Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Quotes from Chief Joseph

I’ve recently been re-reading Chief Joseph’s account of the Nez Perce War and subsequent internment in Indian Territory, and like many before me have been struck by the eloquence and power of his words. Whether this eloquence comes directly from Joseph himself or from the transcriber hardly seems to matter. The power behind the words is Joseph’s. I am also struck by the continuing relevance of his words and how they mirror so much of what we tend to think of as ‘modern democratic values’ and Christian teaching. 


Chief Joseph:

Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt / In-mut-too-yah-lat-lat 
(Thunder Rolling Down the Mountain)

Our fathers gave us many laws, which they had learned from their fathers. These laws were good. They told us to treat all men as they treated us; that we should never be the first to break a bargain; that it was a disgrace to tell a lie; that we should speak only the truth; that it was a shame for one man to take from another his wife, or his property, without paying for it. We were taught to believe that the Great Spirit sees and hears everything, and that He never forgets; that hereafter He will give every man a spirit-home according to his deserts; if he has been a good man, he will have a good home; if he has been a bad man, he will have a bad home.
p. 279-80


The first white men of your people who came to our country were named Lewis and Clarke. They also brought many things that our people had never seen. They talked straight, and our people gave them a great feast, as a proof that their hearts were friendly. These men were very kind. They made presents to our chiefs and our people made presents to them. We had a great many horses, of which we cave them what they needed, and they gave us guns and tobacco in return. All the Nez Perces made friends with Lewis and Clarke, and agreed to let them pass through our country, and never to make war on white men. This promise the Nez Perces have never broken. No white man can accuse them of bad faith, and speak with a straight tongue. It has always been the pride of the Nez Perces that they were the friends of the white men.
p. 280


When my father was a young man there came to our country a white man (Rev. Mr. Spalding) who talked spirit law. He won the affections of our people because he spoke good things to them. At first he did not say anything about white men wanting to settle on our lands. Nothing was said about that until about twenty winters ago when a number of white people came into our country and built houses and made farms. At first our people made no complaint. They thought there was room enough for all to live in peace, and they were learning many things from the white men that seemed to be good. But we soon found that the white men were growing rich very fast, and were greedy to possess everything the Indian had. p. 280-81


Suppose a white man should come to me and say, ‘Joseph, I like your horses, and I want to buy them.’ I say to him, ‘No, my horses suit me, I will not sell them.’ Then he goes to my neighbor, and says to him, ‘Joseph has some good horses. I want to buy them, but he refuses to sell.’ My neighbor answers, ‘Pay me the money, and I will sell you Joseph’s horses.’ The white man returns to me and says, ‘Joseph, I have bought your horses, and you must let me have them.’ If we sold our lands to the Government, this is the way they were bought. p. 284

Through all the years since the white man came to Wallowa, we have been threatened and taunted by them and the treaty Nez Perces. They have given us no rest. We have had a few good friends among white men, and they have always advised my people to bear these taunts without fighting. Our young men were quick-tempered, and I have had great trouble in keeping them from doing rash things. I have carried a heavy load on my back ever since I was a boy. I learned then that we were but few, while the white men were many, and that we could not hold our own with them. We were like deer. They were like grizzly bears. We had a small country. Their country was large. We were contented to let things remain as the Great Spirit Chief made them. They were not and would change the rivers and mountains if they did not suit them.  p. 285

I know that my young men did a great wrong, but I ask, who was first to blame? They had been insulted a thousand times. Their fathers and brothers had been killed; their mothers and wives had been disgraced; they had been driven to madness by the whiskey sold to them by the white men; they had been told by General Howard that all their horses and cattle which they had been unable to drive out of Wallowa were to fall into the hands of white men; and, added to all this, they were homeless and desperate.

I would have given my own life if I could have undone the killing of white men by my people. I blame my young men and I blame the white men. I blame General Howard for not giving my people time to get their stock away from Wallowa. I do not acknowledge that he had the right to order me to leave Wallowa at any time. I deny that either my father or I ever sold that land. It is still our land. It may never again be our home, but my father sleeps there, and I love it as I love my mother. I left there hoping to avoid bloodshed.
p. 290

Good words do not last long until they amount to something. Words do not pay for my dead people. They do not pay for my land, now overrun by white men. They do not protect my father’s grave. They do not pay for my horses and cattle. Good words will not give me back my children. Good words will not make good the promise of your War Chief, General Miles. Good words will not give my people good health and stop them from dying. Good words will not get my people a home where they can live in peace and take care of themselves. I am tired of talk that comes to nothing. It makes my heart sick when I remember all the good words and all the broken promises. p. 298


If the white man wants to live in peace with the Indian he can live in peace. There need be no trouble. Treat all men alike. Give them all the same law. Give them all an even chance to live and grow. All men were made by the same Great Spirit Chief. They are all brothers. The earth is the mother of all people, and all people should have equal rights upon it. You might as well expect the rivers to run backward as that any man who was born a free man should be contented penned up and denied liberty to go where he pleases. If you tie a horse to a stake, do you expect he will grow fat? If you pen an Indian up on a small spot of earth, and compel him to stay there, he will not be contented nor will he grow and prosper. I have asked some of the great white chiefs where they get their authority to say to the Indian that he shall say in one place, while he sees white men going where they please. They cannot tell me. p. 298-90

I know that my race must change. We cannot hold our own with the white men as we are. We only ask an even chance to live as other men live. We ask to be recognized as men. We ask that the same law shall work alike on all men. If the Indian breaks the law, punish him by the law. If the white man breaks the law, punish him also. p. 299

Let me be a free man – free to travel, free to stop, free to work, free to trade where I choose, free to choose my own teachers, free to follow the religion of my fathers, free to think and talk and act for myself – and I will obey every law or submit to the penalty. p. 299

Whenever the white man treats the Indian as they treat each other, then we shall have no more wars. We shall be all alike – brothers of one father and one mother, with one sky above us and one country around us and one government for all. Then the Great Spirit Chief who rules above will smile upon this land and send rain to wash out the bloody spots made by brothers’ hands upon the face of the earth. For this time the Indian race are waiting and praying. I hope that no more groans of wounded men and women will ever go to the ear of the Great Spirit Chief above, and that all people may be one people. p. 299

All extracts taken from:

Laughy, L., ed (1993) ‘In-mut-too-yah-lat-lat Speaks: Chief Joseph Shows His Heart’ in In Pursuit of the Nez Perces: The Nez Perce War of 1877. Wrangell, AK: Mountain Meadow Press, pp 275 – 299. [Originally published in 1879 as ‘An Indian’s View of Indian Affairs’ in The North American Review, and also published as ‘Chief Joseph’s Own Story’]

Saturday, 5 May 2012

How Not to Write a PhD Thesis

Someone has recently sent me a link to an interesting article that appeared in a January 2010 edition of Times Higher Education which I thought was worth passing on to the other postgrad students out there.  In it, Tara Brabazon, Professor of Media Studies at the University of Brighton, discusses her role in preparing PhD students for submission of their thesis, and examining the work of other PhD candidates.  

My teaching break between Christmas and the university's snowy reopening in January followed in the footsteps of Goldilocks and the three bears.  I examined three PhDs: one was too big; one was too small; one was just right.  Put another way, one was as close to a fail as I have ever examined; one passed but required rewriting to strengthen the argument; and the last reminded me why it is such a pleasure to be an academic.

Read the full article: How Not to Write a PhD Thesis by Tara Brabazon

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Research and Reminiscence

I've been busy working on my novel the past few months, so haven't had any new literary research to add here.  Recently, though, while writing about farming in north Idaho, I've needed to get hold of some information linked to phases of the moon and favorable planting dates, and through the magic of the internet I was able to track down a copy of the 1981 Old Farmer's Almanac in South Dakota and have it posted to me here in the UK for a mere $9. I've also got my hands on  a Gurney's Seed Catalog from 1967, complete with an ad, torn from some magazine or other, for fishing trips to South Dakota's Great Lakes where you can find 'Northerns up to 35 lbs., walleyes to 12 lbs., and paddlefish to 90lbs!'  Research on the internet is fine for some things, but there's something about holding a hardcopy publication in your hands that is just so...so real.  Flicking through the yellowing pages of the almanac, past ads for "Apache" Arrowheads (the use of quotation marks is a dead giveaway) and do-it-yourself tattoo removal kits, I get whiff of my youth. 

Though I grew up in the city, I was just one generation removed from the family farm, and farming was still the focus of my grandparents' lives.  I remember how there was always a Gurney's catalog lying about, somewhere close to hand, especially during the winter months when my grandparents mulled over what they would plant in the garden, come spring.  I remember the brightly-colored pictures of Hy-Top tomatoes and photographs of kids dwarfed by giant pumpkins. And I remember the gold cover of the Old Farmer's Almanac, each edition looking identical to the one before, resting on a table next to my grandfather's chair, its pages discolored and well-thumbed. 

Well-into his 80s, after he had finally - reluctantly - handed over the reins of the family farm to my uncle, my grandfather cultivated not one, but two city gardens. One was a standard kitchen garden behind my grandparents' home, but the other, located about a mile away, covered the area of three vacant city lots.  After he retired, I believe he just couldn't help himself.  Farming was in his blood.  It wasn't so much what he was, as was who he was and I can only imagine what that garden meant to him in his old age.  

My grandfather became a familiar figure in that part of town known as Normal Hill, pushing his wheelbarrow back and forth between home and the garden we all called 'the lot', unzipping the soil with his rototiller, giving away a mountain of sweet corn every summer. I remember there was a little boy who lived in an apartment house next door to the lot who used to hang around, helping out where he could, and enjoying getting his hands stuck into the soil beside my grandfather, a city boy without a piece of land of his own, learning from an expert about making things grow. I wonder where that little boy is now and if he still remembers those days. 

What was it, though, that I was writing about when I started this?  I seem to have drifted off track.  The Old Farmer's Almanac and the Gurney's Seed Catalog.  That's right. 

I can't imagine getting lost in a few moments of nostalgic reverie while clicking and scrolling my way through a website, just as I can't imagine a world in which e-readers replace real books.  Holding a book - or indeed, a seed catalog - in your hands just seems so much more 'authentic' to me.  And that will be another discussion to come from my thesis once I return to it later this spring.