Chapter

12

Native

Americans

Section 1

When

Indians Plied

Its Waters

By Gene Yoachum

Skokomish elder

Joseph AndrewsSr.

Hood Canal offered bountiful

fishing amid cool waters and apicturesque aquatic highway tothe three major Indian tribesliving there in the decades priorto the 20th Century. The history

of the canal was shaped by the Twana,Chemakum and S'Klallam tribes, but onlyremnants remain today: the Skokomish, theSuquamish and the S'Klallams.

Elders from the three tribes describe

the canal as a much simpler, more pristineplace in their youth, when it was a base fortheir subsistence.

Joseph A. Andrews Sr., 76, recalled theyears just prior to 1920as a time when herarely wore clothes and when Hood Canalwas a "beautiful place" to be while growingup. Early in the morning, he'd watch deeralong the shores of the canal lick salt offrocks at low tide.

Andrews' eyes glistened as he talked

790

about how the autumn sky "just turneddark" as huge flocksof migrating geese flewoverhead, issuing sounds "that were like alullaby to my ears."

He remembered sitting in the bow ofhis grandfather's 24-foot shovel-nose canoeas a preschooler, "eating salmonberries thathung out over the canal. I wasn't a very goodpicker,but I could eat them pretty good.

"When I was a young boy, before Iwent to school, the Indians traveled the canalby canoesand rowboats equipped withsails," said Andrews, an elder among theSkokomish, whose reservation sits at theGreatBendof Hood Canal in MasonCounty.

"We had camps on both sides of thecanal," he said. "Therewere plenty of fishand clams. There were trees along both sides;the loggingcamps were just getting started."

Andrews said he "didn't wear clothes

until he was 8 years old. There was no needto becausethere was lots of privacy outthere."

When he was about 13 years old,Andrews had an encounterwith a couple ofwhales that he's not forgotten.

"About halfway across the canal, thesetwo whales buzzed me," Andrews recalled."They bumped the boat and made wavesthat bumped me, and the dogs barked, butthey didn't tip me over."

When he told about being accostedbythe whales, Andrews said his motherexplained the huge beasts may have beentrying to get to the dog and her puppies,noting that whales eat seals and other smallanimals.

Andrews' tribe shared use of the canal

with two others, the Suquamish and the PortGamble S'Klallams.

The Skokomishelder said his peoplehad friends among the Suquamish Indians,although"theyhad a hostility among them.It seemed like they always had to havesomeone's permission to be in the area. Wenever worried about it, but they did."

Doth sides of Hood Canal originallywere inhabited by the Twana Indians,divided into three bands, the Du-hlelips,Skokomish and Kolsids, the Rev. MyronEells wrote in The Twana, Chemakum andKlallam Indians ofWashington Territory,published in 1887.

He said the word 'Twana" was

believed to meana portage,coming"from

Native Americans »191

the portage between Hood's Canal and themain waters of the Sound, where the Indian,by carrying his canoe three miles, avoidsrowing around a peninsula 50 miles long."

Skokomishmeans "River People,"derived from their settlement at the mouth of

the large freshwater river that empties intothe canal.

The Chemakums are believed to have

originated from the Kwilleuts, who livedsouth of Cape Hattery on the PacificCoast.Eellswrote that a portion of the Kwilleuttribe, according to the Kwilleut tradition,came inland from the coast followinga veryhigh and sudden tide long ago and settlednear Port Townsend, calling themselves"Chemakums."

By 1887,Eells said the Chemakumswere "virtually extinct," there being only 10left who had not married whites or members

of other tribes.Only one four-member familywas included in the total. At one time, theChemakums occupied lands from the mouthof Hood Canal to Port DiscoveryBay.

The S'Klallam tribe derived their name

from "Nusklaim," a word in their languagewhich meant "strong people."

The S'Klallams had claimed territoryfrom Port Discovery Bayto the Hoko Riveron the northern coast of Washington.

Shortly before the turn of the 20thCentury, Eellsnoted many S'Klallams hadmoved to Little Boston,opposite PortGamble; to Jamestown north of Sequim; andPort Townsend and Port Discovery Bay,where most were employed at sawmills.

Another band of S'Klallams made their

home in Elwah, about eight miles west ofPort Angeles, living largely on fish. (Although the Port Gamble clan changed thespelling of the tribal name to S'Klallam, theclosestreflection to the correctpronunciation, the Jamestown and Lower Elwah clansstill use Klallam in their names.)

Ihe Suquamish and the Skokomishwere the main users of Hood Canal duringthe latter years of the 19th Century, according to Lawrence Webster of Indianola.

At 91, Webster is the eldest of theSuquamish tribe, centered on the PortMadison Indian Reservationin North Kitsap.

'They used the west side, we used theeast side" of the canal, he said. The KlallamTribe, particularly those from Port Gamble,didn't begin to make substantial use of Hood

The Northwest

Coast tribes

lost most oftheir creative

traditions

within a fewdecades of thetreaties theysigned with

whites in the

mid-19th

Century.Indian culture

was banished

during theschool year at

boardingschools the

children were

sent to.

292 • The People of Hood Canal

The S'Klallam

Tribe derived

its namefrom"Nu-sklaim," aword in their

language thatmeant "strong

people."

Canal until after Pope &Talbot built itslumber mill at Port Gamble in 1854, Websteradded.

He recalled taking a cedar dugoutcanoe on a month-long fishing trip on thecanal when he was about 4 years old.

"It was a family canoe, seven of us," hesaid. It was large enough for four adults,three children and the

group's camping equipment.They paddled the

canoe northward from Miller

Bayaround the KitsapPeninsula, into the mouth ofHood Canal and all the wayto the south end of the

saltwater channel.

The group had timedthe journey to the canal totake advantage of the tidesbecause without help fromtidal currents, their canoe tripwould have been much

longer. Evenwith tidesworking in their favor, thetrip required the better partof a day.

They spent the nextmonth living in canvas tentspitched along the banks ofthe canal, sleeping on cattailmats, fishing each day anddrying their catch overcampfires to keep it throughthe winter.

After they'd caught anddried what they could take back in theircanoe, they returned home.The trip back,however, took a full day's paddling and partof another, Webster recalled, because theyhad miscalculated the tides needed to make

their journey easier.When he was growing up, Webster

said Anderson Hill Road in Central Kitsapand the Port Gamble-Suquamish Road inNorth Kitsap werenot roads,but merepaths— routes used frequently by his people toget to and from Hood Canal.He said tribalmembers who were in fishing camps on thecanal for extended periods often used thetrails to tend to matters back home. The nine-

mile trek could be made within a few hours.

Webster recalled the Suquamish didn'tgo over to the canal as much starting inabout 1910. Older tribal members were less

inclined to make the trip becauseof the effort

it required. Younger Indians "began to getbusy with other things."

Irene Purser, 90, an eldermember ofthe Port Gamble S'Klallam Tribe at Little

Boston, also remembers the canal as a majorthoroughfare for early settlers.

She and two other

S'Klallam tribal elders — her

half-sister, Mildred Decoteau,64, and Catherine Moran, 81— recalled how game, fishand other forms of life were

found alongside the canal.Then commercial ventures

and increasing numbers ofresidences began to changethe life they'd grown toenjoy.

"In those days, youcould go where you wantedto dig clamsor go fishing,"Decoteau said. "It was an

important part of daily life."Purser said she could

remember when there was

"only one store on the canal— at Lofall. People wentthere to buy hardtack, flourand sugar."

She recalled her

grandparents taking her toPuyallup with them to pickhops and going to Brinnon tocatch and dry fish for the

winter. She also remembered family members baking bread by burying loaves in hotsand and "eating fishon a stickevery dayand never getting tired of it."

Moran said her people would digclams each winter and sell them for 50 cents

a bushel.

Purser's family had a large canoe, largeenough for a bed in the middle for thechildren in her family to sleep, with room oneach end for adults to sit and paddle thecraft.

In addition to paddling and using tidalcurrents to their advantage, the Indians alsorelied on the winds to power their canoesand flat-bottomed boats, Moran said. Sherecalled how sails were created by sewingflour sacks together.

'The canoe was how they got around,"she said.

Hood Canaltribes

The Skokomish (1),the Port Gamble

S1 Klallam (2) andthe Suquamish (3)

allfoundsustenance in the

bounty of the HoodCanal watershed.

It is mid-winter and pre-white man.The last of the yabu, the dog salmonpeople from the Skokomish and otherrivers, have been hauled in and

smoked. Food the Tuwa'duxq havegathered should last the season.Now it's time for the 1,000 or more

people of various bands scattered around thecurled leg of water they calltuwa'duxqlsi'dakw — the Twana's saltwater— to congregate in their plank houses anddevote their time to more spiritual matters.

Nine communities surround the

Twana's saltwater, occupied by three or fivebands, depending upon whose accountconstitutes history.

Edward S. Curtis, who photographedtribes throughout the West at the turn of thecentury, located the Duhle'lips at UnionCreek, the S'kokomish at their river, theSoatlkobsh along both sides from what isnow Hoodsport to the Dosewallips at whatis now Brinnon.

Members o{ the S'Klallam tribe

apparently camped at Brinnon, but farther tothe northeast there were more Twanas — the

Kolsids at what is now Quilcene, anotherversion of their name, and the Slchoksbishon both sides beyond.

Native Americans »193

Farther were more S'Klallams at Little

Boston and Port Gamble, Port Ludlow,

Hadlock and Port Townsend.

The S'Klallams spread into the formerChemakum territory from their originalcamps along the Strait of Juan de Fuca as theChemakums — depleted, it is said, by warand smallpox — declined first to a remnantof a people, then to a memory, then to afootnote.

By1859, only a few years after thefederal treaty had been signed with the threetribes, the S'Klallamswere very much inevidence all along the passage to the canal.

Their chief, Chetzemoka, hosted athree-day ceremonial gathering of 400S'Klallams in 1859 that a San Francisco

newspaper correspondent described as an"invocation to their Tomanawos, or Great

Spirit." Tomanawos was a Chinook word,the trading jargon spoken by Indian andwhite alike.

Once into the canal, the saltwaterbelonged to the Twanas. Beforecentury'send, their five bands were all calledSkokomish after the river where their 4,000-acre reservation was located, and where

most of their depleted population eventuallysettled.

Section 2

Tribes

Seek Their

Spirit Song

ByJulieMcCormick

Skokomish spiritualleader Bruce Miller

brought theoldcleansing ritual back tohis tribe.

194* The People of Hood Canal

Unlike the

northern tribes,many of whose

similar

ceremonies

were attended,described in

detail,explained andanalyzed by

white scholars,most of the

Coast Salish

were — and

still are —

secret. And the

artifacts oftheir rituals

gone.

lheyhad named 32 different places onthe river, 146on the canal, including somewhirlpools and other special spots that wereto be avoided lest the salmon people becomeoffended and not return.

This intimate relationship with theirnatural surroundings, upon which theyrelied for their relatively abundant existence,was shared by all the Coast Salish and othertribes throughout the Northwest PacificCoast.

Winter was the time when those

relationships were most often displayed insong and dance. It is the timewhen tribalmembers may become "Indian sick," theterm members of Xanxanitl, the Skokomishtribe's secretsociety, have given to a state ofmind that requires certain prescribedspiritual steps.

"Indian sick is when you go through asudden or maybe a gradual characterchangein your life," saysBruce Miller, a Skokomishspiritual leader.

Millerbrought the old practices back tothe tribe after his initiation in a Lummi

ceremony in 1977. Indiansickis likea fluforwhich there is no detectable cause.

'That means that your spirit song istrying to be born," Miller explains. "Welivein a societyin which the majorityof peopleare without a song, and from my observationthey wander lost.They leave their ownculture to find a culture that will give them asong."

Song—harmoniesof human soundthat precedeand underlie formal language— was given by the Great Spirit to expressbasic human emotion.

It's the same old song — and dance —Millernotes with a slight smile.Spiritdanceaccompaniessong in the longhouseorsmokehouse where rituals known only tomembers resemble those of ancestors likeFrank Allen, one of the last dancers.

Allen's death in the 1950s, at the sametime as that of Miller's grandmother, also adancer, was the end of spirit dancing for theSkokomish until Miller reintroduced the

practice.Songis a cure for Indian sickness, an

expression of the powerof thespiritwhosename you have taken in a naming ceremony.In the old days, says Miller, a personwithouta song wasn't really alive.

The ceremonies described by the SanFrancisconewspaper correspondent in 1859

were full of color — although he was notallowed to witness much — but not

grounded in meaning.Four people went into extended

trances and were revived by mask-wearingdancers.Spiritswere calledby the beating ofrattles upon the roof of the lodge house.

People danced masked as bears,lizards, cranes. People blackened their facesand filled their hair with white feathers. One

man appeared to swallow an arrow.None of that should have been re

corded, remarks Miller. The correspondentnotes that Chetzemoka was admonished for

permitting whites at an evening performance, where they disgraced him withlaughter.

Unlike the northern tribes, many ofwhose similar ceremonies were attended,described in detail, explained and analyzedby whitescholars, mostof the CoastSalishwere — and still are — secret. And the

artifacts of their rituals gone."You could pass along the right to have

a mask, but not the mask itself," explainsMiller. "To have an uninitiated personobserve vilified the ceremony."

Until the 1978 Native American

Freedom of Religion Act, ceremonies werealso technicallyillegal.Tribal members weresometimes jailed for participation.

At the Skokomish Reservation, onlytheTreatyDaysceremonies the lastSaturdayin January are open to the public.They arecalledTreaty Days becausecelebrationof thePoint-No-PointTreaty was the only justificationgovernmentagents would allow for theforbidden practices.

Xanxanitl initiates must endure

isolationand deprivation, based on thetheory that it strengthens one for hardshipthat can comeat any time. 'That teacheskal,the utmost belief that the spirit will give youwhat you need to survive until you getbetter," says Miller.

The Salish and other Pacific coast

people had wealth-basedcultures. Statuswas achieved partly through the redistribution of wealth in the potlatch ceremony andthe children of the wealthy particularlyneeded such training.

When an initiate ends his or her fast,each morsel must be shared, "because thenyou beginyour new lifeby sharing ...in anatmosphereof thankfulness," saysMiller.'They are forced to admire the beauty of thesimplicityof their life."

Suquamish artisan EdCarriere.

EdCarriere's eyes gaze down atthick fingers tangled in theirdeliberate work. Lost in it, his voiceis barely audible as he tells aboutthe conviction that drove him to re-learn this painstaking task after so

many years.

"My desire is to make baskets thataren't being made anymore," says theSuquamish Indian, arching and weaving stiffcedarstrips of limband root into warp andweft.

"I feel like it's a link, a connection, andI'm doing it exactly the way it was donehundreds of years ago."

Carriere is starting clam basket bottomsfor hisclassof novices. Theyoftengetstuck on this difficult initial part of theprocess, so he is sparing them that frustration in their early work.

Native Americans *195

Although there are many basketmakersamong the coastal tribes, onlyCarriere regularly attempts the traditionalopen-weave clam basket. They are sturdierand less showy than the more tightly wovengrass and cedar bark baskets used forstorage, carrying and cooking.

Clam basket makers did not adorn

theircreations with meticulousfancyworklike that of the other types. They would lastonly a season or two before breaking downfrom heavyuse and saltwater decay, whilethe others lasted generations.

The Northwest Coast tribes lost mostof their creative traditions within a few

decades of the treaties they signed withwhites in the mid-19th Century.

They were quick to adapt to new ways.Manufactured goods replaced many of thematerials they had collected for centuries to

Section 3

He Weaves

Past and

Present

Together

ByJulieMcConuick

196 • The People of Hood Canal

The art ofbasket making

waned fromarrival of

white societyuntil the 1930s,

when,ironically,

governmentprograms

sought to teachbasket making

to

impoverishedIndians duringthe Depression.

carve, weave and decorate.Denim and gingham replaced hide,

beaten cedar and dog's wool clothing.Modern cookingin pots and pans replacedthe tightly woven basketsused to make"stone soup," any water-based concoctioninto which hot rockswere dropped for heat.

Peopleused pails to collect and washclams.They lasted longer than the strong oldbaskets.

Only a few women retained the basket-weaving skill.One of them was Carriere'sgreat-grandmother, Julie Jacob.

Once her fingersbecametoo stiffforthe work, the 15-year-old great-grandsonshehad raised was taught to help.

But when he was grown, Carriere, nowin his late 50s,stopped making baskets,wentto work at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard andraised a family.

"In '691 started to work with it againand bring the art back," he said. "It tookmeabout four years to make a fairlygood,decent lookingbasket.I had to try to pull allthat knowledge out and try to remember."

Carriere believes he owns close to

everybasketbook ever written in English.Multipleexamples from other basketryspecialties have joined a broadassortment ofNorthwest native work on shelves in

Carriere's living room.For more than 20years, his workbench

has been the dining table in the house hebuilt across from his great-grandmother'shome. It is located on family land along theIndianola beachfront in North Kitsap.

But this year, Carriere is completinga

workshop addition to house not onlybasketrybut carving materials and tools.

He's taken up carving under thetutelageofS'Klallam JakeJonesand DuanePasco, a white carver who has gained aworldwide reputation for meticulous workin the Northwest Indian tradition.

"Everyartist needs something else," hesays with a conviction born of experience.He has a log on his land all picked out for hisnext major project, a canoecarved in thetraditional style.

Carriere sells every basket he makes,and he also likes to produce a bent cedarbark pouch of a type used to carry whalingtools in the bows of canoes.

People find him. He does not advertise,nor prepare work for galleries, nor takespecialorders, "because then it would be justlike a job.I just do it when I have the timeand I feel like doing it, because then I canmake a better basket."

Completing the first of a long seriesofbottoms for the class he's teaching at the PortGamble S'Klallam Art Center, Carrieremuses aloud about his students and his

work.

He says it takes 12hours to make amedium-sized clam basket, not includinggathering and preparing materials,whichare stored in a freezer.

"It looks so easy, and then, when I startteachingclass,no one can do it." He smilesinto his hands. "My fingers get really wornand smooth if I'm weaving every day ...Allthe little fingerprints get worn off."

Duane Pasco, a non-Indian who isanexpert intraditional Northwest Coast tribal carving, teaches

a class in bentwood boxmaking.

"... the construction of (these) boxes issomewhat peculiar. The sides andends are madeofone board; where the corner is tobe, a smallmiter is cut, both on the inside and outside, partlythrough. Then the corners are steamed and bentat right angles, andthe inside miter is cutsoperfectly that itfits water-tight when thecornersare bent." — Rev. Myron Eells,missionaryand diarist, in The Twana, Chemakum andKlallam Indians of Washington Territory, 1887.

Onthe beach at Point Julia,Northwest carver Duane Pasco

is tending a rock-filled fire anddigging trenches in the sand.His students in the bent box

class, several from the PortGamble S'Klallam tribe, are putting finishingtouches on their rectangular cedar boards,prepared at the reservation's new artbuilding across from the tribal center.

The last bent boxes handed down

within the tribe were reduced to ash several

years ago in a fire that destroyed tribalchairman Jake Jones' home.

Native Americans *197

The tribe put up a building in 1989 tohouse a canoe carving project led by Pascofor the state's centennial. When that was

done, the building became a classroom tohelp bring back the traditional arts.

Pasco, a non-Indian carver in theNorthwest Coast tribal tradition, teaches

design and box making to several oldertribal members. They, in turn, will pass it onto the next generation, said Jones.

More modern steaming methods areavailable to soften the wood for bending, butthe class also used the traditional method of

burying it with hot rocks covered in swordferns.

Bent box making methods wereentirely lost, even among the more traditional northerly tribes, by the time Pasco firsttried it 30 years ago. An account by pioneeranthropologist Franz Boas seemed completeuntil he tried it and failed, Pasco said.

The next step was to study examplescollected in museums and — voila! — a keyundercutting method could be discernedthat allowed a scored piece of wood to fold

Section 4

Teaching

the Tribes'

Lost Art

By JulieMcConnick

198 • The People of Hood Canal

The bent boxes

— unique tothe world of

the Northwest

tribes — were

often used forstorage, andsometimes

bound bywoven strands

of cedar barkfor carryingand to bind

them together

tightly in upon itselfand forma watertightseal.

The bent boxes — unique to the worldof the Northwest tribes — were often used

for storage, and sometimes bound by wovenstrands of cedar bark for carrying and tobind them together inside canoes.

At theSkokomish Reservation, 40miles south by canoe along Hood Canal,tribal member Bruce Miller has shared his

basket making skills and experience withothers, including children, since 1970.

Among the three Hood Canal areatribes, the Skokomish have been mostsuccessful at maintaining their traditionalart.

"Actually, we have a budding community of artists," said Miller,known primarilyfor his twined and coiled baskets, but also asa carver and beadwork artist. There are 14

Skokomish basketmakers, who generallymarket their work to a steady clienteleofcollectorsand galleries.

The work of carver Andy Wilbur,silversmith Pete Peterson and basket maker

Richard Cultee has gained internationalrecognition for beauty, Miller said.

Miller, 46, credits two key elders,Louisa Pulsifer and Emily Miller, for passingalong before their deaths the traditionallyfemale art of basket making to his generation.

Miller learned from Emily Miller,whose granddaughter Mary Hernandezrecently decided to continue the familytradition into the fourth generation.

Basketsof all sizes and for all purposescontinued to be made privately by tribalmembers, Miller said, because it was anenjoyable occupation and because it, unlikeother arts associated with forbidden reli

gious practices, was never banned.Miller once found some "Louisa

baskets" in New York shops and learnedthat one of his had reached a collection at the

Museum of Folk Art in Berlin.

But the art waned from arrival of white

society until the 1930s,when governmentprograms sought to teach basket making toimpoverished Indians during the Depression.

"We thought it was hilarious," saidMiller. "It was like selling refrigerators to

Eskimos."

The basket making is an integral part ofthe economic well being of the communitybecause we're a poor people, basically," saidMiller.

Miller and other basket makers in the

tribe now often use modern dyes andmaterials, including raffia from Madagascar,rather than pursue the laboriousprocess ofgathering, treating and creating native dyes.

"The basket making itself comprisesonly about 5 percent of the whole process,"he said.

But some entirely traditional basketswith trademark Skokomish dog, stacked-boxand other designs are still made frombeargrass, cattail rushes, shredded cedarbark and "sweet grasses."

Rit dye easily replaces and outlasts the"blue mud" of the marshes used to stain

materialsblack, the rootsof Oregon grapefor yellow, the alder bark that once waschewed to a paste to obtain red. "Nowadays,we use a blender," Miller said, "but ifs notthe same red."

While such methods may not seementirely authentic, Skokomish artists arequick to point out that the elders themselveswere fond of innovative techniques thatcould save them time and trouble.

Hernandez laughs at the memory ofher grandmother, who decided the best wayto remove unwanted mucus from grassmaterials was to place it between plywoodsheets and drive back and forth over it with a

car.

"My grandmother didn't even knowhow to drive," she laughed, but it beatscraping off the stuff with dull knives.

It's not only troublesome, it's oftenhopeless to try to do things the old way.

Rediscovering the old methods isanother matter. Miller said he learned most

of what he knows about tribal traditions "bykeeping my ears open. Some of this I'venever seen, but was described time after timeby my elders."

For several decades, renewed interestin the Northwest native arts has opened newmarkets and created a revival of interest

among tribal members themselves, who canpoint to the work of their elders and ancestors with pride and appreciation.

Head Start students at the Port GambleS'Klallam Tribal Center are introduced

to the language oftheir ancestors.

A Cultural Appreciation

Many of their grandparents went toboarding schools,where much of theIndian culture was banished during

the school year.Today, the grandchildren attend Hood

Canal School, where educators try to rekindle interest in Indian traditions.

Almost 100 Indian students attend the

school, located at the Skokomish Reservationon the Great Bend of the canal. They represent about 40 percent of the K-7studentpopulation.

Inside the school, students get reminders of the culture that existed long beforewhite man's schools first came to the

Skokomish in the 1870s. Interest in Indian

heritage seems to rise during the fallwhenthe curriculum includes a three-week session

Native Americans • 199

on Native American studies.

"Just that time of year everybody says"I am part Indian,' " said Pat Hawk, directorof Indian Education at the school. Hawk, an18-yearHood Canal employee, directs thesession, where students learn culturalcomparisons among the American tribes.

"They didn't all live in tepees; theydidn't all wear feathers."

The session also includes visits bypeople in the tribal community who shareskills in storytelling, puppetry, dancing andfishing lore.

She also directs a year-long art class forthe older students, who worked on paintingan Indian mural in the hallway.

"We want to keep the traditional artsalive," Hawk said.

The school's funding for Indianeducation is limited, said Superintendent

Section 5

Using the

Classroom to

Rekindle

Tradition

200 • The People of Hood Canal

Native

American

students learn

better bydoing. They

pick up morefrom discovery

than frombooks.

Robert Weir. Statefunds totaling $5,200, andfederal TitleVfunds totaling $17,000 went tothe school for Indian education in 1990.

"We have to squeeze salaries from that,as well as things for the kids," Weir said.

Tied to the money is the requirementthat Indianpeoplein the community stayinvolved with the school. An Indian Parent

Education Committee meetsmonthlytodiscusscurriculum and classroom problems.

"We are a liaisonbetween parents andthe teachers and staff,"said LaurieByrd,parent and Head Start teacher.

If parents raise concerns, committeemembers act on their behalf.

"A lot of the parents are uncomfortablewith the teachers,"Byrdsaid.

Only two of the school's 22 teachers areIndian.The underlying cultural differencesmay have something to do with parentaldiscomfort. Whateverthe reasonforanydiscomfort, Byrd believes the solution isgetting people together to talk.

"We need to keep communicationopen," she said.

The Indian Parent Education Commit

tee was successful in arranging tutoring forIndian students last year. The SkokomishTribalCouncilfoots the bill,paid for out ofthe council's fish tax. Many of the Skokomishare fishers.

The tutoring sessions include not justemphasis on any skill the students need topractice, but also about 15 minutes a sessionon native arts or crafts.

"We want to ensure that there is a

multi-cultural concept in all the curriculum,"said SallyBrownsfield, a fifth-grade teacherat the school and a parent member of theIndian Parent Education Committee. She is a

member of the Squaxin Island tribe.Brownsfield contends that Indian

students have different learning styles fromtheir Anglo classmates.

"It's been shown that Native American

students learn better by doing. They pick upmore from discovery than from books,"Brownsfield said. With that knowledge, sheplans her classes so the students can beinteractive.

"I let them do the experiment first, thenthe reading, then the experiment again," shesaid. "With other classes, I might give thereading and instruction first."

ByJessie Milligan

Reviving the Language

Nuts'oo... chasa ... lleewh."

The guileless pre-schoolers in the PortGamble S'Klallam Tribe's Head Start

class wrap their throats around the clusteredsyllables of theirancientlanguageas ifbornto it.

"...ngoos... lhq'achsh ... t'xung."Theyhold up eachlittlefingerand

repeat with teacher Myrna Milholland fromthe Lower Elwha Klallams, who holdsflashcardswith pictures of familiar traditional objects. •

Nuts'oo kw'ayungsun — one eagle.Two whales— chasa ch'whe'yu. They runout of fingers at 'oopun.

Milholland is out of numbers after

nineteen, she admits to her adult class laterin the morning. Shehad only a few words ofnuwhstla'yum ootsun — the S'Klallamlanguage — until, as a young woman, shebegan helping her mother, NellieSullivan,with the sometimesunruly mixed summerclasses of adults and children.

Milholland recalls that children in the

tribe had begun to mimic the language whenher mother used it, poke fun at the oldsounds, until she stopped speaking it.

She loved working with her motherand tries to keep up the work despiteoccasional feelings of inadequacy. "Someofthe words are so hard, I'd almosthave myfacein her mouth trying to pronouncethem," she smiles.

When her mother died a few years ago,only six elders in the Elwha tribe retainedany use of the spoken tongue.

Now Milholland must use a taperecorder to preserve what is left of thelanguage among her elders and hopes to getaccess to the University of Washingtonlanguage tapes made decades ago andstored somewhere.A book of the languagecreated by University of Hawaii researchersis flawed,based upon only one source whospoke two tribal languages and mixed themup. Her mother told her to ignore it.

Milholland's mother needed her helpbecause she was educated to teach children

and she knew how to keep them busy anddeal with their short attention spans. Today,as with every Wednesday language class, thechildren are learning something new andadding it to the small store of basics.

Out come the animal puppets. You

remember sta'ching, the wolf,saysMilholland.

He playeda keyrolein the storyofpretty Nakeeta, heard lastweek and relatedagain today. Straying from hermotherduringa berrypicking expedition, shebecame lost and was eaten. Her mother'sgrief wassostrongthatshe wasgiven LakeSutherland as consolation.

Tsyas, hand. They trace theoutlines oftheir ten fingers onto theirbook of coloringpictures. Later, theywilltakethese bookshome and maybe their parents will take aninterest.

It is with the children that the future ofthe traditional culture rests, tribal leaderssay.

Most adults share a legacy of generations of white control that included bans onthe languageand customs,distrust andcontemptfor the "savage"waysofa PacificNorthwest Coast culture rich in personalindustry, art and religiousceremony.

"I think we were one of the first peopletogivethem up," S'Klallam chairmanJakeJones saysof the old ways,mostlybecauseofearlyand persistentcontact with whites,hesurmises.

SeparateS'Klallam bands once rangedfromNeahBay at the far western tip of theOlympicPeninsula to Discovery BaynearPort Townsend; from Lower Hadlock, whereartifacts at a beach called Tsetsibus indicate a

meeting ground centuries old; and later to

Native Americans • 201

Port Gamble, where tribal sources say thecampwasdisplaced by thewhitecommunity's graveyardafter the mill townwas established in 1853.

The ancients were known as excellenttraders and fierce warriors. But by the timeJones' generation was born, there were nomore canoe makers, no more spirit quests,no more "nuts'oo... chasa ... lleewh."

The Port Gamble S'Klallams recentlyput thetraditional "s" prefix backbeforetheirname.Likemany of the words, it worksbestifyou suckin on the prefix, breatheouton the next syllables, much like playingharmonica.

The tribe hired Milholland to helpregaintheirculture,whichas any linguistorpoetknows, is embeddedin the words.

Jones' sisters, Ginger and Geneva Ives,signed up fortheadult language class andadded to MilhoUand's vocabulary withmemories of sounds buried since the deathof their grandmother 47years ago.

All threeagree on the variablemeaningof umit, which can be sit down or get up,dependingon what you do with your hands.

But nu can't be the only way to say"no," saysGeneva. "Shealways said'aunu'," she muses about the large old ladyshe waited upon in old age. Maybe shemeant "no more."

Myrna Milhollandwrites that down.Maybeher elders will know.

ByJulie McCormick

Most adult

tribal members

share a legacyof generations

of whitecontrol that

included

distrust and

contempt for aPacific

Northwest

Coast culture

rich in

personalindustry, artand religious

ceremony.