12 APRIL 1, 2001
Smoke Signals
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Shoshone-Bannock storyteller spends time with young people, gives back to the community.
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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
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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.