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Overview
Explores the power and artistry of prophecy among the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians, who use predictions about the future to interpret the world around them
This book challenges the common assumption that American Indian prophecy was an anomaly of the 18th and 19th centuries that resulted from tribes across the continent reacting to the European invasion. Tom Mould’s study of the contemporary prophetic traditions of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians reveals a much larger system of prophecy that continues today as a vibrant part of the oral tradition.
Mould shows that Choctaw prophecy is more than a prediction of the future; it is a way to unite the past, present, and future in a moral dialogue about how one should live. Choctaw prophecy, he argues, is stable and continuous; it is shared in verbal discourse, inviting negotiation on the individual level; and, because it is a tradition of all the people, it manifests itself through myriad visions with many themes. In homes, casinos, restaurants, laundromats, day care centers, and grocery stores, as well as in ceremonial and political situations, people discuss current events and put them into context with traditional stories that govern the culture. In short, recitation is widely used in everyday life as a way to interpret, validate, challenge, and create the world of the Choctaw speaker.
Choctaw Prophecy stands as a sound model for further study into the prophetic traditions of not only other American Indian tribes but also communities throughout the world. Weaving folklore and oral tradition with ethnography, this book will be useful to academic and public libraries as well as to scholars and students of southern Indians and the modern South.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780817384159 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Alabama Press |
| Publication date: | 01/22/2003 |
| Series: | Contemporary American Indian Studies |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 303 |
| File size: | 6 MB |
About the Author
Tom Mould is Assistant Professor of English at Elon University.
Read an Excerpt
Choctaw Prophecy
A Legacy of the FutureBy Tom Mould
THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA PRESS
Copyright © 2003 The University of Alabama PressAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8173-1226-8
Chapter One
Choctaw Verbal Art
She squints into the bright sunlight as she opens the door. Behind her lies a cocoon of cool darkness. Heavy curtains shield her home from the July Mississippi sun, making life bearable in a home with no air conditioning. The hum of fans stirs the quiet. Mallie Smith has been expecting us. She nods and motions for us to come in.
Earlier that week, Glenda Williamson had called Mallie about coming by with a man from Indiana University who was putting together a collection of oral narratives from the tribe. Glenda and I had fallen into a routine in this respect. She would contact various elders in the Conehatta community where she lived, and we would go out together to talk to them. They were more comfortable speaking Choctaw than English, so Glenda would also act as translator.
Mallie and I greet one another, fairly formally, as she motions to us to sit down. She and Glenda speak a bit in Choctaw, laughing easily and frequently while I sit smiling, waiting, observing. Like the majority of women in Conehatta her age, Mallie Smith wears the t raditional-style dress that identifies older Choctaw women at a glance: long-sleeved, full-length, patterned cotton cloth with bric-a-brac sewn around theborders. The choice seems a cruel one for this climate, but the women who wear them prefer these dresses to contemporary options. The formal versions of these dresses are satin, shiny and bright, with hand-sewn diamond designs and elaborate beaded necklaces and earrings. Every female in the tribe has one, but it is worn only for special public occasions. For everyday, bric-a-brac substitutes for hand-sewn diamonds, cotton for satin, and an apron for beadwork.
Mallie's home is like many others in the community. The structures are designed by the government and are virtually identical to one another. The interiors, though they vary, share a pattern of decoration. Religious imagery dominates Christian homes. Pictures of Jesus and silk-screened tapestries of the Last Supper are the most common; prayer cards and candles also dot mantels and shelves. Many in the community also appreciate American Indian art, particularly pieces collected during trips to the Southwest. Mallie Smith has a picture of Jesus on her wall, but the decorations that dominate are familial. Photographs of her children and grandchildren cover every wall. Hanging beside them are various plaques, gifts from these children declaring such praise as "World's Greatest Mom."
We begin by talking about family. Mallie talks about her mother, who used to go to the tribal elementary schools and tell stories. She retrieves a tape of one of these stories from a back room, and we pop it into my tape recorder. The volume is set too high. Blaring from the speakers is the techno-beat of the song "One Night in Bangkok," a pop hit from the 1980s. By the time I find the volume, the song has abruptly been cut off mid-chorus and the distant voice of Bessie Solomon, Mallie's mother, can be heard amid the hum of static. We all sit transfixed, listening to her voice. Even I who cannot understand a word of it am mesmerized by the steady lilt of her speech. The story is about Kashikanchak, a legendary cannibal who used to ravage unsuspecting Choctaw, particularly children. Mallie nods as she listens, remembering the story from when she heard it directly from her mother. Bessie Solomon passed away over a decade ago, and now Mallie Smith tells the story.
She leans forward in her chair, closes her eyes, and begins. What follows is an unbroken stream of words, sentence flowing upon sentence. When she finishes, she opens her eyes, nods to us, then settles back into her chair. Sometimes a question prompts her next story, other times one story leads into another. We ask about prophecy, and she tells us the stories she heard from her grandfather. Again, she leans forward, closes her eyes, and begins talking, longer this time as one prediction flows into the next.
Ák ma amáfo yósh anopoholi yat tók o, anólih bannat pisá lá chih.
Hih mat pi kaniyoh mih ósh maya chi ka áchih bíkah tók. Nanah anopoholih tók a ikalhoh kiyoh. Anok fillit attalih bíkah kaníkma. Anok fillik mat yammak alhi ahóbah, anopoholih chatok ma ikhanalih. Nanah o áha chih chátok ma "fulfill" toba kat alhi ka ikhanalih.
Hih ókak ósh. Yammak atok ma chokka immah o isht anopoholih bíkah tok, hiná, yakómih. Hina himó tobah-yakómih pa isht anopoholih bíkah tók.
Yamma yohma chi ka, hattak ósh chokkát tobat talóha kat chokka tohbi yó áh bíkah tok.
Hit tók ak chokka tohbi kiyoh, lokfi nona chokka himak ma chokkát toba kat.
Chahta i chokkát yohmih osh chokka tohbi. Osh tobat taiyáhakma chahtá wihat alhot tahá tok mak o chilófaíkiyok ma-
Wiháchi ka ashah óka himák a áto, mak ohmi kak makah tok, chíchok.
Chilófá híkiyokma hahollo yósh alótah. Mak okma ohóyoh at hattak ittatoklo tok ma hattak átok ma, nahollo yosh chokka ma chokkowá tok mat, hikma hattak ma toksalíchih-pi ití chalih, yohmih ok mako illipa ipítah.
Yohmi o aiyáshá hiyo makáha yah bíkah tók. Hih átok ósh chokka tohbi ósh tobat taiyáha tok ma yohmáchih áhayah bíkah tók ako.
Lokfi nona chokka yósh alottówat taha kat alhi í mayak ma. Yamma pi kannihmik ma alla i makálik mat, "Afót makáhayah bíkah tók a alhih ahóbah ókak ósh chokka tohbi kiyoh -lokfi nona chokka yósh tobah," át isht iyálih tók.
Anoti mak o makáhayah bíkah tók o mak o makálih. Hiyokma ik alhoh kiyoh ahobah. Anolih tók a nana kat alhih banoh.
Hih ósh nanah anopoholih chátok a moyyoma ka ikhanali tósh anoholili kat, at, ma achokmá. Hilah ókak o moyyóma kak ik hanalih kiyoh.
Átok ósh anoti hiná yo áchih bíkah tók. Hina bachóha ilappak atok ma aískachit táhah. 'Ti [Anoti] hina, hinapissa átok ma ikbit bachoht táhlih. Yohmik ma ittibi yósh álhopollá chih ikak o yamma mih chih.
Mak okma nahollót á yilhípá chih mak ókak o hina yátok ma hina wáta bacholit yamihchih. Hikma Chahtá to mat illih yómih. Hikma anoti ittibit míhitik mat at lopollikmat anoti falámat ayat mato pashi losa yo pissak mato, "Pano abíláchi tok kiyoh, sattiapishi pano," ahni kat maka, makah.
Háblit pí la cha falámat, lopollá chih o makáhayah bíkah tók. Hina 'wáta [awáta] áchih pat, pa ikbi kat mayah momah óka yappa hátok o yammak o isht anopóholih bíkah tók.
Ahnilih.
And now, what my grandfather spoke about is, what I am going to try to talk about.
Then, just, how they would live, is what he used to say. What he used to talk about is not unreality. I think about as part of my life sometimes. To think about it, it seems to be that truth, what he used to say, that I know. Whatever he used to say, that has become "fulfill." I know that it's true.
That it is, however. Hence, he used to talk about houses, roads, these things. Recently built roads-these he used to talk about.
That thing will happen. That the man-houses that are built will be white houses, he used to say.
But then, they are not white houses. Brick houses are now the houses being built.
Choctaws' houses, that will be white houses. When they are finally built, Choctaw will move into them. But then, if they can't pay for it-
There is eviction nowadays, so, similarly, that is what he talked about I guess.
Payments can't be made so the white man moves in. Afterward, the woman, with the man whom she's with, that man, the white man who had moved into the house, he will put the man to work-just chopping wood, that is how he will give them food.
That is the way they will survive, he used to say. So then, after the white houses have been built, these things will come to pass, he used to say.
Brick houses have all been filled, and we are all living in it. Sometimes I tell the children that "Grandpa used to say these things, and it seems true, but it's not white houses-brick houses are being built," I used to say.
And that is what he used to say, that is what I'm saying. Then, unreal, it doesn't seem to be. What has been said is all true.
Then, whatever has been told, I should have known everything and retold them, that would be good. But then, I do not remember all.
So then, he used to talk about roads. These built roads will be completed. Then, straight roads will be built and completed. Afterward, there will be a war, that is why the roads are done.
Then the white people will run, using the road. That is why the wide roads are put there. Then the Choctaws will stay behind. Some will die. Then, as the fight comes, when that comes through, and as they come back by, that hair, which is black, noticing it, "This I am not supposed to kill. My brother is this," they think and say, talk.
Pushing past them, they will return through here, is what he used to say. This wide road, they build continuously around here, so that is what he used to say.
I wonder.
When the storytelling is done, we talk about these prophecies, about their origins and meanings. Mallie and Glenda share ideas about how people knew these things, what they mean, and when they will be fulfilled. Our discussion reaches broadly, but the focus is on the prophetic narrative.
STORYTELLING
Choctaw prophecy exists in the community today as story. In the past, when the role of prophet was recognized in society, prophecy was ritualized. Prophets climbed hills and communed with the supernatural, then returned to the people to deliver their messages. These prophets provided practical, political, social, moral, and religious guidance. The act of prophecy could be observed. It was both act and story. Today, the formal role of the prophet has disappeared. Predictions are still made, but through mental and verbal acts, not ritual and physical ones.
As a verbal act, prophecy is part of a storytelling tradition that is well established and well regarded among the Choctaw. In the past the storyteller was recognized in the community as having a distinct role. Historical observations from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries suggest that storytellers were the educators of the tribe, formally teaching the young the history of the tribe through narrative. The oldest of the elders today remember back to the turn of the century when men appeared from time to time on their front porches to visit a while and tell stories. This practice continues today, both formally and informally. At least as early as the 1960s, Choctaw schools brought in elders to tell stories. Mallie Smith's mother worked in such a capacity for the Follow Through program of that time. Today, Rosalee Steve and Charlie Denson both continue such work in the elementary schools. Stories are viewed as a cultural resource, material valuable in its own right but also valuable as part of the culture that defines the Choctaw as a unique group.
While there are recognizable storytellers-elders who have accepted the duty of learning and passing on the stories of the past-there are many other men and women who also tell stories. These less formal acts provide the best chances for the stories to be remembered, passed on, and created anew.
Storytelling once occurred fairly regularly. After a long day in the fields, people gathered on the front porch to escape the heat of the house and to relax. Storytelling was the main source of entertainment during those hot, muggy evenings. No one type of story dominated. Donna Denson remembers her grandfather telling humorous stories about opossum, prophecies, and biblical tales, often reading directly from the Bible. Gladys Willis remembers biblical stories too, but more often she heard scary stories of the supernatural beings in the woods and tall tales about the legendary, infamous Ashman. Children and adults alike were present for such sessions. Age did-and does-matter, however, and stories are often told in different ways, with different intent depending on the audience. Stories told to children tend to be didactic; those told among adults, discursive. The only talk that children are not allowed to hear is that about politics and neighborhood gossip.
While such storytelling sessions occur less frequently today, they have not vanished. Parents and grandparents still instruct the youth through story, though now more often with the hum of the air-conditioning and the television in the background. Adults also gather, but they do so as often at neighborhood meetings and during breaks at work as on porches and under carports. New settings create new dynamics for storytelling, but the impulse to pass on the wisdom of the elders, to join in the interpretation of both story and world, to socialize, and to laugh remains.
In this dynamic context, stories vary. Those who study verbal art in any culture expect variation in all but the most rigorous ritual texts, which may be memorized. However, such variation is not always acknowledged within a community, most often because the stories are viewed as accurate accounts of the community's past, something that verges on sacred history. Such accuracy is challenged when different versions are recorded in print and can be examined for inconsistencies.
The Choctaw, however, are generally free of such insecurities about their narratives. Differences among the various communities that extend to language, dress, dance, and even religion are sources of pride, not embarrassment. Stories are no different. In fact, any misgivings about a "correct" version seem to stem from perceived notions of outside expectations rather than internal ones. Sitting outside one afternoon, Hulon Willis and I talked about the book of Choctaw stories I compiled, a few of which came from Hulon. He was concerned about being credited with his story, a common one in the community. He did not want it to be thought that he was telling the version of this story. He stressed that one person tells it one way, another person another way. I agreed wholeheartedly with him and explained to him that while I presented his version of the story in the introduction to the book, I used a different person's version of his story in the collection itself. He was pleased with this decision.
Glenda Williamson echoes this community acceptance of variation. When she heard the old stories, the performances were scattered over time, so she did not particularly note variation in multiple versions of the same narrative. But as we worked together, I often mentioned stories I had heard in other communities to spark the memory of the people I was interviewing. After talking with her mother, Odie Anderson, about a prophecy about another removal, Glenda told me she was not sure if she entirely understood what her mother was saying. I explained, for what it was worth, what I had heard from a woman in the Pearl River community. Odie Anderson had described an election in which the wrong chief was unintentionally elected, with that chief inadvertently losing tribal lands; the woman from Pearl River had suggested that the prophecy would be fulfilled by a chief acting consciously and maliciously. Glenda surmised that the prophecy must have split into two different versions.
Glenda had not encountered variation in Choctaw storytelling, but when confronted with it, she accepted it naturally. Even when she was dealing with prophecy, something tied very explicitly to the temporal and spatial realm of this world, the world she lived in, Glenda did not find inconsistency disturbing. Rather, it was to be expected. Just as people in Pearl River talked a bit differently and danced their social dances without words to their songs, so too should their stories be a bit different.
While different versions are perfectly acceptable, a poor memory is not. In the past, only elders would have told the old stories, or at least that is the presumption made by people when they talk about the past. But this restriction seems to be diminishing somewhat. More middle-aged men and women are telling the stories of the elders without any suggestion of impropriety (and even as a positive sign of cultural knowledge that people are afraid is disappearing). What remains, however, is the reluctance of these adults to narrate the stories of the elders when there is an elder present or easily accessible who can narrate instead. Their reluctance stems from fear not that their version is incorrect but that it is incomplete, or that, out of respect, they should let someone older tell the story.
Respect for storytelling varies depending on the type of story told, as does the style of performance. Performers generally rely on the power of the narrative, using little by way of gestures and voice imitations and alterations to augment the performance. This is especially true of the stories viewed as belonging to the elders, those tales told as part of a cultural canon, things the youth should know-about the history of the tribe, the culture, proper behavior, and general life lessons. Such talk by the elders may encourage laughter, though this is not its goal. Some of the less experienced narrators often comment that they do not remember the stories correctly. The impulse is to be faithful to the narrators of the past, placing the focus there rather than in the present performance context. The obligation to repeat rather than create has led to a narration style common among older storytellers-eyes closed or staring into space, mind focused, organizing the tales in a steady stream of words.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Choctaw Prophecy by Tom Mould Copyright © 2003 by The University of Alabama Press. Excerpted by permission.
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