One hundred and
seventy five years ago on a Pacific Northwest beach, a
man sings. A chant in a somber minor key – repeating, descending. His tone is
low and gravelly, but the sound carries far across the dark expanse of salt
water, through the air blanketed in clouds of grey and charcoal.
The sacred song
was bestowed by nature, to evoke a spirit power. The melody harmonizes with the
hissing breeze in the trees, the slurping wavelets on the shore, the raven’s
rasp, barking seal, and splashing salmon, the crunch of shells underfoot.
Bushes laden with
berries and rivers flowing with fish nourish the singing man. Cedar trees
approach to offer their trunks for transport across the water and their bark
for garments against the rain. Raven and coyote share ancient stories of how
the earth came to be.
On the same day
175 years ago, at the sultry mouth of the Mississippi River, a man sits astride
his bamboula, sweating over the drum he is permitted to play only on Sundays in
Congo Square. Hundreds of African slaves drum, dance, and sing in this New
Orleans park, away from the severe restrictions of the
British and French cultures left over from colonization. The music and motion
weaves a resilient fabric, recalling African village life where rhythms told
stories and dancing restored health. Their music is a haven of freedom within
the country enslaving them. This taproot of black music, jazz, drinks from the
confluence of cultures coming to the shores of the new world.
Today, I would
like to bring these two streams of ancient music together. Like the Duwamish
tribe, I yearn for a connection to the natural world. Like the descendants of
African slaves, I find in jazz freedom, equity, and emotional expression. The
sounds I choose to create today are flavored by the fruit of all our family
trees.
[PLAY ENCHANTMENT]
My name is Steve
Griggs. I come from generations of white people who migrated from Europe
to the eastern shore of this continent and settled ever westward, displacing
indigenous tribes with disease, discrimination, and destruction. In the eyes of
the Duwamish tribe, I am what is called a “Boston
man.”
While I acknowledge
William Bradford of Plymouth Plantation as a relative, I also embrace a truly
ancient ancestor. One we all share. The common genetic ancestor of all living
things, forged a billion years ago in a single root. That bond connects us and
it is that unifying force I want to recognize today.
I come from a
family of teachers, including my father, Douglas Meriwether Griggs Jr. He spent
his life as a student of the heart. He was a research cardiologist with a quest
to learn the secrets of how a heart heals itself – to learn how a diseased muscle
will still grow strong. The heart muscle gives each of us our pulse, our drum
beat, our rhythm to dance through life – the muscle that I have heard the
Duwamish refer to as our “third ear.” We hear words through our ears. We hear
feelings through our hearts.
Today I speak to
that third ear. I follow in the footsteps of my father. Not as a scientist, but
as a musician who wants to create sounds that touch the heart and make it
stronger. Stronger and more open. Stronger and more sensitive. Stronger and more
generous.
My father bestowed
upon me his curiosity, his persistent pursuit of wisdom – to venture to the
edge of what he knew, and see beyond. I am grateful for his example. I called upon
him throughout the time I spent weaving this program for you. To honor my
father and all of our ancestors, we will play this song.
[PLAY ANCESTORS]
The program today springs
from my connection with the place where we live. When I was working on a
program about the Panama Hotel in Seattle ’s
Japantown and the history of Japanese American incarceration in WWII, I learned
about the deep roots of racism in our city. Before injustices against Japanese,
there were riots against Chinese that brought martial law to Seattle .
And even farther back was the Seattle
ordinance against Indians living within city limits. Preceding that were
violent clashes between settlers and local tribes. In the face of racist frenzy,
Chief Seattle walked a path of peace and non-violence for all. We can learn
from his example.
How can we listen
to Chief Seattle today? We cannot hear his voice with our ears. We cannot watch
his gestures with our eyes. He did not put his own words on paper. Can we trust
the written and spoken stories about him?
Some say that
stories are alive. Some say that stories are our ancestors. Perhaps Seattle
is alive in the stories about him. Seattle
is alive in the place where he lived. Does the place that bears his name echo
words that our hearts can hear?
The most widely
known story about Chief Seattle was told by Dr. Henry Smith in an article he
published in a Seattle newspaper in
1887. Controversy surrounds this story. Smith recalled in English what Chief
Seattle said 30 years before in the indigenous Lushootseed language. This gap
in time and translation may cripple the veracity of Smith’s retelling, yet the
story has a power that is still strong after many decades. Like any story, the
listeners must find their own truths within.
By the waterfront,
outside Doc Maynard’s house, Chief Seattle rose to address the regional
Governor Isaac Stevens, regarding the change that the whites brought. Settlers
and tribes gathered to listen. Smith described the sound of Chief Seattle’s
voice. “Old Chief Seattle’s trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense
multitude, like the startling reveille of a bass drum, when silence became as
instantaneous and perfect as that which follows a clap of thunder from a clear
sky.”
He began, “Yonder
sky that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and
which, to us, looks eternal, may change…
“Our religion is
the traditions of our ancestors, the dreams of our old men, given them by the
great Spirit, and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of
our people…
“Every hill-side,
every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or
some sad experience of my tribe…
“In all the earth
there is no place dedicated to solitude…
“At night, when
the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent, and you think them
deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still
love the beautiful land.”
There are many
truths to be found in Seattle ’s
words. I have been wrestling with what he may have said. What truths do you
hear?
[REPEAT SENTENCES
FROM SEATTLE ’S SPEECH AND INIVITE
AUDIENCE TO SHARE INTERPRETATION]
The following section contains some of my
thoughts that may be shared in dialog with the audience:
To me, Seattle
Chief Seattle spoke of what guides the
indigenous people. From this I learn that Seattle
Chief Seattle spoke of the sacred connection
with nature. Hearing this, I learned of Seattle
Chief Seattle spoke of the naturalness of
the collective and the aberration of rugged individualism. What does that mean?
Seattle taught that solitude is no haven, no home. Self interest is unnatural. Self
interest is an idea that promotes individualism, separation, and despair. Self
interest leaves a hole, a need, an unquenchable thirst. Self interest fuels the
engine of settler culture.
Chief Seattle spoke about limits of the
settler perspective. He said, In Seattle
I invite us to listen
to Seattle . Listen with our heart.
[PLAY THUNDERBIRD]
Thomas Phelps was
a sailor stationed on the U.S. Warship Decatur, anchored in Elliot
Bay Seattle
landscape, pulled out his journal, and began to sketch what he saw. Nestled
within a forested amphitheater, he drew the 20 or so structures on the
waterfront – Henry Yesler’s sawmill and house flanked by Doc Maynard’s house,
the Methodist church, 2 blockhouses to protect settlers from Indian attack, and
Madame Damnable’s house of pleasure. In his notebook, Phelps described the
setting as the perfect “business emporium” with the finest timber in the world,
soil to produce unsurpassed quantities and qualities of food, a climate teeming
with health, water filled with fish, and forests abounding with game. The
emporium, or store, he saw was nature – nature that was free to be taken and
sold. The U.S. Government issued the Donation Land Claim Act of 1850 which made
a generous promise: any white male was entitled to 320 acres as long as they
cultivated it for 4 years. Any married man was entitled to 640 acres. FOR FREE.
Look around at the
Duwamish landscape now. The towering green cedar trees are replaced by the
lifted metal arms of derricks and cranes loading cargo onto ships and dredging
toxic sediment from the river. The sound of wind lifting proud eagles is replaced
by the whine of polluting aircraft, the wail of passing freight trains, and the
growl of heavy trucks. The seaside smells of salmon, kelp, and clams are replaced
by the stench of oil, sewage, and diesel exhaust. The meandering Duwamish has
been straightened. The forested hills have been stripped and flattened. The
rich soil has been buried under asphalt and concrete. The settlers have grown
in number. The families of animals have shrunk or disappeared.
As of January
2011, the Environmental Protection Agency listed 113 species as being at risk
or vulnerable to extinction in the Salish
Sea King
County Seattle manages public
utilities that dump sewage into the Duwamish. The pollution from industrial
freight vehicles – ships, trains, and trucks – come together in the Port
of Seattle
In stories, the
Duwamish speak of the Changer – the being who changed the world to its present
form. What being is responsible for changing the world in the last century and
a half? We are. We are the changers. We changed the mouth of the Duwamish
River
My purpose today
is not to assign blame, wallow in sorrow, or solve the enormous challenge of
healing human impact on nature. I want us to hear what has happened, see where
we are, and feel connected to each other and all that surrounds us, to add a
small fragment to our land’s healing.
[PLAY CHANGERS]
The Point Elliot
Treaty of 1855 listed government promises to indigenous people if they would
move to reservations - payment for land, free schools and medical treatment,
and the continued right to fish, hunt, and gather fruit and vegetables where
tribal ancestors had for centuries. Chief Seattle was the first of a long list
of tribal leaders to sign, a place of respect.
The Duwamish were
never granted a reservation. In the 50 years following the treaty signing,
whites burned 94 longhouses in 28 native villages. In 1916, the ship canal
between Lake Washington and Lake
Union Lake
Washington by nine feet. The Black River ,
that had drained the lake into the Duwamish
River
Today, the United
States does not recognize the current
Duwamish tribal organization as descendants of Chief Seattle’s 1855 tribe. The
most recent denial of recognition came to Duwamish chairwoman Cecile Hanson in
July this year. Without that recognition, the government will not acknowledge
responsibility for the promises it made to Chief Seattle.
Today, I see the
Duwamish. I see them as the descendants of the Chief who signed the 1855
treaty. Everyone who lives on the Salish
Sea
[PLAY RECOGNITION]
The Duwamish have
a strong oral tradition of storytelling. On long winter nights in longhouses
like this, elders share stories of how the world came to be, how people and
nature are connected, how trickster reveals a lesson. I have not received the
gift of a tribal story, so I cannot tell you one today. But I know they contain
teachings – teaching of respect, responsibility, and reverence. They are not
moralistic. There is not only one meaning. Each listener may find a different
lesson. What I am learning from them is connectedness over separation,
responsibility over impulse, respect over negativity.
Like the Duwamish,
my community of jazz musicians has a strong oral tradition of storytelling.
When improvising, musicians are encouraged to “tell their story” – to transcend
technique and reveal their spirit.
Along with music,
musicians pass along stories and jokes about the history and culture of
improvising. The stories are not about good versus bad, order versus chaos, friend
versus foe. They emphasize what it takes to create in the moment. They are
about style as substance, wit as worthiness, improvisation as identity.
In both the
culture of the Duwamish and the culture of jazz musicians, stories teach and
share truths so the community will endure.
[PLAY TEACHING TRUTHS]
The Duwamish tribe
is experiencing a rebirth – reclaiming their language, fighting for their legal
rights, establishing a gathering place, teaching wisdom from their ancestors,
and leading environmental stewardship. I hope the city that bears the Duwamish
ancestor’s name will support this rebirth.
I want to close
this program by returning attention to the river. We owe a great debt of
gratitude to those advocates working to clean up the Duwamish. One I would like
us all to acknowledge today is Duwamish tribal member James Rassmussen. He is the
coordinator of the Technical Advisory Group for the Duwamish River Cleanup
Coalition. James is working on behalf of the communities whose lives are
overlooked, impoverished, and poisoned by the river’s pollution. There is an
important interview with James which you can find at duwamishcleanup.org. But
today, he will speak to you directly.
[GIVE JAMES FLOOR]
We can all help
the Duwamish River Seattle .
We are all connected to each other.
[PLAY CIRCLES]
