Systemic
and Family Constellations are powerful spiritual processes to bring to light
and resolve ancestral tensions. If you are interested and do not know about
Constellation Work, please contact us, or else just show up. In this event,
first we will read Chief Seattle speech (given below). Then we will ask for
volunteers to represent ÒRed menÓ and ÒWhite menÓ and ancestors of each. Others
may offer to represent other features mentioned, such as women (Red or White), old
men, young men, or aspects of nature. We will do our best to clear our minds of
prejudice and preexisting emotion and see, from a neutral place, what emotions
and movements arise as the representatives quietly allow feelings and movements
to emerge.
It is not known how
accurately the published record of Chief SeattleÕs famous speech represents his
actual words, however the version that we have has mythic tone and import and
stands on its own. Analyzing it this way is consistent with the approach of
Family Constellation Work. In Family Constellation Work, we allow an enactment
to come forth and we treat the enactment as revealing a ÒmythicÓ truth, whether
or not we can relate it to known historical circumstances. The article listed below
was written 30 years after the fact, from the authorÕs notes. The author was a
medical doctor and an amateur poet. It is not known how well he know the
language in which the speech was spoken. The speech was probably made in 1854.
Seattle Sunday Star, October 29, 1887
His
Native Eloquence, Etc., Etc. by Henry A. Smith Scraps from a Diary: Chief
Seattle - A gentleman By Instinct
10th
article in the series Early Reminiscences
Old Chief Seattle was the largest Indian I ever saw, and by far the noblest-looking.
He stood 6 feet full in his moccasins, was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and
finely proportioned. His eyes were large, intelligent, expressive and friendly
when in repose, and faithfully mirrored the varying moods of the great soul
that looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent, and dignified, but on
great occasions moved among assembled multitudes like a Titan among
Lilliputians, and his lightest word was law.
When rising to speak in council or to tender advice, all eyes were turned
upon him, and deep-toned, sonorous, and eloquent sentences rolled from his lips
like the ceaseless thunders of cataracts flowing from exhaustless fountains,
and his magnificent bearing was as noble as that of the most cultivated
military chieftain in command of the forces of a continent. Neither his
eloquence, his dignity, or his grace were acquired. They were as native to his
manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering almond.
His influence was marvelous. He might have been an emperor but all his instincts
were democratic, and he ruled his loyal subjects with kindness and paternal
benignity.
He was
always flattered by marked attention from white men, and never so much as when
seated at their tables, and on such occasions he manifested more than anywhere
else the genuine instincts of a gentleman.
When Governor Stevens first arrived in Seattle and told the natives he
had been appointed commissioner of Indian affairs for Washington Territory,
they gave him a demonstrative reception in front of Dr. Maynard's office, near
the waterfront on Main Street. The bay swarmed with canoes and the shore was
lined with a living mass of swaying, writhing, dusky humanity, until 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.
The governor was then introduced to the native multitude by Dr. Maynard,
and at once commenced, in a conversational, plain, and straightforward style,
an explanation of his mission among them, which is too well understood to
require capitulation.
When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose with all the dignity of a senator,
who carries the responsibilities of a great nation on his shoulders. Placing
one hand on the, governor's head and slowly pointing heavenward with the index
finger of the other, he commenced his memorable address in solemn and
impressive tones.
"Yonder
sky that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and
which, to us, looks eternal, may change. Today it is fair, tomorrow it may be
overcast with clouds. My words are like stars that never set. What Seattle
says, the great chief, Washington [1][1], can
rely upon, with as much certainty as our paleface brothers can rely upon the
return of the seasons.
"The
son of the white chief says his father sends us greetings of friendship and
good will. This is kind, for we know he has little need of our friendship in
return, because his people are many. They are like the grass that covers the
vast prairies, while my people are few, and resemble the scattering trees of a
storm-swept plain.
"The
great, and I presume also good, white chief sends us word that he wants to buy
our lands but is willing to allow us to reserve enough to live on comfortably.
This indeed appears generous, for the red man no longer has rights that he need
respect, and the offer may be wise, also, for we are no longer in need of a
great country.
"There
was a time when our people covered the whole land, as the waves of a
wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since
passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn
over our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers for hastening it,
for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.
"When
our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their
faces with black paint, their hearts also are disfigured and turn black, and
then their cruelty is relentless and knows no bounds, and our old men are not
able to restrain them.
"But
let us hope that hostilities between the red man and his paleface brothers may
never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
"True
it is, that revenge, with our young braves, is considered gain, even at the
cost of their own lives. But old men who stay at home in times of war, and old
women, who have sons to lose, know better.
"Our
great father Washington, for I presume he is now our father as well as yours,
since George has moved his boundaries to the north; our great and good father,
I say, sends us word by his son, who, no doubt, is a great chief among his
people, that if we do as he desires, he will protect us. His brave armies will
be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his great ships of war will fill our
harbors so that our ancient enemies far to the northward, the Simsiams and
Hydas, will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our
father and we will be his children.
"But
can this ever be? Your God loves your people and hates mine; he folds his
strong arms lovingly around the white man and leads him as a father leads his
infant son, but he has forsaken his red children; he makes your people wax
strong every day, and soon they will fill the land; while my people are ebbing
away like a fast-receding tide, that will never flow again. The white man's God
cannot love his red children or he would protect them. They seem to be orphans
and can look nowhere for help. How then can we become brothers? How can your
father become our father and bring us prosperity and awaken in us dreams of
returning greatness?
"Your
God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Hirn;
never even heard His voice; He gave the white man laws but He had no word for
His red children whose teeming millions filled this vast continent as the stars
fill the firmament. No, we are two distinct races and must ever remain so.
There is little in common between us. The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and
their final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the
tombs of your fathers seemingly without regret.
"Your
religion was written on tables of stone by the iron finger of an angry God,
lest you might forget it, The red man could never remember nor comprehend
it.
"Our
religion is the traditions of our ancestors, the dream 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.
"Your
dead cease to love you and the homes of their nativity as soon as they pass the
portals of the tomb. They wander far off beyond the stars, are soon forgotten,
and never return. Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them
being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its
sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the lonely
hearted living and often return to visit and comfort them.
"Day
and night cannot dwell together. The red man has ever fled the approach of the
white man, as the changing mists on the mountainside flee before the blazing
morning sun.
"However,
your proposition seems a just one, and I think my folks will accept it and will
retire to the reservation you offer them, and we will dwell apart and in peace,
for the words of the great white chief seem to be the voice of nature speaking
to my people out of the thick darkness that is fast gathering around them like
a dense fog floating inward from a midnight sea.
"It
matters but little where we pass the remainder of our days. They are not
many.
"The
Indian's night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers about the horizon.
Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the
red man's trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching
footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to meet his doom, as does the
wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter. A few more
moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the mighty hosts that once filled
this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast
solitudes will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and
as hopeful as your own.
"But
why should we repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are
made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men come and go like the
waves of the sea. A tear, a tamanawus, a dirge, and they are gone from our
longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him,
as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers
after all. We shall see.
"We
will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we will tell you. But
should we accept it, I here and now make this the first condition: That we will
not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting at will the
graves of our ancestors and friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my
people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed
by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe,
"Even
the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent
seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with
the fate of my people, and the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly
to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and
our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with
the life of our kindred.
"The
sable braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted maidens, and the little
children who lived and rejoiced here, and whose very names are now forgotten,
still love these solitudes, and their deep fastness at eventide grow shadowy
with the presence of dusky spirits. And when the last red man shall have
perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a
myth, these shores shall swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when
your children's children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store,
the shop, upon the highway or in the silence of the woods, they will not be
alone. 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 this beautiful land. The white man will never be alone. Let him be just
and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not altogether
powerless."
Other speakers followed, but I took no notes. Governor Stevens' reply
was brief. He merely promised to meet them in general council on some future
occasion to discuss the proposed treaty. Chief Seattle's promise to adhere to
the treaty, should one be ratified, was observed to the letter, for he was ever
the unswerving and faithful friend of the white man. The above is but a
fragment of his speech, and lacks all the charm lent by the grace and
earnestness of the sable old orator, and the occasion. - H.A. Smith.
Smith, Henry A. "Early
Reminiscences. Number Ten. Scraps From a Diary. Chief Seattle Ð A
Gentleman by Instinct Ð His Native Eloquence. Etc., Etc." Seattle
Sunday Star. 29 Oct. 1887. Web. http://courses.washington.edu/spcmu/speeches/chiefsealth.htm .
Web. 24 Nov. 2010
http://perolofdk.com/chiefs4.htm
Web. 26 Nov. 2010
Among the many derivatives of
this speech, some of the online versions that claim to directly quote from the
above newspaper article have slight variations. I have not confirmed that a
completely legible copy of the article exists.
[1] H.A.Smith«s
own remarks:
[1] The Indians in early times thought that Washington was still alive. They knew the name to be that of a president, and when they heard of the president at Washington they mistook the name of the city for the name of the reigning chief. They thought, too, that King George was still England's monarch, because the Hudson Bay traders called themselves "King George's Men." This innocent deception the company was shrewd enough not to explain away, for the Indians had more respect for them than they would have had, had they known England was ruled by a woman. Some of us have learned better.