, which can still be found in present day Caribbean. For example, in traditional Spanish, the sentences, “¿Como estas hermano? Está todo bien?” (How are you brother? Is everything alright?) are reduced to “Que lo que manin, Tato?” During this time, I was fortunate to meet linguist Alexandra Y. Aikhenvald. She speaks three Arawak languages and has written many books and articles about Amazonian languages. We spoke of my dilemma and the realization that I would need to borrow verbs and nouns from related Arawakan languages in order to reconstruct a Tainan dialect. Most importantly, I asked which Arawakan languages were closest to classic Taíno and from which of the Arawakan languages I should borrow?

Her answers to this and other inquiries forever changed my view of the Arawak language. She carefully made me realize that classic Taíno could not have been a single dialect. Many in the Taíno community believed that Spanish descriptions of a “lingua franca” understood by the Native speakers meant a dominant language existed. A more accurate theory suggests that a trade pidgin was probably used to communicate among these closely related, yet diverse peoples. The Greater Antilles covers some 80,081 square miles. This same area in northern South America contains a multitude of distinct Arawak dialects and other Native languages. Ancient migrants from South America brought new words and ideas. The Taíno borrowed from their Arawak relatives as well as from each other. We realized that for Taíno to have a language today, we must create a new one.

I began gathering every dictionary I could find on Ta-Maipurean languages. Every known Taíno word was collected and their spellings standardized. In addition, I created 34 affixes for present, past and future tenses as well as transitive verbs and adverbs to aid in constructing words that did not exist before the colonization of the Antilles.

I wondered how to choose one word over another. If the word for “basket” differs across several Arawak languages, how could I know which would work best? I might recite how the word may sound. Finally, I settled on selecting words easy to pronounce and remember, cognizant of the fact that they had to blend well with classic Taíno words.

Languages develop and evolve through usage, trial and error. While it is vital that all our words be Arawak, Puerto Ricans, Cubans and Dominicans have certain linguistic idiosyncrasies that make us uniquely Caribbean. Of utmost importance to me was that the resulting language retained its Caribbean flavor. I asked my dear friend Jessie Hurani Marrero, a member of our Higuayagua Taíno tribe who has studied many languages, for her input about grammar, transitive verbs and all the technical terms.

Feedback from our community was crucial as well. Marrero and I formed 11 language teams consisting of 76 people. Jessie helped me speed up the work immensely, and the feedback from the teams helped tremendously.

Within two years, we put together the foundation of a new language, Hiwatahia–Hekexi Taíno, based entirely on Ta-Maipurean Arawak. However, a collection of words is not an actual language. Hiwatahia needed to be used. We began teaching classes to interested parties. With donations from members of the cultural preservation organization Higuayagua Taíno of the Caribbean Thomas Baibramael Gonzalez, Jessie Hurani Marrero, Desire Anakoniwa Vargas as well as Nelson Kau’marix Zayas, we also have self-published a Hiwatahia–Hekexi Taíno dictionary containing the 20,000 words we have recorded.

Taíno dialects were in flux when the Spaniards arrived in 1492. People were still migrating from South America into the Caribbean. Arriving dialects were absorbed by Caribbean islanders, perhaps in the same way we absorbed verbs and nouns from our closest linguistic relatives. What is certain is that language evolves. For Taíno people, our language was not only interrupted, it fell out of use. However, we are fortunate in that surviving Native words became part of Caribbean Spanish and Haitian Creole.

The Taíno were the first to make contact with the Spaniards, the first enslaved and the first to rebel. We are the first mixed-blood Indians who fell victim to the Spanish pen that wrote us out of history. We have written ourselves back.

Authors

Kasike Jorge Baracutay Estevez

Kasike Jorge Baracutay Estevez is a Hiwayawa Taíno cultural activist and founder of the cultural preservation organization Higuayagua Taíno of the Caribbean.

The Indigenous Origins of Maple Syrup

EhrlichK — Thu, 15 Dec 2022 19:27:14 +0000

Culture Keepers

The Indigenous Origins of Maple Syrup

From Issue: Winter 2022 / Vol. 23 No. 4

by Tony Tekaroniake Evans

The gathering of syrup from maple trees in the woodlands of Canada and the northeastern United States is an ancient practice that had helped sustain Indigenous peoples for thousands of years. Yet during the colonial era, some lost their connection to the tree and its ceremonies. Only recently have many started to reclaim it.

Traditionally, the process of making maple syrup begins with drilling a piece of wood into the tree to serve as a spile, or spout from which the clear sap can drip.

Kanerahtakwas Deom/Iorì:wase

A wood basket tied to the tree below the spile collected the sap.

Brady Cross/Iorì:wase/Cross the River Creative

Otsi’tsaken:ra (Charlie) Patton (right) pours sap into a container while his grandson Kahentaráken Snow-Patton holds a funnel. Water in the sap has floated to the top and frozen, a layer that is easily removed. The rest of the water will be removed by boiling.

Courtesy of Otsi’tsaken:ra (Charlie) Patton

Among these are members of the six Indigenous nations in the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, including the Kanien’keha:ka (Mohawk), whose territory stretches from the upper half of New York state into Quebec. A Faithkeeper with the Haudenosaunee Ronatháte ne Kanien’kehá:ka Kanonhsésne (Mohawk Trail Longhouse) near Montreal is Otsi’tsaken:ra (Charlie) Patton. He practices and shares his peoples’ traditional teachings of tribal traditions at the community longhouse, a gathering place for traditional meetings and ceremonies. “We call Wahta [maple] the leader of the trees because it is always the first tree to wake up in the spring, even when there is still two feet of snow on the ground,” Otsi’tsaken:ra said. “We have a ceremony of Enhatihsestáta to put the sap back in the tree, but only Creation has the power to do this. We burn tobacco to encourage the trees to fulfill their responsibility in the cycle of life.”

Black, red and silver maple trees as well as box elder trees can be tapped for syrup, but the sugar maple (Acer saccharum) produces the largest amounts of sap with the greatest concentration of sugar. The tree is found in a region that is today known as the “Maple Belt,” hardwood deciduous forest that stretches from the Midwest through the Northeast United States and from the southeast corner of Manitoba to Nova Scotia in Canada. Maple syrups are classified according to their color, with the lightest syrups having a delicate taste and darker colors having a stronger flavor. To be “Grade A,” a syrup must reach from 66 to 68.9 on the Brix scale of sugar content.

Traditionally, Indigenous people have used maple syrup to cure meats, as a sweetener for bitter medicines and as an anesthetic. Maple sugar also contains nutritious minerals, including phosphorous, magnesium, potassium, iron and calcium. Maple syrup was also used as a trade item in the form of dried, portable sugar slabs.

After Europeans arrived in the 1600s, they learned from Indigenous people how to turn the sap into sweet and medicinal products. Otsi’tsaken:ra’s Kanien’kehá:ka community of Kahnawá:ke had been predominantly a Catholic settlement for generations until the longhouse traditions were restored in the 1920s. He said the connection with Wahta had been diminished to the point that some Kahnawa:ke people had to rely on French neighbors to provide enough maple sap to revive age-old ceremonies. They went to the Onondaga Nation (also within the Haudenosaunee Confederacy) and to Ohswékon (Six Nations Reserve) in Ontario to recall maple syrup songs and dances. “The young people went out to learn even more about our ceremonies,” Otsi’tsaken:ra said, and now, “It’s like someone has turned a switch.”

Maple sap (which is called “orontákeri” in the Mohawk language of Kanienʼkéha) only runs when the temperature rises above freezing in early spring, during what some tribes call the “sugar moon.” However, this is a potentially dangerous time to go into the woods. High winds can snap branches overhead, and people can become stranded in sudden snowstorms. “Spring is a time when everything is upside down and trying to find balance, so we ask the winds not to blow too hard so people will not get hurt and be able to return to their loved ones,” said Otsi’tsaken:ra.

Gathering the syrup began by hanging birch bark buckets in the tree below where they wanted to collect the sap. Above the bucket, they would “tap” the tree by drilling a hole and then placing a piece of wood in it to serve as a spout, or spile, from which the clear sap would drip.

Once the sap was collected, it was stored overnight in clay pots or, in more recent times, metal buckets. The lighter water in the sap would rise and freeze. In the morning, the ice would be skimmed off the top and the remaining water removed through boiling. This condensing will turn the liquid into a gold to brown color. About 40 gallons of sap are needed to produce about a gallon of syrup. Dried syrup would become sugar that could be stored in cone-shaped bark containers.

“When we have collected enough sap and return safely, that’s when we give thanks. This is how we fulfill our promise to the trees,” Otsi’tsaken:ra said. When Kanien’kehá:ka people celebrate Wahta, they gather in the longhouse and drink syrup from cups to express their personal gratitude for this sustaining gift from the Creator.

Many Indigenous nations in Canada and the United States now have maple syrup businesses, and Indigenous youth are once again learning how to make maple syrup and its associated ceremonies. The Kahnawa:ke community has held classes and given demonstrations at their annual maple syrup festival. Kimberly Kaniehténhawe Cross, an agent at Kahnawà:ke Tourism, said that during the last 10 years many families such as hers have taken the initiative to start their own “sugar shacks” where they can show others how to boil sap, and schools are now teaching about the maple syrup history and process. “My husband’s great uncle tapped the trees in the same forest we do,” Cross said. “So it just feels right and connects us to the past.”

Otsi’tsaken:ra is teaching his grandchildren the process and gives the syrup he makes to family and friends. He said he sees the resurgence of interest in maple syrup as a good sign his people are thriving. “Wahta trees are strong because they have roots,” Otsi’tsaken:ra said. “Native people stay strong in the same way, from our roots that reach back through our mothers and grandmothers, all the way back to the Iotsi’tsisen (Sky Woman) at the beginning of creation.”

Canada is now the largest producer of maple products in the world, exporting 75 percent of the world’s supply, with more than 90 percent coming from the province of Quebec. The Quebec Maple Syrup Producers reported that their province sold 180.2 million pounds of maple syrup in 2021, an increase of 22 percent over the previous year. Canadian exports of maple syrup rose by 20.7 percent to 160.78 million pounds that year. Demand for more from Canada might increase. Yet as a 2019 paper published in “Forest Ecology and Management” reported, this could become problematic because climate change is now driving the maple tree in its more southern U.S. ranges farther north.

Otsi’tsaken:ra said there are stories that recall how Mohawks learned to gather Wahta from animals at a time when the people had been living out of balance with the natural world. He said the ceremonies today recall the importance of taking care of the environment. “More than ever, we should learn to be spiritual people and learn from the ancestors to give thanks, and to put aside colonial thinking that tells us a dollar is worth more than a tree,” he said.

Authors

Tony Tekaroniake Evans

Tony Tekaroniake Evans (Mohawk) is an author and award-winning journalist.

Mexico’s Legendary Xoloitzcuintli, the Hairless Dog

EhrlichK — Fri, 23 Sep 2022 18:28:02 +0000

Culture Keepers

Mexico’s Legendary Xoloitzcuintli, the Hairless Dog

From Issue: Fall 2022 / Vol. 23 No. 3

by Cynthia L. Vidaurri

Mexico’s Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration held on November 1 and 2 to honor the departed would not be complete without the xoloitzcuintli. Often present at the celebration, this small dog has a big role in the afterlife. According to Mexica (Aztec) stories, most humans would have to travel through eight levels of the underworld before arriving at the last level, where they would find their final resting place. This four-year, perilous journey was full of challenges, including the crossing of the unswimmable Apanohuacalhuia River. Each xoloitzcuintli would wait at the river’s shore for its master’s call to help ferry him or her on its back across the dangerous waters. There are many variations of this story, but they all include the help of a dog.

Mexican artists Diego Rivera (left, with dog) and Frida Kahlo helped revive the xoloitzcuintli breed. Although the dogs are typically seen with upright ears, large xolos sometimes have floppy ones, so this may be one of the couples’ many xolos.

Florence Arquin Papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution. 19798

Typical of the items buried in Mexica (Aztec) “shaft” (vertical) tombs, this figurine in NMAI’s collection reflects the smaller xolo’s characteristic features. However, this one is portrayed with ribs showing through its hairless skin.

Shaft Tombs-style dog, 500 B.C.–A.D. 400; modeled, painted and polished ceramic; 13.5” x 9.25”. 24/452

Photo by NMAI Staff

Humans have an undeniable bond with their dogs. This has been evident in Mesoamerica since before Spanish colonial contact in the early 1500s—particularly with the “xoloitzcuintli” (pronounced show-low-eats-queen-tlee). The name of this breed is certainly a mouthful, and given this and that many of these dogs are mostly without fur, it is no wonder that many English speakers simply call this breed the “Mexican hairless.” That name, however, does not reflect its significance in Mesoamerican history and cultures.

The breed’s Nahuatl name—which is in the language of the Nahua peoples, including the Aztec—comes from the name of the god who created him, Xolotl, and the Nahuatl word for dog, “itzquintli.” Xolotl ruled over the sunset, lightning and death. According to creation stories, humans and xoloitzcuintlis were formed from the same Bone of Life. Xolos were a gift to humans to guard them in life and guide them in the afterlife.

Today, these dogs are routinely called “xolos” (pronounced cholos). They are among the oldest domesticated dog breeds; remains of one dog found at an archaeological site reportedly were dated to about 5,500 years ago. Bred to be small (less than 14 inches tall), miniature (14 to 18 inches tall) or standard (18 to 23 inches) in size, the dogs can be “hairless” or coated. Both varieties can be found in a single or multiple colors, including black, dark gray, brown and red. Perhaps the most charming characteristic of the so-called hairless variety is the tuft of hair commonly found on its head, feet and tail.

We know of the xolo’s various roles in early Mesoamerica from archeological finds and the chronicles by Europeans such as Bernardino de Sahagún, the first ethnographer in Mexico. Pottery depicting dogs exhibiting various behaviors has been found at archeological sites in western Mexico. Dog remains located at burial sites are believed to be a guarantee the owner’s dog would accompany them into the afterlife. It is not surprising that dog remains interred sometime between A.D. 1325 and 1521 were found at Templo Mayor (“main temple”) in Mexico City, the symbolic center of the Aztec Empire known as Tenochtitlán. Xolo dogs were connected to Mesoamerican daily life and cosmologies. On the earthly plane, they guarded people and their homes. They helped hunt turkey and deer. Since their body temperature runs high, they were used as hot-water bottles to treat various illnesses. They were also consumed on special occasions. In addition to their earth-bound functions, they were considered sacred and to have mystical powers able to ward off evil spirits.

Despite their importance in Mesoamerican life, this breed was on the verge of extinction due to the importation of European varieties and Spanish consumption. New dogs from Europe replaced local varieties, and interbreeding resulted in the genetic loss of xolo characteristics. The Spanish also acquired a taste for their readily available meat. During the 1950s, the breed’s popularity was mainly in Mexico’s art and celebrity circles. During this time, dog enthusiasts joined together to rescue the breed. They were able to identify 10 surviving xolos in remote Mexico locations. From these few dogs, the breed was reinvigorated. Famed Mexican artist Diego Rivera helped rescue the breed by starting the first breeding kennel in 1925. He and his wife, artist Frida Kahlo, kept xolos and often incorporated them into their artwork. The xoloitzcuintli is now recognized in the Canófila Federación Mexicana (Mexican Canofile Federation) and the American Kennel Club.

The recognition and expansion of Mexico’s most emblematic tradition, the Day of the Dead, has also boosted the breed’s popularity. This tradition of receiving and honoring departed loved ones as practiced by Indigenous peoples was recognized by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) and inscribed in the organization’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Since the 1980s, the tradition has grown from a local home and community expression to a nationwide cultural event. Xolo owners throughout the country now attend these events with their dogs. They paint them like skeletons, drape them in “cempasúchil” (the Aztec marigold traditionally associated with the Day of the Dead) and even dress them in glorious Aztec regalia.

Xolos are now well known beyond the dog world. “Coco,” the Pixar Animated Studios film released by Walt Disney Pictures in 2017, presented xolos to an international audience. The story is about Miguel, a young boy who gets unexpectedly drawn into the afterlife on the Day of the Dead. He is accompanied by Dante, a goofy street xolo. Dante helps Miguel achieve his mission in the land of the dead and accompanies him back to the land of the living.

A Tijuana-based soccer club is named the Xolos. Elaborate tattoos of xolos entwined with pre-Columbian designs can be seen on the Internet. You can even find piñatas in the shape of xolos. The breed also has had renewed prominence in the art world. In 2019, the Museo de El Carmen in Mexico City presented an exhibition entitled “Xolos, compañeros de viaje” (“Xolos, Travel Companions”).

Today, the xoloitzcuintli breed has regained its revered place in Mesoamerican history and culture. It is recognized as Mexico’s national dog, and in 2020 was named a symbol of Mexico City.

Yet perhaps the most compelling testimonies about the enduring appeal of the breed come from xolo enthusiasts, such as Diana Cardona and Mariana Olmos of El Paso, Texas, and Ciudad Juárez, across the border in Mexico. Cardona characterized her dog, Silverio, as “lovable, active, and just plain goofy.” Before obtaining her dog, she researched the xolo breed and learned about its cultural importance and Indigenous legacies. Both are glad to hear about the breed’s growing popularity, and Olmos described the xolo’s role as a “cultural diplomat.” Cardona has seen chalk murals of Frida Kahlo with xolos in Florence, Italy, and live xolos in Amsterdam in the Netherlands. The xolo owners eloquently sum up the breed’s role as simply being “heritage.”

Authors

Cynthia L. Vidaurri

Cynthia L. Vidaurri is a folklorist at the National Museum of the American Indian. She has researched Mexico and Day of the Dead for about 30 years.