I was transcribing that portion of the diary yesterday and literally jumped out of my chair with excitement when I came across his name. And I’m certain it has to be him?—?all the details line up.
He died in 1980, three years before I was born. Some people said he was nearly 100 years old when he died. He didn’t have a birth certificate, though that wasn’t unusual among Alaska Natives back then.
My mom met him several times. She says he was a remarkable man. He reminded her a lot of her own uncles, but she also remembers Moses Picea as being unusually tall and broad-shouldered and with unusual hazel eyes. She said when she was a little girl, she was always afraid of him at first because he had such an imposing presence. But then he would crack a joke or wink at her, and then they would be friends for the rest of the visit. He was a favorite among children, she said, because he always shared a bit of “Indian candy,” smoked salmon cured with brown sugar.
It’s hard to list all that he did. That 1915 meeting was one of the first times Native leaders spoke up in defense of their land rights, and even though it wasn’t settled until nearly 60 years later, Moses Picea saw it happen in his lifetime. Instead of reservations in Alaska, Natives were given land and money to set up their own corporations. I’m sending you a copy of a photograph from that initial chiefs conference. I thought you might find it interesting.
I think Moses Picea is most remembered for his writing, though. He was one of the last fluent speakers of the Wolverine dialect of Na-Dene. He helped translate the Bible into the Wolverine River dialect, and he wrote stories and poetry in both languages.
This has always been one of my favorites, and I read it now with new meaning:
Song for My Mother, 1952
You say go to the river, it is time for the salmon
And I go to the mountains to hunt for nothing.
You say to never let anger chisel me
And I sharpen my words on a whetstone.
You say come home at night5
but I sleep where I fall.
So what is this Mother’s love
but a steady hold against the bore tide of a young man?
You say “I did not give birth to you, but you
belong to my heart.”10
I say, what is birth but death in reverse
And what is love
but the beat of a mother’s heart against her son’s ear?
My mom saw Moses Picea speak publicly a number of times. She says he was articulate in both languages and had a way of bringing really different kinds of people together. His main message was always that the government should treat both the land and its Native people with care.
It’s so eerie to have that all in mind when I’m reading these diaries.
That isn’t the only reason I am writing, though. It’s been a while since I heard from you, Walt. I don’t want to be a pest, but I’ve missed your letters and wanted to make sure you are well.
With warm regards,
Josh
Tanana Chiefs Conference, Library Room at Fairbanks, Alaska, July 5, 1915
We feel that just as soon as you take us from the wild country and put us on reservations that we would soon all die off like rabbits, just as the chief has said. We live like the wild animals, in long times ago our people did not wear cotton clothing and clothes like the white men wear, but we wore skins made from the caribou. We lived on fish, the wild game, moose and caribou, and ate blueberries and roots. That is what we are made to live on, not vegetables, cattle, and things like the white people eat. As soon as we are made to leave our customs and wild life, we will all get sick and soon die. We have moved into cabins. There is no such thing now as the underground living, and as soon as we have done this the natives begin to catch cold. You used to never hear anything of consumption or tuberculosis. The majority of people say that whiskey brings tuberculosis to the Indians, but this is not true. It is because we have changed our mode of living, and are trying to live like the white men do. I feel that the natives are entitled to their own land, and should not be put on a reservation.
?—?Paul Williams, front row, right.
Hello Josh,
Please excuse my long absence from pen and paper. I’m afraid this decrepit old husk of mine is proving more trouble than it’s worth. Of all the damndest things, my plumbing landed me in the hospital for a few days, and I was slow to get back on my feet here at home. I am glad it didn’t end me. Not that I’m clinging to life by any means, but it would be an embarrassment to be knocked off by an infection in my piss-pipes. It seems to me, all things weighed, I have earned a more dignified exit.