Translator: Lisa Rodriguez Reviewer: Rhonda Jacobs
(Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt, the Nez Perce language)
(Out of respect for culture, transcriptions omitted)
So this might be the part
where some of you get really, really excited
that there's a real, live Native American walking the stage right now,
so you have plans to run up to me later
and tell me exactly how much Cherokee pedigree you have.
Don't do that, don't do that.
That's not a thing that connects us.
It's not the Native American jewelry you may or may not own,
nor is it your upbringing in proximity to indigenous people that connects us.
But before I go there I will translate for you.
I cursed all of you.
(Laughter)
It is customary in many of our nations
to introduce ourselves first in our indigenous language.
It is a way of honoring our elders and our ancestors
for the sacrifices that they made for me to be alive
and to take up this space.
I spoke Nimiipuutimpt, the language of the Nez Perce nation.
My ancestors hear me when I speak our language.
For those of you who don't understand,
I thanked Creator first.
I offered thanks for our good day today.
I told you that my name is The Storyteller.
In the language of our colonizers, I am called Tai Simpson.
I told you that I am a Nez Perce woman,
Nimiipuu, as we call ourselves.
I told you that I am a direct descendant
of Chief Red Heart of the Nez Perce nation.
I told you, also, that I'm happy to be here.
And I told you that, as a storyteller, the stories that I carry are not my own.
They are passed from generation to generation
and belong to my ancestors.
The stories created in my lifetime belong to my descendants.
That's an important recognition for us to make.
It is also important to recognize that we are guests today
and every day on the ancestral homelands
of the forced displaced and dispossessed Boise Valley indigenous people.
Our colonizers refer to them as the Shoshone-Bannock,
the Shoshone Paiute, the Burns Paiute,
the Fort McDermott, and Warm Springs Paiute tribes.
You're welcome for the land, Boise.
As a storyteller, all of my favorite stories
involve Coyote, or (omitted).
He's the trickster who, over time, carried our ways of knowing.
There is a contemporary variation of our creation story
that speaks of Coyote meandering along the river one day,
and he sort of stopped where he was, and he said,
"You know, I want to create the different races."
So he bent down and reached for tule.
Tule is a large reed-like plant that we use for weaving,
and he made himself a mold with two legs instead of four.
Arms, legs, fingers,
I mean, we all know what humans look like, right?
He mixes clay by the river,
and then he made a fire by the river as well.
He put his clay and mold into the fire,
and the first time (omitted) was just impatient,
and he pulled his mold out while it was undercooked
and pale, almost white.
(omitted)
(omitted) said, "This isn't quite right!"
So he chucked that mold across the ocean.
(Laughter)
That became white people, or (omitted), as we've come to call them.
(omitted) tried again.
He made another mold, and he mixed his clay,
and he soaked his fire, and he put his mold into the fire.
And this time, he got distracted.
He ran off to the prairie to play tricks.
And he ran back down to the river to play more tricks.
And then when he made his way back to his fire,
his mold was overcooked and dark, almost black.
(omitted)
"This isn't quite right," (omitted) said,
so he threw that mold to the south.
He was frustrated but determined, so he tried again.
He made his mold, and he mixed his clay, and he put that into the fire as well.
But he waited this time.
And he danced, and he sang, and he prayed by his fire
until just the right moment.
And when he pulled that mold out,
(omitted)
"This is right." We were Coyote's creation.
He called us (omitted).
And the lesson that I've always been taught from that story
is that Indian people are from the land, and the water, and the fire here.
We don't come from anywhere else.
But I also rethought that story, so let's circle back to the beginning.
Despite being undercooked and chucked across the ocean,
white people are also Coyote's creation.
That's the thing that connects us.
It's a bit of a reach and kind of laughable.
I laughed at it.
Despite the sordid, tumultuous history between us
of decolonization, dehumanization, forced displacement, sterilization,
I could go on all evening.
That doesn't mean that human to human
we are not connected, my white brothers and sisters.
Some of us are a little more undercooked than others.
(Laughter)
I do believe in our connection because Coyote was at the meeting
that creator called on the slopes of the Clearwater River
near what is now known as Lewiston, Idaho.
Nimiipuu people call that (omitted).
On that day Creator called together all of the large animals
that were here before there were humans.
He told them all,
there's going to be a great change and some of them wouldn't survive.
He asked each of them to step forward
and offer a piece of themselves so that humans could be created.
(omitted), elk, stepped forward
and said, "My horns can be used for tools
and my hide can be worn for warmth and my flesh to eat."
(omitted), salmon, stepped forward and said, "My flesh can be ate as well."
and he promised to come to humans in the winter time.
(omitted), eagle, stepped forward and said,
"I want to fly so high and bring the humans' messages to you.
They will use my feathers for ceremony and they will know Creator through me.
I will be their wisdom."
And it was like this for each animal,
for bear, for otter, for deer, for steelhead,
each of them offering a part of themselves so humanity could be created,
and all we had to do as humans was be good stewards of the land.
All we had to do was keep things in balance:
don't waste, don't take more than we need, protect the sacred.
That's an intergenerational lifelong lesson that we live by even now.
Don't strip the huckleberry bush of all of its berries,
don't hunt cow elk in the winter when she could be carrying calves,
don't dig so deep below the root that you damage the earth beneath it.
Everything in balance.
But that's not where we are anymore is it?
As humans with our fancy cars, and our iPhones,
our mineral-based computers,
faces that we've carved onto rocks to honor presidents?
Climbing on our sacred sites, poisoning our water, plastic.
Did we hold up our end of the bargain?
Do we keep things in balance as humanity?
Not so much.
But are we so far gone that we can't come back to the center?
That we can't come back to this idea of protecting the sacred?
Protecting the sacred means recognizing the sacrifices
that were made for us so that we could exist.
It means giving back to the community so the community is strong.
And you know, protecting the sacred is a relatively new term
based on our old ways.
Our old ways of knowing and our old ways of being,
our old ways of living.
Many of those things taught to us as children.
As a child I didn't grow up on an Indian Reservation.
I was afforded the privileged opportunity to travel and live abroad.
I did however spend my summers with my gram, or (omitted), mother's mother.
She's equal parts fury and love,
a trait shared amongst the Red Heart women.
(Laughter)
I would just babble her ear off
with all the cool things I thought I was doing.
(omitted), I can play the cello. (omitted), I got straight As.
(omitted), I read this book and that cool book.
We were living overseas so I thought I was fancy and exciting.
She would just laugh and smile at me in her quiet way.
There was one summer afternoon
where my toddler niece was outside with her spoon,
and she was using that spoon
to scrape the insides out of a fish.
And in the middle of my incessant chatter,
(omitted) turns to me,
she says, "Ta-tai," as she used to call me,
"Can you clean fish? Can you help her finish?"
"Well, no, (omitted), I don't know how to do that."
"Well, come here then. We'll help you. Morning Star will teach you."
So to my chagrin, at like 13 years old,
I've got a niece who's like negative four years old
schooling me with her tiny little hands
and her tiny little spoon digging the guts out of this fish.
But none of that was to embarrass me or shame me
or put my accomplishments down.
What (omitted) was teaching me
was that regardless of all of the cool things we think we know,
and all of the cool things we think we can do,
there's always something more to learn
and always something more to give back to the community.
Our old ways.
Traveling the world is awesome, Tai,
but do you know how to provide for your family?
Playing the cello is cool, Tai,
but do you know how to provide for your community in the old way?
Gathering roots, catching fish, harvesting berries,
beading, weaving, sewing, storytelling.
And that was the powerful lesson for me
that day at 13, to learn all of this cool stuff,
but then learn how to filter it
so that I can provide to my family in our old ways.
And I have another old way story
that's more of a sidebar than a life lesson,
but it talks about old ways, so it might segue back to the point,
but I digress.
I hit that really awkward age of half woman half teenager.
I was feeling myself.
I knew everything. I had all the answers, just ask me.
And don't judge me, you all were teenagers once too.
(Laughs)
It was at that age, too, when boys would notice me,
and I would notice back,
and my mom would just kind of laugh at it all.
And she told me one day,
"You can date whoever you want,
but you can't get married until you have a man
that brings me 10 horses, half a dozen blankets,
a few pounds of beads, hides,
and a freezer full of meat every year for four or five years."
"Excuse me what, mother?"
(Laughter)
I was aghast at her dowry-like grocery list
because at that age, I'm like,
I'm going to do what I want, and I'm going to date who I want.
But of course I did the wrong thing,
and I dated the wrong man,
and I ended up crying in my mother's arms anyway.
And she reminded me,
"Tai, you need the man that will bring me 10 horses,
half a dozen blankets, a few pounds of beads, hides, and meat,
because that's him providing and protecting and giving in our old ways.
That became a filter for me
in all of my interpersonal relationships
and how I interact with my community.
What are we doing to show the people in our lives
that they are sacred and that they matter and that they're protected?
What are we doing as acts of kindness
to each other in our community and to strangers.
Especially in this nonchalant, indifferent age
of self-checkout and Uber Eats and swiping right.
The ones that chuckled swipe left most of the time.
(Laughter)
But fast forward to now:
If I ever bring home a swipe-right dude with nothing from my mom's list,
she's probably going to send me to go live with my dad's family.
"Go be his problem then."
(Laughs)
Then again, Red Heart women, equal parts fury and love,
she may give the right man room to prove himself in our old ways.
But real quick, who brought 10 horses,
half a dozen blankets, few pounds of beads, hides, meat?
My mom is here. Anybody?
(Laughter)
Old ways.
Some days I think our old ways should be the only ways.
The old ways need to come back in style,
they need to "go viral" as the kids say these days.
They're the thing that center us on protecting the sacred,
on keeping things in balance and on protecting the sacred.
Old ways are what help us repair nature,
especially in the aftermath of our damage to nature.
Humans are why humans can't have nice things.
Back in 2016, I went to Standing Rock
when the prayer and protest camps
were being set up in staunch opposition to the Dakota Access Pipelines.
We arrived mid-morning and drove all night
from Nimiipuu country to North Dakota.
That first day, we set up our tents, and we milled around the camp
and we made ourselves as useful as we could.
But that next morning was life-changing for me.
I woke up at about five in the morning, listening to the camp come alive,
and at one point I got up and I made my way to the big fire
at the top of the hill near the entrance to the camp,
and there were elders there telling stories.
There was one particular Lakota old woman
that was telling stories about her upbringing
on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation,
and she was captivating.
Midway through one of her stories,
there was an older gentleman who interrupted her and asked,
"Why are we here?
When will this protest be at its end?
How long will we be here?"
She took her time in her response.
She took a few sips of her coffee,
and then she glanced slowly at each of the faces
watching her with eager interest,
and then she took a few more sips of her coffee,
and then she heaved this deep concerted sigh,
and when she returned her glance to him,
she said, "My people are from here.
I have no other home. I have no other place to go.
I don't belong anywhere else.
So I will be here fighting these oil pipelines
until they stop drilling or until I die."
I have never been moved by that level of conviction in my life
until that moment.
"I will be here until they stop drilling or until I die."
As a community, as a broad
"everybody's an American" kind of community,
we've lost that sense of conviction.
What are we all committed to? What makes us better?
What are we striving for?
"I will be here until they stop drilling or until I die."
And if that doesn't change you in some way in this moment today,
is there anything that can save us?
I mean, think about the similar older women in your lives and listen -
They could probably be telling you stories about a time you couldn't possibly fathom.
In those stories, listen for those moments of conviction
that drove, propelled, and inspired these women
to lead and to fight and to die for what they believe in.
This Lakota woman wasn't dying
or putting her life on the line recklessly.
Her ancestors had lived and died on that very land.
She was compelled to protect and defend that very same land
for the descendants coming after her.
"I don't belong anywhere else.
I will be here until they stop drilling or until I die."
So you see we've come full circle.
We've come from creation to growth to change to death,
all of it centered on protecting the sacred,
and if there's anything we take away from today,
it's that we have an obligation to do so,
to protect the sacred, to give to our communities,
and to keep nature in balance.
I hope that in this room full of my mostly white brothers and sisters,
that you're changed in some small way.
That you're changed in such a way
that you will lead and live lives and teach and vote in such a way
that reflects what indigenous people have known for a very long time.
That the way that we behave politically, socially,
economically, ecologically, since the inception of this country,
isn't working.
There is an old adage that says
that indigenous people live and walk in two worlds.
That we cling and clutch to our culture, and our religion, and our language,
everything about who we are,
while simultaneously educating and advancing ourselves
in a predominantly white, non-native world.
It is an everyday struggle to keep one foot in your world
while maintaining who we are
and remembering who we are as indigenous people.
Maybe it's time for all of us to be in one world,
to walk in one world together,
and that world is not the world that you're accustomed to.
We are all Coyote's creation.
Some of us undercooked, some of us overcooked,
some of us perfect.
(Laughter)
We have a responsibility to each other
because we are all a community.
We've committed to stay in balance,
we've committed to protect the sacred,
as Coyote and as Creator intended.
(Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt)
I am a descendant of Chief Red Heart of the Nez Perce nation.
(Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt)
I am The Storyteller.
(Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt)
Thank you that is all.
(Applause) (Cheers)