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About Smoke signals. (Grand Ronde, Or.) 19??-current | View Entire Issue (April 1, 2001)
12 APRIL 1, 2001 Smoke Signals r. Sadiraess Si Uindeirsteinidiiirai aire all part off Ed dmrao's Shoshone-Bannock storyteller spends time with young people, gives back to the community. IK yew vS5"'. By Chris Mercier Call him Ed. Call him Edmo. What ever you do, don't call him "Chief." Ed Edmo (yes, that is his name) is by and by a real throwback. The famed storyteller, poet and play wright has left many an impression in his life, in many a place, and no doubt intends to leave more. Recently, students at Nanitch Sa hallie, the Tribe's youth treatment center, were given the opportunity to be impressed upon by Edmo when the one-man traveling troupe gave them an hour of oratory experience. But to first understand Ed's story telling talent, one must look at the man himself. Ed's height can be gen erously relegated to the 5-foot cat egory. No doubt he was a strong young man at one point. His features betray his ShoshoneBannock ori gins. He bears long black hair, usu ally braided; though today for his pre sentation, his mane is swathed in purple leather bands in double pony tails thrown over his shoulders. A Panama hat and walking stick lend a Tolkienesque air to his features, but with a Native twist. Yet nothing, however, is more em phatic than his speech. Ed speaks in a low, occasionally in audible voice. He mumbles, to be sure, yet in a fluid manner as to sound musical. Words pour forth from his mouth like honey from a spout; slow yet deliberate, and one feels rewarded for the patience to wait it out. As is, Ed's physical attributes are the con venient compliment to his profession storytelling. Born 1946 in Celilo Falls, Ed be gan his life with in near squalor. His family, one brother and both parents, were crammed into a two-room shack, where Ed's job was to man age the chickens and rabbits. The Columbia River was an organic pan try for them, in Celilo the salmon, though considerably thinned from overfishing were adequate for local families. The river was the common thread of the community and Ed re calls vividly on March 10, 1957 when the gates of The Dalles Dam clamped shut and the legendary Celilo fish ery disappeared underwater. Many things disappeared that day. Celilo Falls has since then become a melancholy source of inspiration for Ed. He wrote one poem on it and tours the region, stopping at univer sities, high schools, conferences, and wherever else the demand to deliver his renowned lecture "Celilo Falls: A z j ,1- v y fa " ' Sf . r Oral Tradition Transplanted storyteller, Ed Edmo from the Shoshone-Bannock Tribe, now lives in Portland and travels throughout the Northwest seeking an audience with young people. Edmo, who earlier this year visited Nanitch Sahallie youth treat ment center in Keizer, is a well-known storyteller and playwright. Place, A Memory." Ed has authored one book of poetry These Few Words of Mine (Blue Cloud Press), and contributed to others, such as Talking Leaves (Dell). One of Ed's short stories The Bridge of the Gods was adapted into a stage production by the Tears of Joy Theatre of Vancouver. His plays have taken him across the globe, to such destinations as Syria, India and Jordan. Edmo is a founding member of the Northwest Native American Writers Association. He is no lightweight. "He's quite a character isn't he," said Allan Nelson, one of the psychologists at Nanitch. "When you meet a guy like him, you never forget." As Nelson explained to me, this isn't Edmo's first appearance at Nan itch. He comes periodically, time per mitting, and is always introduced to the new young faces that drift through the place. He brings, Nelson pointed out, a sense of levity and lightheartedness to a serious situa tion. Nobody could ever accuse Edmo of not having a sense of humor. "Today we're here to talk about ste reotypes," he began, slowly survey ing the class through thick glasses. On a six-foot long table at the far end of the TV room, Edmo has ar ranged an array of odds and ends dolls, toys, bottles, jewelry almost all "Indian" in nature. "You know why they call us Indi ans don't you," Edmo asked, and re ceiving no reply, continued. "It's be cause Columbus you know, he was looking for India." And so he continued, as the explor ers had assumed they had grounded in India, the first dark skinned in habitants encountered were chris tened "Indians." "Good thing they weren't looking for Turkey, eh," he said, amidst mild chuckles. But his body language suddenly assumed a more somber tone. "You know, a long time ago, people didn't want to be Indian," he added. The U.S. census, Edmo said, just recently indicated that the popula tion of Natives in the country has fi nally exceeded pre-European esti mates. Not that Natives are repro ducing more, he hinted, but more people are claiming their heritage. "Lot of people," he continued. "They didn't want to be Indian.... if they were MexicanIndians, they'd say they were Mexican." "If they were FilipinoIndian," he added. "They'd say they were Filipino." Growing up, Edmo said, was not easy. Many of his peers, either un aware of the offense or indifferent, adopted the nickname of "Chief to bestow upon him. Edmo hasn't for gotten. "When I was younger, in school, it was always 'Chief do this' or 'Chief do that,'" he said, a vestige of resent ment in his voice. "Now, I won't let anybody call me 'Chief,'" he said, in an undoubtedly firm tone. Once again, Edmo loosened up. Perhaps that is one of his greatest assets; the ability to shift gears so abruptly. He once again assumed a lighter mood. "Have you ever seen my Teenage Mutant Ninja Chief," he asked, and whipped out the action figure, prop erly bedecked with feathers, a war band and a tomahawk. "Or how about this," he said, and held aloft an ax, still sealed in its original packaging. "A real 'Indian Ax," he said, read ing the label. "I traded for this one in The Dalles." Edmo has made a hobby of collect ing old-fashioned 'Indian' kitsch, par tially for kicks and partially as a re minder of how Natives were per ceived during his youth. To demon strate he breaks out a real gem: a small bottle in a leather sheath. "I bought this one a Ulooonnnnggg time ago in Yellowstone," he said, proudly. "Listen to what it says on the back." Inscribed on the leather is a crude forgettable attempt at poetry, end ing with some phrase about a "drunken Indian." But the pearl of his collection is his Indian Barbie. True to her name sake, the doll bears all the unnatu ral features of her Anglo sister, yet sports black hair, feathers, a leather dress and moccasins, still in her pack aging. Likewise the back relates her tale of how she enjoys helping her mother gather corn while her father and brothers go hunting, or some thing to that effect. "These are very hard to find," he said. After nearly half an hour of play Ed was ready to begin the storytelling of his presentation. He learned many of his stories from his mother and grandmother, who likewise kept up the oral tradition. Some of them he picked up during his travels. Edmo likes to invoke the audience during his stories, often calling upon them to mimic his motions, such as in the story of Snake, who was "rolled" into his present form by peers who tired of his complaining. To tell Edmo's stories would ruin the mystique, but safely assume he told and pantomimed some colorful stories, from his ShoshoneBannock creation tale, to the many stories of coyote. All of his stories had a moral be not cowardly, like coyote, nor ignore the advice of Elders. Yet none so poignantly captured the spirit of the afternoon like the tale of undersized porcupine, "who got himself a buf falo," despite the discouragement of his peers. Edmo noted that he had as well struggled with alcohol at one point. "You've got to have faith in your self," he said. "Do so and you'll real ize that nothing is impossible." The clients of Nanitch lingered around him as he packed up, look ing to catch a close-up glimpse of his possessions, as if magical. He ate lunch, and in a matter of moments was homeward bound back to Port land. There is a high demand for his skills, and very few others can do what he does. Nobody ever seems to forget Ed Edmo.
