El Encuentro

A few years ago I was in Mexico at a remarkable gathering. The event was a four day conference of continental indigenous people from across the entire western hemisphere, attended by tribal representatives spanning the continent from Barrow, Alaska to Tierra del Fuego.

The purpose of the Encuentro Continental de Gente Indígenas was ostensibly to forge a document to present to the United Nations unifying the common concerns and perspectives of all western indigenous peoples; allowing them to be represented as a collective, rather than a loose body of hundreds of sovereign nations. The strategic value of a document like this is clear in light of the fact that perhaps one of the most significant factors in the success of the European conquest is that the Europeans never had to deal with the natives as a unified whole; it was the very diversity of the indigenous cultures that invited the divisive tactics used in the conquest.

The Encuentro took place at the Otomí Ceremonial Center above Temoaya in the state of Mexico. This conference center is a fantastic assembly of buildings constructed by President Portillo's administration on Otomí ceremonial grounds (in a thinly veiled ruse to appropriate spectacular real estate from the Otomí people for the Mexican Government.) The site presents a sweeping view of the valley below, and at 10,000 ft. altitude, is absorbed by the clear expanse of the blue sky above. On the first day we all met in the Center's central plaza. After some formalities and a few welcomes, we were informed about the schedule and structure of the event. We were given the locations of the plenary sessions; introduced to the moderators of the roundtable discussions and told where and when lunch and dinner took place. After these preliminaries, we were all sent off to find where we could best contribute.

I was attending the conference as a guest. Wanting to help out, I took up the task of translating documents from Mexican Spanish to American English. As this event was taking place in Mexico, Spanish was the designated language of the proceedings and many northern delegates only spoke English and their native tongue. Of course this opportunity would not have come about if there was some commonalty in the languages of the indigenous peoples. But even at this conference where there were only 600 delegates representing some 300 tribal groups, there were at least 302 different primary languages spoken - Spanish, English, and the 300 indigenous languages. This gave me some things to ponder: What accounted for the development of so many languages on this continent, and how had the indigenous cultures maintained their linguistic diversity; a diversity so profound that even people living adjacent to each other for thousands of years still keep their linguistic autonomy?

As I dug into these questions, the scope of the inquiry amazed me. I found that there are many language "families" often defined by historic migrations and geographic details. I also found that there are many more living languages on the continent than I had expected. Washington state includes over 36 living languages spoken as a primary language; California includes perhaps 50 - making California one of the most linguistically diverse regions in the world outside of India. A primary language is defined as a language that is primarily spoken among a group of people who may resort to a secondary language such as English or Spanish for business, trade or commerce. By this account the Estados Unidos de Mexico includes perhaps 70 primary languages. This is a recent count, so taking in considerations of tribal displacement, culturecide and extinction, it is possible that the Europeans initially encountered anywhere from 2000 to 4000 autonomous languages as they worked their way across the western hemisphere.

No doubt this linguistic diversity worked to the European's advantage. Surely it was much easier for the newcomers to keep their plans and strategies concealed when there was no simple manner for the natives to convey their experience of the interlopers to their neighbors. But an even greater advantage than the diversity of the indigenous languages may have been afforded the Europeans - unlike most of the indigenous languages, European languages are predicated on time.

The of Language "Time"

Prior to the arrival of the Europeans, time was contiguous and reliable for most of the people of this continent - in fact it was so reliable that it didn't require expression. The Sun and the Moon would rise, the seasons would evolve and return, the trees would shed their leaves and the rivers would flow - the passage of time was associated with the expression of where they lived. The need for a quantification of "November 22nd" was eclipsed by the more important event of the southward flight of the geese; the rising of the Sun was far more useful than the time mark of 6:35 a.m.

With the arrival of the Europeans, some of these things began to change. It was important for the Conquistadors and Pioneers to "get somewhere" rather than "be here." Their conquests were based on large movements rather than local saturation. This perspective was both lubricated and propelled by their relationship to time.

The reasons that Europeans developed an acute sense of - and reliance upon time is purely up to speculation. It could be tied to their history of oceanic navigation and the importance of time in long distance travel. It could just as easily be pinned on the usefulness of abstract tools of quantification for commerce - like the development of algebra by the Persians; it could even be that the Europeans possess an innate or cultural need to isolate, dissect, observe and define in a manner we have come to know as "scientific inquiry." Whatever the reasons for the development of this relationship to time, it has served well in the advancement of European civilization; it has served well as a basic strategic tool for conquest.

The strategic usefulness of time can be demonstrated by the simple act of planning a future encounter based on an experience of a past event. For example I could say to you: "I saw a great exhibit at the Guggenheim in March that is going to be at the Getty Museum in November. I would like to meet you there on November 24 to see it."

In this instance, I have conveyed to you an experience I had last March in New York that I can anticipate sharing with you in Los Angeles on November 24. I have a movable reference that ties the locations of New York and Los Angeles together in a set bound by time. This connection allows us to plan an intersection of our actions in Los Angeles in November that we can predict will occur without having to anticipate anything more of each other - or reveal to anyone else until we meet in L.A. While our actions take place at specific locations, they actually occur in time - in an abstract time disassociated from all other indications of place. If I were using an early Huron or Iroquois perspective and attempted to reference our future encounter in an unseen location across the continent to the falling of the first snow, we would never meet in Southern California. If you convert the strategic implications of this tool of "time" to business of conquest, it becomes clear how clandestine acts of infiltration, persuasion, ambush and attack can be facilitated by an abstract reference to quantified time.

The "Presence" of Language

What I am beginning to understand as I speak with Native Americans and read more about indigenous languages is that most of these languages are predicated on the experience of place - communication relies on references to location of occurrence and the speaker's relationship to the event. This caries with it the advantage that in the indigenous languages, experience is actually imbedded in the communication - reaffirming its veracity as it is spoken. This has proven a bit awkward in attempts by linguists to translate indigenous communication into English; a simple name for a place might translate to "white rocks above sloping downward," or "the tree where little brother cried." A mother of a friend was named "Puh'kaa," which translates into "the She Bear as she just disappears around the bend on the forest path." Speaking these names reaffirms the legacy of the places from which they arise while confirming the common experience of the place.

For the people who speak them, there are very practical reasons for using words of this nature. To the Aleuts, for example, the distinction between the texture of the first snow fall and the hard packed snow of a later season is more important than indicating the time the first snows arrive in October or the depth of the snow pack of January. October and January are immutable occurrences, but the uses or obstacles associated with these different snow textures may actually occur at any time throughout the year. In Aleut, the distinct words for these snows reveal a great deal about the subject to the listener; in English, we are bound to describe these substances with one word - snow. In English there isn't even a distinction between snow that is falling and snow that is on the ground except by turning "snow" into the verb "snowing." Of course the utility of these subtle distinctions in snow is completely lost in Nahuatl - the language of the Aztecs, who use the same word for snow, ice and cold.

So we could say that an obvious explanation for the disparity in language has much to do with the diversity in geography. If a key feature of a region is the tropical sea, a culture will likely take their examples or "teachings" from the sea. The volatility of the weather; the rhythm of the surf; the swell of the tides and the turning of the days will inform their cultural fabric. This culture would have little need for a vocabulary to express the seasonal return of the salmon; the falling of the leaves in autumn; or the unpredictable personality of a volcano. Nor would a nomadic plains people require expressions for the churning of the surf or the songs of the whale.

The Autonomy of the Languages

But what of the differences between the Aztec and Otomí languages, the Serí and the Tarahumara, or the Hopi and the DinŽ; people who's cultures have existed side by side for a considerable time? To understand this we would have to learn about the elements within each culture that affirm their heritage and their perspective - the legacies of the regions in which they live and how their experience is conveyed by their traditions. In this context, the study of any indigenous language actually becomes an exploration of tradition and perspective rather than a cataloging of vocabulary and grammar; it becomes something to "live" rather than something to "know."

This was clearly illustrated to me by an account of a naming ceremony told to me by Kickapoo/Sac and Fox Elder Fred Wahpepah. Fred's given name is "Thakito" and means "Protector of the Camp;" his taken surname "Wahpepah" was actually his grandfather's given name, and it meant "Leader of Eagles." When Fred's grandson was born, the Elders held a naming ceremony for him. The name "Wahpepah" was available because "Wahpepah - Leader of Eagles" had passed on and he didn't need that name in the spirit world. As they passed the child around it was clear that "Wahpepah" was his right name, but the meaning of his name was "The Enticer" - one who entices the enemy into ambush. The sound of the name remained the same but the meaning of the sound came from the Elder's experience of the child. Of course this account is of a child's name, and names - even descriptive names such as these - don't always make it into the dictionary; but this experiential foundation of the language does speak to the dynamism of their vocabulary - and another reason there can be so many distinct languages.

The adaptability of European languages relies largely on the use of words built from symbolic representations of experience and information. The English word "form" is historically rooted in the Latin word for "shape." We can modify the significance of this word with the use of historically adapted conjunctions to create the verbs "inform," "transform," and "reform." We can further express the usefulness of this form by adding a suffix "...ation" to create nouns, or "...ational" to create adjectives. These conjunctive elements have evolved over the history of European culture and don't have any meaning outside of the context of the root symbolic element of "form," but they are so useful that they are featured as cognates in French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Dutch, and Catalan as well as English.

Most indigenous languages are not rooted in symbolic vocabulary or constructed out of these immutable tools. As they are spoken, they continue to transform, and the transformations are affected by the speaker's experience of what is happening and where they are. The language is kept alive through use; stories and songs pull the legacy of the past along while imprinting it upon the imagination of the present. As I hear a tale about a badger or a cricket I am aware that the unfolding of the tale has occurred before, but I am also present in the story as a witness of the telling in the "here and now." When these tales and songs grow out of the surrounding land, their veracity is confirmed by my living experience of the setting.

Where I live in northern California there is a tradition among many tribes to tell stories only in the winter. The Maidu included the tradition of only telling them at night while bundled close together. If stories are told in the summer, the rattlesnakes will come around. In this area I was warned by a local not to sing a Pomo-Kashaya bear song that I enjoy after the first moon of winter because the bear will not appreciate having to listen to me while trying to sleep. Bringing elements of these traditions into conversation - by way of illustration, for example - will weave the conversation into the fabric of a cultural legacy and allow the listeners to establish their existence in that legacy. These legacy stories and the communication that arise out of them can truly only occur in the place where the speakers are - otherwise the story is just a tale.

With the deeply unique regions on the continent and the dynamic way the experience of place is expressed, it is no wonder why there is a vast diversity of languages here. And while the expansivenes of the western continent can itself support countless pockets of regional vocabulary, this "experience of place" argument only considers the differences in local geography, flora and fauna to be the architects of vocabulary, this argument does not take into account the differences in individual and tribal perspectives  differences that can affect communication far more profoundly than differences in descriptive vocabulary. What people experience will be dependent on where they are. How they perceive that experience forms their syntax. The fundamental relationships to "inner" and "outer" forces will cast the tools of communication in perspectives that by nature are unique. If the syntax of my language is predicated on all of creation being suspended on the wind in a manner akin to the DinŽ, the spatial and temporal distinctions I speak about will be rooted in this experience. The air I breathe and the words that are propelled by that air are connected to the wind that blows across the plains. The sounds of the wind blowing through the canyons may speak to me in the same manner that I hear my Elders speak. I may not need expressions for the spatial and temporal relationships of people who consider the winds as autonomous spirits; outside affectors of things; or the meteorological consequences of the sun heating the earth.

Examples of the syntax of reality can be illustrated in the language of the Wintun of California -who modify their verbs with suffixes indicating whether the subject is known by direct experience or known by hearsay, or of the Hopi - who's expression of being is predicated on two aspects of existence; that which is manifest and that which can only be thought - the un-manifest. Conjugations of time or numbers are not as important as the experience of where the speaker is communicating from and their role in the fabric of creation. Perhaps the unifying feature of the western indigenous languages is that they seem to be formed from expressions of experience, rather than from symbolic representations of things and events suspended in time. Unlike European languages that have been constructed out of the artifacts of where the cultures have been, these indigenous languages have the power to weave the speaker's experience into the contiguous tapestry of where they are.

The Return to Here

So what became of the Encuentro? Well it actually went two ways. In the evening of the first day I came in contact with a vital and compelling Aztec man named Alejandro. He was disturbed by the very foundation of the conference mission to generate a document of any type to present to anyone. He was himself on a mission and was eloquent in presenting his beliefs. In his words: "At no time in the history of my people have we achieved anything by writing our words on pieces of paper for the Europeans." He believed that the importance of the Encuentro was to reestablish a foundation in the power of Faith.

"We built the pyramids without bulldozers, I can meet you on the top of the Pyramide del Sol in Teotihuacán tonight without the use of a helicopter. As soon as we write this down it becomes a subject of discussion rather than an act of Faith." By translating our aspirations into a document, we dilute the living experience that propels them. His feeling was that "the race was on" in regard to the fate of the Earth being determined by "unification" through language and technology, or salvation by the reemergence of actions by Faith. His tirade was prophetic - at least in terms of the conference.

On the second day I began sorting out the antiquated computer system for typing and printing the documents of the event. By 10 a.m. I took stock of my frazzled mind and decided to return to the central plaza for a break. There was a slow fire in the center of the plaza set to burn throughout the four days of the event. When I arrived there were some folks milling around the large fire pit contemplating, or in some cases praying and offering pinches of copál to the coals. I watched reverently and with little understanding of the customs I was witnessing, as one of the perhaps ten anglos present at the Encuentro. Soon others began to gather - taking a morning break from the proceedings. As more people gathered I began to realize that something unplanned was happening here.

By 11 a.m. most of the delegates and attendees had arrived, as well as many others from the village below. By mid-day a critical mass had been reached  a Circle had formed. Without benefit of a schedule, a master of ceremonies or even a roster of presenters the ceremony had begun. I participated in awe as tribal members from all over the continent brought their music, their dance, their regalia and their prayers to the Circle. The Aztecs danced in their flamboyant feathered robes, masks and head-dresses to the violins of the Yaquí accompanied by the prayers of the Arapaho. Later the chanupa - the prayer pipe of a Lakota was passed around to the blessing songs of the Tarahumara while the sounds of Inca flutes shimmered in the mountain air. This huge Circle undulated and broke; reformed and surrounded us repeatedly throughout the day, weaving us all together with a recognition of the power of something much larger than all of us.

The Encuentro document did get worked on, but it has yet to be finished; it may never be presented to the United Nations. It may end up that our long term survival will not be dependent on our ability to understand each other's language, but rather by our rekindling the ability to experience just exactly where we are.

© 1997 Michael Stocker