It was one of the few positive experiences that she had growing up. She grew up with her father, rather than with her mother and I. The only saving grace was that her father's stepfather cared very deeply about her and tried to help her as much as he could. Through Wayne, Morganna found a loving, supportive community and ultimately was asked to serve as head woman dancer at a few local powwows. When Morganna came to live with us, as soon as she could choose (and felt safe in doing so) she wanted us to share in this part of her life.
I however, felt very ambivalent about bringing my NAFs to a powwow. Not because I don't have confidence as a player, but because I'm not, never have been, never gonna be, and, frankly, never wanna be an Indian.
Of course, it's not about me. This is something that's important to Morganna, and that makes it important to me. So we go to a powwow in Salem, WV. It's a lot of fun, and I do bring my flutes, and I get a lot of positive reinforcement, which is always good.
One evening, I'm sitting out by the parking lot, tweedling away, and this tall, blonde guy dressed in quasi-Native dress who, from his talk, is deeply into the 'spirichul' aspect of Native culture. He says to me, "Wow, man, that's really beautiful playing. You really honor your ancestors."
My mouth dropped open, and I had a bit of a flashback.
When Morganna was about 10, she said to me, after listening to me play, "Uncle Zak, you must have Indian blood, you play so pretty." I had to inform her that was not just unlikely, but impossible; my family, on both sides, are Eastern European Jews who emigrated to the US at the opening of the twentieth century. That didn't matter to her. "You must have it somehow," she insisted. "You play like an Indian." She was ten, so I just said, "Thank you, honey," and left it at that.
I return to the present moment, sitting at the edge of a parking lot, talking to a white guy in dyed feathers and microsuede. I really wished that I knew how to play, "Hava Nagila." At least it would have been honest. But I said, "Thank you very much," and left it at that.
Up until very recently, I felt that I didn't quite have the right to 'own' the NAF as a central part of my self. After all, it belongs to the Indians, and I'm not an Indian, and, well, haven't the American tribes had enough taken from them already?
(This brings us to a side point. Since, as I expect most of us know, Native tribes are not all the same, and aren't interchangeable, exactly which tribe owns the flute? Does the descendant of a tribe which did not have flutes as part of its heritage have any less 'right' to play the NAF than, say, a Lakota? Or any more right to determine the proper form and usage of the NAF than a non-Native, despite the fact that neither individual has ancestors who so much as touched a siyotanka?)
One of our members, Hawk I beleve, wisely observed that different people have different relationships with the NAF, and that these different relationships can sometimes cause pain, especially to Indians, for whom the constant struggle with appropriation and oppression have a particularly poignant and powerful resonance. When we feel that much has been taken from us, we often cling ever tighter to anything and everything left.
The Native-ness, if you will, of the NAF is a hard thing. It gives it history, it gives it a basis of community which extends beyond mere commonality of interest, and it gives an almost magical aura to the flute. All of these things can be good things, but there can be too much of a good thing.
Personally, I am sick to death of the all-too-often faux Native American trappings that get hung on what is, ultimately, nothing but a hollowed out stick. Worse are the New Age overlays, sometimes also dressed in their finest feathers and leathers, but just as regularly clothed in the purple and nag champa of your local crystal emporium.
In this, I know that most Indians (at least the ones I've spoken to) are in agreement with me. I have a deep and abiding loathing of cultural appropriation.
So, as a non-Native, am I culturally appropriating the NAF? Is it better if I don't play Indian music, or is that even more of an insult to the Indian nations?
In 1993, there was a declaration of War Against Exploiters of Lakota Spirituality. I first heard about it in '94, not long after receiving my first flute. I think it was these clauses that struck me:
WHEREAS for too long we have suffered the unspeakable indignity of having our most precious Lakota ceremonies and spiritual practices desecrated, mocked and abused by non-Indian "wannabes," hucksters, cultists, commercial profiteers and self-styled "New Age shamans" and their followers; andAs a result, I would not play in public, nor would I even really talk much about the NAF; it just became a very personal thing. Looking back at the document, which I haven't read in many, many years, it's clearly more directed towards the pseudo-sundance, "plastic shaman" types then flutists. But playing the NAF is spiritual for me (sometimes) and the same is true of many others.
WHEREAS with horror and outrage we see this disgraceful expropriation of our sacred Lakota traditions has reached epidemic proportions in urban areas throughout the country[....]
Sometimes, we are guilty of, "exploit[ing] the spiritual traditions of...Lakota people by imitating [their] ceremonial ways and by mixing such imitation rituals with non-Indian occult practices in an offensive and harmful pseudo-religious hodgepodge...." (We'll ignore for now the tremendous effect that Christianity has had on Native Americans, as well as how many of them have embraced it whole-heartedly and deeply -- despite the unavoidable, egregious historical treatment of Natives by good God-fearing Christians.)
In 2001, I started writing and recording my own NAF music, but I still wouldn't play out; too much ambivalence remained. But now, I play where and when I want to. I used to make a point to say, "I am not a Native American." I don't even do that anymore. I don't think it matters.
You could sum up all of the forgoing in one simple question: Who owns the wind?
Not me. Not you. Not the Lakota, or the Cherokee. The wind doesn't care if you have a tribal card in your pocket or a cross at your throat or a pentacle tattoo'd to your upper arm. When one brings the flute to one's lips, or the chisel to a block of wood, all that matters is the breath. All that matters is that the breath is formed into something which forms a bridge of emotion between the creator and those who experience the creation, whether it's a song or a flute. Anything and everything else is a distraction.
That doesn't mean the heritage and history of the NAF are not important. At this stage, they still are. For other instruments, with other histories, it's different; you don't hear about Middle Easterners clamouring for Americans to stop playing guitar because the guitar is the direct descendant of the oud, do you? Of course, one might argue that the guitar has changed far more than the NAF from its original state. Has it?
Did all historical NAFs play mode 1/mode 4 minor pentatonic? Were they all concert tuned? Were they made of exotic woods? Could they play almost a minor third into the second octave? What about drones or diatonic scales or Plains vs. Woodland....?
This was forcibly brought home for me recently when I finally got a chance to at least start watching Toubat. Dr. Payne said something to the effect that, if you can think of a musical scale, there's a tribal flute out there that plays it. The 5/6 hole minor pentatonic flute we all know and love was, in large part, standardized in scale and layout by Michael Graham Allen.
The facts as I seem them are simple: While, for the past thirty years or so, the most well acclaimed players have been Native, many, if not most, of the best makers have been non-Native. Some might look at that and see that the non-Natives have appropriated the NAF for their own purposes, ignoring the equally valid observation that many of those advancements have been at the behest of Native players, most notably Nakai, early on. So perhaps it's not an appropriation, but a partnership.
No one owns the wind. No one.
