Translator: Lisa Rodriguez
Reviewer: Rhonda Jacobs (Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt,
the Nez Perce language) (Out of respect for culture,
transcriptions omitted) So this might be the part where some of you
get really, really excited that there's a real, live Native American
walking the stage right now, so you have plans to run up to me later and tell me exactly how much
Cherokee pedigree you have. Don't do that, don't do that. That's not a thing that connects us. It's not the Native American jewelry
you may or may not own, nor is it your upbringing in proximity
to indigenous people that connects us. But before I go there
I will translate for you. I cursed all of you. (Laughter) It is customary in many of our nations to introduce ourselves first
in our indigenous language. It is a way of honoring
our elders and our ancestors for the sacrifices that they made
for me to be alive and to take up this space. I spoke Nimiipuutimpt,
the language of the Nez Perce nation. My ancestors hear me
when I speak our language. For those of you who don't understand, I thanked Creator first. I offered thanks for our good day today. I told you that my name
is The Storyteller. In the language of our colonizers,
I am called Tai Simpson. I told you that I am a Nez Perce woman, Nimiipuu, as we call ourselves. I told you that I am a direct descendant of Chief Red Heart
of the Nez Perce nation. I told you, also,
that I'm happy to be here. And I told you that, as a storyteller,
the stories that I carry are not my own. They are passed
from generation to generation and belong to my ancestors. The stories created in my lifetime
belong to my descendants. That's an important recognition
for us to make. It is also important to recognize
that we are guests today and every day on the ancestral homelands of the forced displaced and dispossessed
Boise Valley indigenous people. Our colonizers refer to them
as the Shoshone-Bannock, the Shoshone Paiute, the Burns Paiute, the Fort McDermott,
and Warm Springs Paiute tribes. You're welcome for the land, Boise. As a storyteller,
all of my favorite stories involve Coyote, or (omitted). He's the trickster who, over time,
carried our ways of knowing. There is a contemporary
variation of our creation story that speaks of Coyote meandering
along the river one day, and he sort of stopped
where he was, and he said, "You know, I want to create
the different races." So he bent down and reached for tule. Tule is a large reed-like
plant that we use for weaving, and he made himself a mold
with two legs instead of four. Arms, legs, fingers, I mean, we all know what
humans look like, right? He mixes clay by the river, and then he made a fire
by the river as well. He put his clay and mold into the fire, and the first time (omitted)
was just impatient, and he pulled his mold out
while it was undercooked and pale, almost white. (omitted) (omitted) said,
"This isn't quite right!" So he chucked that mold across the ocean. (Laughter) That became white people,
or (omitted), as we've come to call them. (omitted) tried again. He made another mold,
and he mixed his clay, and he soaked his fire,
and he put his mold into the fire. And this time, he got distracted. He ran off to the prairie to play tricks. And he ran back down to the river
to play more tricks. And then when he made
his way back to his fire, his mold was overcooked
and dark, almost black. (omitted) "This isn't quite right," (omitted) said, so he threw that mold to the south. He was frustrated
but determined, so he tried again. He made his mold, and he mixed his clay,
and he put that into the fire as well. But he waited this time. And he danced, and he sang,
and he prayed by his fire until just the right moment. And when he pulled that mold out, (omitted) "This is right."
We were Coyote's creation. He called us (omitted). And the lesson that I've always
been taught from that story is that Indian people are from the land,
and the water, and the fire here. We don't come from anywhere else. But I also rethought that story,
so let's circle back to the beginning. Despite being undercooked
and chucked across the ocean, white people are also Coyote's creation. That's the thing that connects us. It's a bit of a reach
and kind of laughable. I laughed at it. Despite the sordid,
tumultuous history between us of decolonization, dehumanization,
forced displacement, sterilization, I could go on all evening. That doesn't mean that human to human we are not connected,
my white brothers and sisters. Some of us are a little more
undercooked than others. (Laughter) I do believe in our connection
because Coyote was at the meeting that creator called on the slopes
of the Clearwater River near what is now known as Lewiston, Idaho. Nimiipuu people call that (omitted). On that day Creator called together
all of the large animals that were here before there were humans. He told them all, there's going to be a great change
and some of them wouldn't survive. He asked each of them to step forward and offer a piece of themselves
so that humans could be created. (omitted), elk, stepped forward and said, "My horns can be used for tools and my hide can be worn for warmth
and my flesh to eat." (omitted), salmon, stepped forward
and said, "My flesh can be ate as well." and he promised to come to humans
in the winter time. (omitted), eagle,
stepped forward and said, "I want to fly so high and bring
the humans' messages to you. They will use my feathers for ceremony
and they will know Creator through me. I will be their wisdom." And it was like this for each animal, for bear, for otter,
for deer, for steelhead, each of them offering a part of themselves
so humanity could be created, and all we had to do as humans
was be good stewards of the land. All we had to do
was keep things in balance: don't waste, don't take more
than we need, protect the sacred. That's an intergenerational
lifelong lesson that we live by even now. Don't strip the huckleberry bush
of all of its berries, don't hunt cow elk in the winter
when she could be carrying calves, don't dig so deep below the root
that you damage the earth beneath it. Everything in balance. But that's not where we are anymore is it? As humans with our fancy cars,
and our iPhones, our mineral-based computers, faces that we've carved
onto rocks to honor presidents? Climbing on our sacred sites,
poisoning our water, plastic. Did we hold up our end of the bargain? Do we keep things
in balance as humanity? Not so much. But are we so far gone
that we can't come back to the center? That we can't come back to this idea
of protecting the sacred? Protecting the sacred
means recognizing the sacrifices that were made for us
so that we could exist. It means giving back to the community
so the community is strong. And you know, protecting the sacred
is a relatively new term based on our old ways. Our old ways of knowing
and our old ways of being, our old ways of living. Many of those things
taught to us as children. As a child I didn't grow up
on an Indian Reservation. I was afforded the privileged opportunity
to travel and live abroad. I did however spend my summers with
my gram, or (omitted), mother's mother. She's equal parts fury and love, a trait shared amongst
the Red Heart women. (Laughter) I would just babble her ear off with all the cool things
I thought I was doing. (omitted), I can play the cello.
(omitted), I got straight As. (omitted), I read this book
and that cool book. We were living overseas
so I thought I was fancy and exciting. She would just laugh
and smile at me in her quiet way. There was one summer afternoon where my toddler niece
was outside with her spoon, and she was using that spoon to scrape the insides out of a fish. And in the middle of my incessant chatter, (omitted) turns to me, she says, "Ta-tai,"
as she used to call me, "Can you clean fish?
Can you help her finish?" "Well, no, (omitted),
I don't know how to do that." "Well, come here then. We'll help you.
Morning Star will teach you." So to my chagrin, at like 13 years old, I've got a niece who's like
negative four years old schooling me with her tiny little hands and her tiny little spoon
digging the guts out of this fish. But none of that was
to embarrass me or shame me or put my accomplishments down. What (omitted) was teaching me was that regardless of all
of the cool things we think we know, and all of the cool things
we think we can do, there's always something more to learn and always something more
to give back to the community. Our old ways. Traveling the world is awesome, Tai, but do you know how to provide
for your family? Playing the cello is cool, Tai, but do you know how to provide
for your community in the old way? Gathering roots, catching fish,
harvesting berries, beading, weaving, sewing, storytelling. And that was the powerful lesson for me that day at 13, to learn
all of this cool stuff, but then learn how to filter it so that I can provide
to my family in our old ways. And I have another old way story that's more of a sidebar
than a life lesson, but it talks about old ways,
so it might segue back to the point, but I digress. I hit that really awkward age
of half woman half teenager. I was feeling myself. I knew everything.
I had all the answers, just ask me. And don't judge me,
you all were teenagers once too. (Laughs) It was at that age, too,
when boys would notice me, and I would notice back, and my mom would just
kind of laugh at it all. And she told me one day, "You can date whoever you want, but you can't get married
until you have a man that brings me 10 horses,
half a dozen blankets, a few pounds of beads, hides, and a freezer full of meat every year
for four or five years." "Excuse me what, mother?" (Laughter) I was aghast at her
dowry-like grocery list because at that age, I'm like, I'm going to do what I want,
and I'm going to date who I want. But of course I did the wrong thing, and I dated the wrong man, and I ended up crying
in my mother's arms anyway. And she reminded me, "Tai, you need the man
that will bring me 10 horses, half a dozen blankets,
a few pounds of beads, hides, and meat, because that's him providing
and protecting and giving in our old ways. That became a filter for me in all of my interpersonal relationships and how I interact with my community. What are we doing to show
the people in our lives that they are sacred and that they matter
and that they're protected? What are we doing as acts of kindness to each other in our community
and to strangers. Especially in this nonchalant,
indifferent age of self-checkout
and Uber Eats and swiping right. The ones that chuckled
swipe left most of the time. (Laughter) But fast forward to now: If I ever bring home a swipe-right dude
with nothing from my mom's list, she's probably going to send me
to go live with my dad's family. "Go be his problem then." (Laughs) Then again, Red Heart women,
equal parts fury and love, she may give the right man
room to prove himself in our old ways. But real quick, who brought 10 horses, half a dozen blankets,
few pounds of beads, hides, meat? My mom is here. Anybody? (Laughter) Old ways. Some days I think our old ways
should be the only ways. The old ways need to come back in style, they need to "go viral"
as the kids say these days. They're the thing that center us
on protecting the sacred, on keeping things in balance
and on protecting the sacred. Old ways are what help us repair nature, especially in the aftermath
of our damage to nature. Humans are why humans
can't have nice things. Back in 2016, I went to Standing Rock when the prayer and protest camps were being set up in staunch opposition
to the Dakota Access Pipelines. We arrived mid-morning and drove all night from Nimiipuu country to North Dakota. That first day, we set up our tents,
and we milled around the camp and we made ourselves
as useful as we could. But that next morning
was life-changing for me. I woke up at about five in the morning,
listening to the camp come alive, and at one point I got up
and I made my way to the big fire at the top of the hill
near the entrance to the camp, and there were elders there
telling stories. There was one particular Lakota old woman that was telling stories
about her upbringing on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation, and she was captivating. Midway through one of her stories, there was an older gentleman
who interrupted her and asked, "Why are we here? When will this protest be at its end? How long will we be here?" She took her time in her response. She took a few sips of her coffee, and then she glanced slowly
at each of the faces watching her with eager interest, and then she took
a few more sips of her coffee, and then she heaved
this deep concerted sigh, and when she returned her glance to him, she said, "My people are from here. I have no other home.
I have no other place to go. I don't belong anywhere else. So I will be here
fighting these oil pipelines until they stop drilling or until I die." I have never been moved
by that level of conviction in my life until that moment. "I will be here until they
stop drilling or until I die." As a community, as a broad "everybody's an American"
kind of community, we've lost that sense of conviction. What are we all committed to?
What makes us better? What are we striving for? "I will be here until
they stop drilling or until I die." And if that doesn't change you
in some way in this moment today, is there anything that can save us? I mean, think about the similar
older women in your lives and listen - They could probably be telling you stories
about a time you couldn't possibly fathom. In those stories, listen
for those moments of conviction that drove, propelled,
and inspired these women to lead and to fight and to die
for what they believe in. This Lakota woman wasn't dying or putting her life
on the line recklessly. Her ancestors had lived and died
on that very land. She was compelled to protect
and defend that very same land for the descendants coming after her. "I don't belong anywhere else. I will be here until
they stop drilling or until I die." So you see we've come full circle. We've come from creation
to growth to change to death, all of it centered
on protecting the sacred, and if there's anything
we take away from today, it's that we have an obligation to do so, to protect the sacred,
to give to our communities, and to keep nature in balance. I hope that in this room full
of my mostly white brothers and sisters, that you're changed in some small way. That you're changed in such a way that you will lead and live lives
and teach and vote in such a way that reflects what indigenous people
have known for a very long time. That the way that we behave
politically, socially, economically, ecologically,
since the inception of this country, isn't working. There is an old adage that says that indigenous people
live and walk in two worlds. That we cling and clutch to our culture,
and our religion, and our language, everything about who we are, while simultaneously educating
and advancing ourselves in a predominantly white,
non-native world. It is an everyday struggle
to keep one foot in your world while maintaining who we are and remembering who we are
as indigenous people. Maybe it's time for all of us
to be in one world, to walk in one world together, and that world is not the world
that you're accustomed to. We are all Coyote's creation. Some of us undercooked,
some of us overcooked, some of us perfect. (Laughter) We have a responsibility to each other because we are all a community. We've committed to stay in balance, we've committed to protect the sacred, as Coyote and as Creator intended. (Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt) I am a descendant of Chief Red Heart
of the Nez Perce nation. (Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt) I am The Storyteller. (Speaks in Nimiipuutimpt) Thank you that is all. (Applause) (Cheers)
