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Smithsonian Folklife Festival
On the National Mall Washington, D.C.
June 24-28 & July 1-5
Cosponsored by the National Park Service
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Inside Front Cover
Cebu Islanders process as part of the Santo Wi Hoy Child) celebrations in Manila, the Philippines, i 997. Photo by Richard Kennedy
Table of ContentsImage it The Petroglyph National Monument, on the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico, is a culturally significant
space for many and a sacred site for Pueblo, peoples
Photo by Charlie Weber
Site Map on the Back Cover
"Rio Bravo Basin. _ Photo by Kenn Shrader
On the Cover
LEFT Hardanger fiddle made by Ron Poast of Black Earth, Wisconsin. Photo © Jim Wildeman
BELOW, LEFT Amber, Baltic Gold. Photo by Antanas Sutkus
BELOW, CENTER Pina lace from the Philippines. Photo by Ernesto Caballero, courtesy Cultural
Center of the Philippines
BELOW, RIGHT
Dried peppers
- from the
Rio Grande/
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General Festival Information ..........101 Services & Hours
Participants Dy
Daily Schedules
Contributors & sont
Staff
Special Concerts & Events
Educational Offerings,
Friends of the Festival
Smithsonian. Folkways reer ¥
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Contents a
~ Michael Heyman ...t.aeeteess..
The Festival: On fs Wall and Back Home
2 Brucé Babbitt ee. Celebrating Our cara ene
4
Diana Parker ... The Festival As Community” se
Richard Kubin, 2 a ae a The Festival aid Folie ae Ralph Rinzlers a Cutural it ives
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Pate K-71 Fe 3
Wisconsin
Ritiara WalCi wis sc. cs. eee 10 Wisconsin Folklife n RODETT [TESKGMIE. csaine ess outeelies 14
Cheeseheads, Tailgating, and the Lambeau Leap: The Green Bay Packers and Wisconsin Folklife
Gina Grumke The Neighborhood Tavern:
Community Tradition at the Harmony POUR slcte ocho... 20 The Wisconsin Dairy Farm:
A Working Tradition
HOLM greece. eee 23
‘A Good Way to Pass the Winter’: Sturgeon-Spearing in Wisconsin
Thomas Vennum, Jt. ....eceeeeeees 26 The Enduring Craftsmanship of Wisconsin’s Native Peoples:
The Ojibwe Birch-bark Canoe
¢
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
~ Marian Pastor Roces ........eeeee 38 Rethinking Categories: The Making of the Pahiyas Richard Kerinedy<. =<. 7 Wie. sens 4] Rethinking the Philippine Exhibit at the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair Elena Rivera Mirano .........ee0e 45 Masters of Tradition in the Modern World Bam? SaNtOS wcaePeh coe he 49 Traditional Music in eae Cultures Doreen G. Fernandez... cm ee, 51 Philippine Food Ricardo D.Trimillos... 0... eee eee 53 Filipino-American Youth Performing Filipinicity The Baltic Nations: Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania Elena Bradunas ?.....0.esees.ee 58 A Song of Survival Uric: Rite saree RM sta, che Saree 60 Traditional Culture in Estonia Valdis Muktupavels ...........00 66 Latvian Traditional Culture and Music
Pea nc, 72
tee > 1. | eVe AWG
The Rio Grande/ Rio Bravo Basin
Lucy Bates, Olivia Cadaval, ......... 79 Heidi McKinnon, Diana Robertson,
and Cynthia Vidaurri
Culture and Environment in the Rio Grande/Rio Bravo Basin: A Preview
Festival Concerts
The Fourth Annual Friends of the Festival Ralph Rinzler Memorial Concert
PerenSOKOIOW ... a ........ am 95 Jazz and First-Generation American Klezmer Musicians
BGR SaDOZNikig. .. age cues ee. a 97
Old-Time Music and the Klezmer Revival: A Personal Account
Folkways at 50
Anthony Seegghe. eases s. Secu . 98 Folkways at 50: Festivals and Recordings
© 1998 SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION ISSN 1056-6805
epior: Carla M. Borden
ASSOCIATE EDITOR: Peter Seitel
ART DIRECTOR: Kenn Shrader
DESIGNER: Jen Harrington
PRODUCTION MANAGER: Kristen Fernekes
i.
Smithsonian Folklife Festival
Far! Nyholm, Charlie Ashmun, and Julia Nyholm split jackpine roots for sewing and lashing on a traditional Ojibwe canoe on Madeline Island, Wisconsin. Photo by Janet Cardle
gE RTT URE eet lL
The Festival:
On the Mall and Back Home
he 1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival is
proud to host programs on Wisconsin,
the Rio Grande/Rio Bravo Basin, the Philippines, and the Baltic nations of Estonia,
Latvia, and Lithuania.
¢ Wisconsin this year celebrates its sesquicentennial, and seeks through the Festival to demonstrate to the nation the vitality of its people and their traditions. * The Rio Grande/Rio Bravo region was redefined 150 years ago with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which established a new boundary between Mexico and the United States. The river has a variety of meanings for local communities that will be explored on the Mall.
* The Philippines first tasted indepen- dence 100 years ago, and marks its cen- tennial with activities that give voice to Filipino peoples, both in the island nation and here in the United States.
* The Baltic nations each demonstrate the richness of their cultural life, and its importance in sustaining the struggle to regain their freedom and independence only a decade ago.
The Festival will attract about a mil- lion visitors. They will dance to polkas from Milwaukee, learn borderlands bal- lads, participate in a Philippine pageant, and marvel at the amber work, flax weaving, and choral songs of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. The unexpected will also meet their eye —
a Tibetan sand mandala maker from Wisconsin, a Filipino artisan who fash- ions musical gongs from bullet casings, a New Mexican pueblo potter who incorporates modern flood stories into her craft, and a Baltic-style St. John’s Day ceremony.
Impressive as it is, though, the Festival is more than the presentations on the Mall. It begins back home — wherever that may be — with good research. Wisconsin fieldworkers have done a wonderful job documenting the state’s community-based culture. In the Rio Grande region, cooperative field schools led by the Smithsonian with the University of New Mexico, Colorado College, University of Texas—Pan American, and Tierra Wools have encouraged local-area students and community members to study their cul- tural traditions. In the Philippines, the Cultural Center has devoted its staff to researching the traditions of the varied islands and developing a national archive. And in the Baltics, research has depended upon the documentation efforts of the Lithuanian Folk Culture Center and the Estonian National
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
I. Michael Heyman Secretary Smithsonian Institution
Council of Folklore, among other insti- tutions.
Research allows us to plan and produce the Festival. It also leads to other outputs well beyond the Mall that cause the staff to declare, “The Festival never ends.”
Highly visible Festival presentations have gone to the Olympic Games and formed the core of festivals in Hawai‘i, Oklahoma, Michigan, Iowa, Mississippi, and other states. There is a copious scholarly literature on the Festival and some three dozen documentary films and television shows, radio broadcasts, a few dozen Smithsonian Folkways recordings, and numerous cultural learning guides for schools and communities.
The pattern holds for this year’s Festival. Wisconsin, in association with the Smithsonian, will mount a Festival of Wisconsin Folklife in Madison in August. We have produced a Smithsonian Folkways recording on one of the state’s dance music traditions, and Wisconsin public television is shooting a documen- tary for broadcast. In the Rio Grande Basin, Festival collaborations assure a continuing effort to research the region and develop multimedia materials for the schools. And, for the Baltic nations, we trust the Festival on the Mall will reinforce the relationship between the encouragement of grassroots cultural expression and the development of a free, democratic, civil society — as it does for us every year.
1998
1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival
Celebrating Our Cultural Heritage
ver the past three decades, the
Smithsonian Folklife Festival has brought
millions of people together on the National Mall in an annual celebration of the art of American life and the cultures of our world-
Bruce Babbitt Secretary of the Interior
wide heritage.
The National Mall is a public landscape that connects our institutions of democ- racy, our monuments, museums, and storehouses of history in a unique layout in the Nation’s Capital. The Mall and its institutions are open to all — annually welcoming millions of people from every background and cultural heritage.
Each year, the Festival celebrates the cultural traditions of specific regions of the United States and other nations around the world. Among those this year, the Festival features the cultural tradi- tions of Wisconsin, which is celebrating its 150th anniversary of statehood, and the Centennial Celebration of the Philippine declaration of independence. Also featured are the Baltic nations — Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania — whose cultural traditions have been of para- mount importance in defining and sus- taining them. The Festival also hosts members of communities in the Rio Grande/Rio Bravo Basin, from Mexico and the United States, who draw mean- ing and sustenance from that great and important river.
The people and traditions on the Mall are here for us to understand, appreciate, and respect. We learn from the artisans, musicians, storytellers, workers, and other cultural torchbearers at the Festival. They teach us that culture is a
1998
dynamic process, vital in the lives of diverse people and communities, and represents their heritage, creativity, knowledge, and skill. Our cultural heritage is the gift of our Pe eset The National Mall is a public bility forusto landscape that connects our share this inher gnstitutions of democracy, our aes: monuments, museums, and store- future generations ouses Of history in a unique tounderstand and yout in the Nation's Capital. enjoy. By nurtur- ing our cultural heritage, respecting what has been created, and passing it on, we give future generations the symbolic tools to construct worlds of meaning that pro- vide answers to many questions. This is what we do at our memorials and monu- ments, in our national parks, and through our varied programs. The Festival gives voice and vision to our worldwide cultural experiences. Reflect for a moment on how events like the Festival help one generation commu- nicate with the succeeding one. Reflect for a moment on how it tells where we have been, what type of stewards of the land we have become, and who we are. The Festival is an annual remembrance of our rich past and rededication to a promising future.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL 3
~ 1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival
The Festival As Community
he Smithsonian Folklife Festival presents
community-based culture. It does this in a
global capital under the aegis of a global institution. This makes the Festival an instance of “glocalization”— an activity through which contemporary local traditions and their enactors are projected onto a world stage.
The Festival tries to do this in a respect- ful, intimate, meaningful way.
In presenting community cultural life, the Festival engages communities. This year’s Festival is a good case in point. All
The Festival not only engages one or another community, but it
also forms its own.
of the nearly 75 researchers who docu- mented, analyzed, and recommended tra- ditions and people for the Festival came from the represented communities. Festival curators and senior staff met with researchers, shared experience from pre- vious Festivals, challenged assumptions, listened, learned, argued, and negotiated the character of the programs. This is not an easy way to craft a cultural represen- tation, but it allows for an honest, intel- lectual engagement. Mutual respect and discovery are the usual result.
The Festival not only engages one or another community, but it also forms its own. As participants live together at the hotel, see and hear each other on the Mall, they become friends and colleagues across linguistic, cultural, racial, gender, age, and religious lines. Staff and volun- teers are, as Margaret Mead once noted, also participants in the Festival. Many staff and volunteers have worked on the
Festival for two decades or so. Al McKenney, stage manager, is back for his 25th year; Barbara Strickland, our administrative officer, is here for her 24th. We’ve watched each other grow professionally and personally as a result of our Festival experi- ence. And we’ve seen new genera- tions of people joining that community, as staff, volunteers, student interns. A Mississippi Delta participant from last year — Gregory Dishmon, a drummer in Sweet Miss Coffy & The Mississippi Burn’in Blues Band — is returning this year as a sound engineer.
But the Festival is not just a perfor- mance, an exhibit, or a mere activity of the Smithsonian. Its effects reach well beyond its producers. For example, this May, the Mississippi Delta program that was produced on the National Mall as part of the Festival last year was restaged in Greenville, Mississippi. The Festival mobilized local organizations and volun- teers. There were billboards on the high- ways saying “From the Delta to the Smithsonian and Back.” For many of those who'd been on the Mall, the Greenville festival was a reunion. On opening day, a hundred school buses pulled up to the festival site with stu- dents and teachers using the program as a vehicle for learning about local cul-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Diana Parker
ture, history, and traditions. Blues and rockabilly rang out across the festival grounds next to the levee of the Mississippi River. On the third day, a warm, spring Delta Sunday, Dr. Sandra Scott, a professor at Mississippi Valley State University, organized a special pro- gram. Because of her connections to reli- gious communities in the region, she was able to entice more than 150 singers from some 20 churches to come together for a sacred sing. People, Black and White, of varied ethnicity, class, back- ground, and religious affiliation, met each other on the stage — most for the first time. Dr. Scott moved between key- board players, soloists, and selections of repertoire. There was no division between audience and performers. Singers began to relax, jokes were made about towns, styles, and roles. People sung and swayed together. Everyone took delight in Darice Robb’s soulful rendition of the Lord’s Prayer, and in the beautiful solos performed by Ike Trotter of the First Presbyterian Church of Greenville, and Chief Minor, the African-American chief of police in Greenville. The audi- ence, composed of varied local and area residents, sat entranced, occasionally bursting into enthusiastic applause or jumping to their feet in appreciation. Through teary eyes, we all watched a magical moment. It was the Festival at its very best — community was being presented, engaged, and indeed, created.
Diana Parker has worked on the Smith-
sonian Folklife Festival since 1975, and has served as Festival director since 1984.
1998
1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival
The Festival and Folkways — Ralph Rinzler’s Living Cultural Archives
his year Smithsonian Folkways received two
Grammy Awards and a third nomination. The updated re-release of the Harry Smith
Anthology of American Folk Music, ded- icated to the work of Ralph Rinzler, won for best historical album and best album notes, with staff members Amy Horowitz, Jeff Place, and Pete Reiniger honored with awards. The New Lost City Ramblers — John Cohen, Mike Seeger, and Tracy Schwarz — were nominated for There Ain't No Way Out as best traditional (style) folk album and performed at the Festival’s 1997 Ralph Rinzler Memorial Concert. The connections between these albums and Ralph Rinzler is central to the work and history of the Festival, Folkways, and the Center.
The connections go back to the 1950s. Rinzler had been learning about folk music from Library of Congress field recordings, attending university folk fes- tivals with Roger Abrahams and Peggy Seeger, and, with Mike Seeger, seeking out migrants from Appalachia who sang and played at various gatherings. He pro- duced Folkways recordings, and valued the Folkways Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music. The Anthology, published in 1952, was a crucial docu- ment in the history of the folk revival, containing 84 tracks from commercial records of Southern, Appalachian, Black, and Cajun musicians made in the 1920s and 1930s. These raw recordings were annotated with weird yet insightful notes by avant-garde artist/anthropologist Harry Smith. The recordings were a far cry from those of the chart-topping
1998
EIGHTY:FOUR SELECTIONS © ON SIX COMPACT Discs
The Anthology, re-released in expanded form, won two Grammy Awards in 1998.
Kingston Trio and other folk pop groups of the time. They were used for their rough style and lyrical content by Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Jerry Garcia, and many others.
Rinzler was hardly alone in thinking that the people and music on the Smith Anthology were mainly the stuff of archives and museums — long dead.
On a trip to North Carolina in 1960, Rinzler and Seeger met up with none other than Clarence Ashley, whose 1929 recording of “The Coo-coo Bird” was on the Anthology. It was as if Rinzler was immediately connected to a past he had thought was mythological. Through Ashley, Rinzler met Doc Watson. On a drive to Watson’s house in the back of a pickup truck, Rinzler, who'd been playing the banjo, was joined by Watson, who
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Richard Kurin
offered a rendition of “Tom Dooley.” Rinzler was struck by Watson’s version, diverging as it did from the Kingston Trio’s hit. Upon questioning, Watson said he knew the Dooley story as told by his great-grandmother. Watson went on to talk about the place where Dooley was hanged. He pointed out the Grayson Hotel that belonged to the family of the sheriff that arrested Dooley. Tom Dooley was not some character made up for the purpose of singing an entertaining song, Rinzler realized, but part and parcel of a community’s oral history.
At Watson’s house Rinzler was intro- duced to Doc’s father-in-law, Gaither Carlton. Rinzler described Gaither as “an extraordinary man. He was a great pres- ence: very quiet and shy but with a real depth and intensity and a quality that I really loved.”
Rinzler told the Watsons about the folk revival, but they didn’t really understand why people would be interested in that kind of music. Doc was playing rockabil- ly with an electrified guitar and asked Rinzler about touring as a country musi- cian. As Rinzler recalled,
I said, there is this album of records recorded in the twenties and thirties that has been reissued because there’s a whole group of people who are interest- ed in this music now, and they'll buy this record — people like me who are in college and they’re fascinated. But no one believes that Clarence Ashley and the people on this record — any of them — are still alive.
Gaither looked at the Anthology. He recognized some of the names. We played G. B. Grayson’s recording of “Omie Wise.” Gaither sighed when it was over — he literally had tears in his
§ Smithsonian Folklife Festival
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eyes. And he said, very quietly, under his breath, “Sounds like old times.”
He said that in a way that came from so deep inside of him that it just gripped me and really moved me: even now [1986] I just get tears in my eyes thinking of it. And what that said was how deeply meaningful that music was for those peo- ple. I got an inkling of understanding of the degree to which many people did not want to give up that music, but felt that it was outmoded or discarded, and whatever they may have thought of it, the world knew better. It was the beginning of a kind of anger, an activist, ideological, romantic stance that I took.
Doc, Gaither, and others played that day — the old tunes they knew and liked. As Rinzler remembered,
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I knew the style of the music but had never really connected with the people who played. I knew it as a sound, not as an expression of the thinking, function- ing person sitting in front of me. I had no idea what kind of people played this music. I just had the sound ringing in my ears of this beautiful, pentatonic, archaic-sounding music sung in a vocal style that left Frank Sinatra far behind.... What astonished me was that the people who are great musicians in traditional music are as profound as artists in any kind of art.
All of a sudden I understood that style was emblematic — that it was their identity. The style of that music, and the sound, was for some people who they were. It represented their parents and their values, and a way of life that was slowly changing. For those people it was not necessarily a change that they wel-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Rinzler (right) on a fieldwork trip in 1966. Photo by Bob Yellin
comed or valued, but that was imposed; and while the younger generation was reaching for it, 1 came later to realize that as the generations matured, they became more wistful and looked back and gave value to things that they were quick to reject earlier.
On that one trip I got an understand- ing of the meaning and value and func- tion of music — a whole contextual framework that I built on later — and of craft, that I never had before.
It was these sounds, songs, and styles that Mike Seeger, John Cohen, and Tom Paley (and later Tracy Schwarz) sought out, learned, and recorded as the New Lost City Ramblers. They were musical traditions that Mike and Pete Seeger,
1998
1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival
Alan Lomax, Ralph Rinzler, and others brought to the Newport Folk Festival. Other musicians on the Anthology — Dock Boggs, Mississippi John Hurt, Eck Robertson, Sleepy John Estes, the Carter Family — as well as Doc Watson partici- pated in the Newport Festival.
Rinzler was heavily influenced by Alan Lomax’s ideas about the connection between the survival of folk traditions
The Watson family in 1960. Photo by Bob Yellin
and their public performance and dis- semination. Lomax observed two cultural currents simultaneously occurring in the United States and abroad. Like his prede- cessors, he found many cultural styles falling into disuse or being destroyed. But he also found a broad array of cultural traditions with an amazing resiliency. Lomax suggested that enlightened gov- ernment policies could help preserve and encourage those cultural forms by utiliz- ing them in the schools, popular enter- tainment, and other forums. He recog- nized that some of the factors that has- tened the destruction of cultures, such as new technologies, could now aid them as well. Radio broadcasts, sound recordings, television programs, and films promul- gating mass global aesthetics could over-
1998
whelm local cultures. But the same means could enhance and promote knowledge and appreciation of those local expressive systems, as well as their continuity within host communities. Rinzler brought this philosophy to the Smithsonian. In the mid-1960s S. Dillon Ripley, then secretary, wanted to enliven the institution. “Take the instruments out of their cases and let them sing,” he said.
James Morris was hired and became head of the Division of Performing Arts. He instituted a wide variety of performance programs and suggested a summer folk- life festival. Rinzler was hired on con- tract to program the event.
The Festival would present living — as distinguished from historically re-created — traditions. The living culture Rinzler had found, in Appalachia, in Cajun country, through his Newport work, needed help, encouragement, and valida- tion in a society whose sense of beauty and value is generally driven by the exer- cise of power and the commodification of the marketplace. “There was a sense in my mind that cultural democracy was as important as any other kind of democracy,” said Rinzler.
The Festival began in 1967. It included 58 craftspeople and 32 musical groups,
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
drew a huge crowd and strong press interest. It was an instant hit. Its success was recognized by many on Capitol Hill. Said one congressman,
For the first time, thousands of people, over 430,000, experienced a live muse- um which exhibited the art of American folklife and they loved every toe-tapping minute. ... Basket weavers, pottery mak- ers, woodworkers, carvers, doll makers, needle workers, tale tellers, boat builders, and folk singers, dancers, and musicians from all over the country were brought to remind Americans of their heritage — still a living part of our nation. In this day of the frug and jerk Americans need to be shown what their own culture has produced and continues to produce.
Another senator noted, “The Smithsonian is becoming much more than a reposito- ry for old artifacts. The exhibits are com- ing out of the display cases and the men and women directing the institution are showing that a museum can be vital and creative.”
What started out as the discovery in Doc Watson’s home that the Anthology represented a living tradition had turned into a revitalization of the museum. Rinzler quickly articulated a cultural conservation strategy for the Festival — suggesting that museums conserve cul- tures while they live rather than waiting to collect their remnants after they die. The role of a museum can be to help empower people to practice their cul- ture, realize their aesthetic excellences, use their knowledge, transmit their wis- dom, and make their culture a vital means for dealing with contemporary circumstances.
This approach characterized Rinzler’s tenure as Festival director until 1982, and was extended after he was appointed the Smithsonian’s assistant secretary for public service. In that position he blazed the Smithsonian’s first steps toward digi- tal technologies, led efforts to establish
1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival
| am deeply indebted to Ralph Rinzler. He did not leave me where he found me.
Folkways: A Vision Shared won a Grammy in 1989.
museums and programs that addressed the diversity of American culture, and pursued the acquisition of Folkways Records. He envisioned Folkways coming to the Smithsonian from founder Moses Asch as a documentary collection, muse- um of sound, and self-supporting enter- prise. With Don DeVito and Harold Leventhal, he lined up contemporary musicians — Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Emmylou Harris, U2, John Cougar Mellencamp, Brian Wilson, and others who also had been influenced by the “old music” of Folkways — to do a bene- fit album. That album paid for the acqui- sition of the collection, won a Grammy, and assured that Folkways would contin- ue to actively document and disseminate
—Doc Watson
Comprised of recordings made at the Festival, Roots of Rhythm and Blues was nominated for a Grammy Award in 1992.
our musical cultural heritage.
After his stint as assistant secretary, Rinzler continued his work with the Festival and Folkways. He co-curated Roots of Rhythm and Blues at the 1991 Festival and won another Grammy nomi- nation for the resultant recording. He produced a series of oral history/music instruction videos with Pete Seeger, Ralph Stanley, Watson, and Bill Monroe. He produced new Folkways albums of Watson, Monroe, and Ashley, and at the time of his death was working on an expanded edition of the Anthology of American Folk Music.
Upon his death, Doc Watson said, “I am deeply indebted to Ralph Rinzler. He did not leave me where he found me.” The same could be said in reverse. From Doc and Gaither Rinzler had found the Harry Smith Anthology to provide a win- dow into a whole realm of culture, sub- merged, hidden, and overlooked, but nonetheless real and alive. This view per- meated his vision of the Festival, moti- vated the acquisition of Folkways, and
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
continues to characterize the activities of the Center. Anyone who comes to our archive today finds old recordings being mined for new releases, Festival research and documentation being used for new recordings and education kits. Multi- media projects range from music provid- ed for Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? and Encarta to Web pages and video anthologies of American and world music. No dead archive or dusty museum collection here, but rather an energetic activity to understand, repre- sent, and nourish living traditions and their ongoing transformations. It is thus most fitting that the Smithsonian regents at their meeting this January formally named the Center’s holdings the Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives and Collections.
Dr. Richard Kurin is director of the Smithsonian Institution Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies and the author of Reflections of a Culture Broker: A View from the Smithsonian and Smithsonian Folklife Festival: Culture Of, By, and For the People. He first worked on the Festival in 1976 and was awarded the Secretary's Gold Medal for Exceptional Service to the Smithsonian in 1990.
1998
sconsin
ee ee ee =
——— eee a a —————
Wisconsin
Wisconsin Folklife
Wee lies in the heart of a distinctive American region, the Upper Midwest. It is a place where a unique way of life has developed, little noticed elsewhere but markedly shaped by the state's diverse population and striking natural environment. Moreover, concepts concern-
ing civic participation and land stewardship brought by the European immigrants who settled in Wisconsin during the 19th century have deeply influenced social, cultural, economic, and ecological activity in the state, making an
impact on the state’s folklife.
The climate, geography, and economy of Wisconsin have shaped many shared regional traditions. The abundant timber of Wisconsin’s forests is the basis for tim- ber-harvesting folklife as well as vital woodworking traditions. Wisconsin’s inland “seashores” on Lakes Superior and Michigan and the thousands of lakes dotting Wisconsin’s glacial landscape have stimulated nautical pursuits like boatbuilding and myriad fishing tradi- tions. The central North American cli- mate with its hot summers and cold win- ters has produced an annual cycle of activities suited to the changing seasons. Wisconsinites tap maple trees, pick mushrooms, and dip smelt in the spring; cut hay, pick cherries, and welcome tourists to lakeside resorts in summer; harvest corn and cranberries and hunt geese and deer in the fall. There is an intense concentration of festive commu- nity events crowding Wisconsin’s warmer months, but Wisconsinites’ famed propensity for partying also defies the cold. Wisconsinites celebrate winter carnivals, compete in ski races and ice fishing tournaments, and turn the parking lot of Lambeau Field into a cold-weather Mardi Gras for every Green
10
Bay Packers home game.
Nicknamed America’s Dairyland, much of the southern two-thirds of Wisconsin’s rolling landscape is dominated by family dairy farms. During the mid-19th centu- ry, dairy farmers from upstate New York and Central Europe established an enduring agricultural practice suited to
Whether expressed through church, tavern, or home, the role of ethnic identity remains prominent in Wisconsin.
Wisconsin’s land and climate. Dairy farmers typically provide much of their own hay and corn to nourish the dairy herds. The cattle also generate other by- products such as meat, leather, and fer- tilizer. A large majority of the milk pro- duced in Wisconsin is processed into 250
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Richard March
varieties of cheese in the many cheese factories in small and large towns throughout the state. Wisconsin produces 30 percent of the cheese in the United States, using cheese-making skills and practices that have evolved from Old World traditions. Today even the whey is processed into valuable lactose and protein products.
The land-use pattern associated with dairy farming contributes to the striking beauty of Wisconsin’s landscape. Neat farmsteads dominated by huge barns and towering silos are surrounded by corn and alfalfa fields and pastures. Dairy farmers also tend to preserve some woodlands on their farms to meet timber needs and to provide habitat for the deer which are hunted in the fall for venison.
It is also significant that family dairy farms have contributed to community stability and the persistence of traditions. In hundreds of Wisconsin communities, the family names in the current tele- phone directory match those on the old headstones in the cemetery. Descendants of 19th-century settlers make up much of the populace in Wisconsin towns, often lending them an ethnic identity. It is well known that Westby is Norwegian, Pilsen is Czech, Rosiere is Belgian, Mayville is German, Monroe is Swiss, and Little Chute is Dutch. People of Northern and Central European origins have been the most numerous, but the Wisconsin cultural mixture is enriched by immi- grants from all around the world.
The Wisconsin program is made possible by and is produced in cooperation with the Wisconsin Arts Board and the Wisconsin Sesquicentennial Commission on the occasion of Wisconsin's 150th anniversary of statehood. Wisconsin corporate con- tributors include AT&T, SC Johnson Wax, and The Credit Unions of Wisconsin.
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Wisconsin
BAD RIVER RESERVATION
LAC COURT OREILLES RESERVATION
ST. CROIX RESERVATION
Dorchestere CLARK COUNTY
G
HO-CHUNK RESERVATION
Dickeyville
The governance of Wisconsin towns and cities is in the hands of an active cit- izenry. The mid-19th-century antimonar- chist revolutions in Central Europe pro- duced ideas about a just and participa- tory society that were very much on the minds of many immigrants to Wisconsin, especially those from the ranks of the German “Forty-eighters.” Examples of their legacy are still found in local con- trol of infrastructure, in rural township government, and in a history of pioneer- ing efforts toward industrial democracy.
1998
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LAC DU FLAMBEAU RESERVATION
POTAWATOMI RESERVATION
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RESERVATION ».
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STOCKBRIDGE MUNSEE RESERVATION
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Monroe 43)
POTAWATOMI RESERVATION
In these stable and participatory com- munities, the varied traditions of the people who have made the state their home have influenced one another. The Belgians of southern Door County have embraced the brass-band dance music of their Czech neighbors in Kewaunee County, while the Czech Catholic parish picnics in the area serve up the Belgians’ booyah soup from 60-gallon cauldrons. Some Old World folkways like the mak- ing of Norwegian Hardanger fiddles and the weaving of Latvian sashes have been preserved or revived. Other traditions like
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
polka music and dancing or quilting are truly American, having developed from a mixture, a creolization of the contribu- tions of various culture groups now liv- ing side by side in Wisconsin.
Cultural sharing began with what the Europeans learned from the Native peo- ples. European immigrants observed the fishing, hunting, and gathering practices of the Woodland Indian tribes. Native practices influenced the way European immigrants began to tap maple trees for sugar, to gather and use wild rice, fish for walleyes and muskellunge, and hunt deer. For example, 19th-century German- American farmers in the Lake Winnebago area observed indigenous Ho-Chunk fish- ermen spearing sturgeon through the February ice and took up the practice themselves. Today the descendants of those immigrants and other Wiscon- sinites assemble a temporary village of some 3,000—4,000 ice fishing shanties on Lake Winnebago. Inside the shanties, with spears at the ready, these fishermen peer into the greenish water, some listen- ing to polkas on AM radio from nearby Chilton, others sipping homemade honey wine made from Wisconsin wild grapes and an Old World recipe, all hoping and waiting for the rare moment when a monstrous five- to eight-foot sturgeon might come nosing around their sub- merged decoy.
At the end of the 19th and through the 20th century, arrivals of Southern and Eastern Europeans, African Americans from the South, Asians, and Latinos have enriched the cultural landscape. The most numerous Eastern Europeans are Polish Americans, who have substantial communities in Wisconsin’s industrial towns. Milwaukee’s south side with land- marks like the St. Josephat basilica and the shrine to St. Mary Czestohowa at St. Stanislaus Church is the state’s largest “Polonia” (the nickname for a compact Polish-American neighborhood). Polish
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Wisconsin
The gambrel-roofed barn, gothic-roofed barn, and pole barn (from left) on this farm demonstrate both the change in style and continued usefulness of older structures. As farms grow and change, barns are added, not replaced. Photo © Bob Rashid
traditional foods like pierogi and czarni- na are prepared in homes and neighbor- hood restaurants. Polish religious and social customs are actively pursued in numerous Polish lodges, social clubs, soccer teams, choirs, and folk dance groups. Polish handicrafts are practiced by artisans like Bernice Jendrzejczak, a maker of wycinanki (paper-cut art).
Milwaukee’s large African-American community boasts a strong tradition of gospel music, and traditional crafts like quilting and doll-making persist. The Queens of Harmony sing a capella gospel in a very traditional style. Velma Seales and Blanche Shankle are active in a Milwaukee women’s quilt group. George McCormick carves and dresses wooden dolls, while Mary Leazer’s making of tra- ditional rag dolls has drawn her hus- band, George Leazer, into the creation of dioramas comprised of his handmade clay dolls arranged to depict African- American social customs.
While earlier immigrants came to farm, cut timber, or mine ores, the indus-
trial cities of southeastern Wisconsin increasingly attracted new arrivals to work in factories, mills, foundries, and packing houses, on the docks and ship- yards of Great Lakes ports, and in rail- way shops and roundhouses. Today southeastern Wisconsin abounds with skilled machinists who create construc- tion equipment, farm implements, and tools. A few, like retired millwright Roy Treder, have turned these skills to artistic pursuits. When a retirement gift is need- ed for a fellow worker at Milwaukee's Harley-Davidson motorcycle factory, Roy welds together an elaborate base for a clock or lamp from tools and machinery parts symbolic of the worker's career. Roy has created more than 200 retire- ment gift sculptures for his fellow employees.
Wisconsin’s industrial towns and cities are a patchwork of urban ethnic villages, neighborhoods comprised of blocks of well-kept, modest frame houses with churches and taverns on the street cor- ners. The church basement and the cor- ner bar, much like the churches and
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crossroads taverns in Wisconsin’s rural areas, have served their communities as twin hubs of social life.
Many religious communities have an ethnic aspect to their congregation’s makeup. One Lutheran church might attract primarily Norwegian parish- ioners, while another appeals to Germans. Catholic churches may be pre- dominantly Polish, German, Irish, Mexican, Italian, Croatian, or Slovak. Services may be offered in the language of the old homeland as well as in English. Ethnic crafts and foodways may be practiced in women’s clubs and altar societies associated with the church.
Not necessarily conflicting with church life, taverns in Wisconsin serve as anoth- er venue for expressing ethnic and regional traditions. In Wisconsin, taverns have a generally positive image. Austrian-American singer Elfrieda Haese remembers the women of her communi- ty catching up on gossip while doing knitting in a booth in Schaegler’s Tavern in Milwaukee while the men played cards or sang. It is a Friday-night tradition throughout Wisconsin to take the whole family to a tavern for a fish fry.
Whether expressed through church, tavern, or home, the role of ethnic iden- tity remains prominent in Wisconsin. Fourth- and fifth-generation Americans in Wisconsin are still quite cognizant of their ethnic origins, as pure or as varied as they may be. It is very common in Wisconsin to be asked when first meeting someone the ethnic provenance of one’s last name. Not only are there recent immigrants who speak Spanish, Laotian, or Hmong, but German, Polish, Norwegian, and the Walloon dialect of French are still spoken in some Wisconsin homes by families whose for- bears immigrated generations ago. In folk dance groups and ethnic orchestras, ethnic identity is taught to Wisconsin children, an important reason why eth-
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Wisconsin
nicity remains so pervasive in the state.
Traditional arts are one of the most important markers of ethnic identity. Norwegian Americans have placed great emphasis upon crafts like rosemaling, acanthus-carving, and Hardanger fiddle- making. Among the Slavic nationalities in Wisconsin, Ukrainians make pysanki Easter eggs and cross-stitch embroidery, Poles wycinanki paper-cut art, and Slovaks wheat weavings; Serbians play the one-stringed gus/e, Slovenians the diatonic button accordion, and Croatians the lute-like amburitza.
In many ethnic groups, the craft item may be created primarily for display in the home, to indicate to all who see it that the owner is a proud bearer of a venerable heritage. But in other instances crafts may have retained their pragmatic purpose in a traditional pur- suit as well. Wisconsinites like Mary Lou Schneider and Willi Kruschinski ponder long and hard how to design the perfect fishing lure to catch a particular type of game fish. The ice-fishing decoys in the shape of minnows made by members of the Lac du Flambeau band of Ojibwe may serve both practical and ethnic dis- play purposes. Today decoy carvers like Brooks Big John make some purely deco- rative decoys, attached perhaps to pieces
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of driftwood or to lamp bases, but Brooks also carves less decorated decoys that are carefully weighted and fitted with tin fins so that they will “swim” realistically in the water when he is ice fishing. To fish- ermen like Brooks, it is the whole tradi- tion involving the decoy that matters — knowing a good spot to catch walleyes or muskies in winter, making the hole through the ice, constructing the dark house tepee, and actually landing a big fish for his family’s dinner table.
Wisconsin folklife continues to evolve and to be enriched by new immigration. Refugees from wars and political oppres- sion continue to find a haven in the state. Wisconsin now has America’s sec- ond largest population of Hmong, Southeast Asian refugees who actively pursue their unique music, craft, and social customs in the new homeland, as well as one of the major settlements of Tibetans. Latino populations in the state have increased markedly in recent decades, the largest being of Mexican origin.
The Wisconsin program at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival in Washington, D.C., and its restaging in Madison as the Wisconsin Folklife Festival are auspicious events to honor the many people who preserve Wisconsin’s folklife and to observe
Tibetans, like these women at a Buddhist ceremony in Dunn, constitute one of the newest immigrant commu- nities in Wisconsin. Photo © Bob Rashid
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Wisconsin’s sesquicentennial of state- hood. It is a challenging task to repre- sent the folklife of the five million resi- dents of Wisconsin in a single event involving only ten or twelve dozen peo- ple. The program participants are all outstanding bearers of traditions signifi- cant in Wisconsin, all evidence of the natural, cultural, and historical forces that have molded Wisconsin’s unique and vital folklife.
Suggested Reading
Allen, Terese. Wisconsin Food Festivals. Amherst, WI: Amherst Press, 1995.
Leary, James P., ed. Wisconsin Folklore. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998.
Teske, Robert T., ed. Wisconsin Folk Art: A Sesquicentennial Celebration. Cedarburg: Cedarburg Cultural Center, 1997.
Woodward, David, et al. Cultural Map of Wisconsin. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996.
Richard March has been the folk arts spe- cialist for the Wisconsin Arts Board since 1983. Since 1986 he has been the producer and on-air host of “Down Home Dairyland,” a program featuring the tradi- tional and ethnic music of the Midwest on Wisconsin Public Radio. He is active as a polka musician, playing button accordion in the Down Home Dairyland Band.
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Wisconsin
Cheeseheads, Tailgating, and
the Lambeau Leap: The Green Bay Packers and Wisconsin Folklife
have been a fan of the Green Bay Packers all my life.
When | was growing up in Milwaukee during the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, my brothers and | could hardly wait for Sunday afternoon telecasts of Packers games to end so that we could rush outside to imitate the heroics of Paul Hornung and Jim Taylor, Bart Starr and Ray Nitschke.
Throughout high school, I joined mil- lions of other Wisconsin residents in cheering the team on to several NFL championships during the “Glory Years” under legendary head coach Vince Lombardi. As a college freshman, I picked the lock of my proctor’s door to watch “The Pack” trounce the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl I. The follow- ing year, I viewed the Packers’ Super Bowl II victory over the Oakland Raiders on an ancient black-and-white television that made 250-pound linemen look as tall and thin as the Celtics’ front court.
Little did I know then that almost 30 years would pass before the Packers would return to the Super Bowl, that a generation of Packer fans would have to suffer through humiliating losses to the likes of the Chicago Bears and the hated Dallas Cowboys before reaching the pin- nacle again, that my own son would be a senior in college before the Green and Gold would reclaim the Lombardi Trophy. Yet, throughout this long drought, during which I moved to
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Philadelphia, Detroit, and Washington, D.C., before returning to Wisconsin in 1985, I remained a committed Packers fan — and so did literally millions of others. Why such loyalty? Why such dedi- cation and commitment? The answers to these questions lie, I think, in the success of the Green Bay Packers in appealing to Wisconsin’s appreciation for tradition, community, and celebration.
When it comes to professional athletics in Wisconsin, the Green Bay Packers embody tradition. For more than 75 years, half the history of the state itself, the Packers have been a vital part of Wisconsin life. While other professional sports franchises found their way to Milwaukee, neither the Braves, their suc- cessors the Brewers, nor the Bucks — despite world championships in their respective sports — have ever command- ed the same fan support. Dedication and commitment among fans take time to grow and develop, identification with a team and pride in association require stability as much as success. Each new game, each new season in the Packers’
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Robert T. Teske
long and celebrated history has enhanced the aura of tradition surround- ing the team, supported the creation of popular heroes which still capture the imagination of football enthusiasts everywhere, and continued to generate a rich body of “Packerlore.”
As important as tradition in winning a place for the Packers in the hearts of Wisconsin fans is the team’s understand- ing of, and appreciation for, its commu- nity. As the only franchise in the United States which is publicly owned, the Packers enjoy a unique affiliation with the smallest market in professional sports. During a recent public offering, thousands of Packer fans snapped up stock in the organization — despite the fact that the $200 shares will never appreciate in value. People simply want- ed to be able to say they owned a part of the team. Following the Packers’ 1997 conference championship victory over the Carolina Panthers, thousands of fans paid $10 each for pieces of “frozen tun- dra” stripped from Lambeau Field. The fact that all the proceeds from the sale of the turf were donated by the Packers to local charities further enhanced the organization’s ties to the community.
Other symbols of the Packers’ connec- tion to their hometown are somewhat less quantifiable, but no less important. Take, for example, the now-famous “Lambeau leap.” By hurling himself headlong into the stands after scoring a touchdown, each jubilant Packer shares his moment of triumph with the commu- nity which cheers him on every week. The fact that this form of end-zone cele- bration has never drawn a penalty flag seems to suggest that even officials rec- ognize it as a sign of solidarity with foot- ball’s most dedicated fans.
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Wisconsin
“St. Vince” and “Title Towel Man” are among the characters tailgating at Lambeau Field in Green Bay. Photo by Andy Kraushaar
The community which cheers the Green Bay Packers actually extends throughout Wisconsin and well beyond. The Packers organization reserves tickets for Milwaukee season-ticket holders at designated games each year in Green Bay, thus maintaining intense fan loyalty (and encouraging some of the largest traffic jams imaginable on Sunday mornings along I-43 from Milwaukee to Green Bay). At games in Tampa Bay, many “snowbirds” who have permanent- ly fled Wisconsin’s long, hard winters gather with loyal fans who follow the team from Wisconsin to generate a crowd of some 30,000 “Packer backers.” Cities like San Francisco and San Diego,
1998
despite having their own professional teams, typically have one or more bars designated as gathering places for area Packer fans. Only the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame also seem to draw the sup- port of fans so widely distributed around the country.
In addition to building a formidable tradition and cultivating the support of a broad-based community, the Green Bay Packers have long been the occasion for, and center of, Wisconsin celebrations. During the last few years, Packer celebra- tions have expanded to fill virtually every available time slot from the opening of preseason in July till the last second ticks off the clock during the Super Bowl in late January. Schools and businesses reg-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
ularly hold “Green and Gold Days” before big games, and merchants offer Packer specials, like a free sack of bagels for every Packer sack. The Archive of Folk Culture at the Library of Congress has received cassette tape recordings doc- umenting over 45 Packer songs and song parodies in a wide variety of styles rang- ing from polkas to pop (see page 16). None of these spin-offs, however, can quite compare with the central Packer celebration, the one which engulfs Lambeau Field during every Packer home game. In much the same way that Cheese Days in Monroe give local dairy families a cause to celebrate and Syttende Mai in Stoughton encourages
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Wisconsin
It is a tradition for Packers players to borrow bikes from local kids to ride from the locker room to the practice field each day of preseason training camp.
Photo courtesy Green Bay Area Visitors
and Convention Bureau
members of the Norwegian ethnic com- munity to get together, so, too, do Packer games give those attending — and even those watching the game at home — an opportunity to enjoy themselves.
Packer fans typically arrive hours before game time to take part in a form of revelry widely known as tailgating. At the minimum, the pregame celebration usually involves cooking bratwurst on charcoal grills set up in the Lambeau Field parking lot, and washing down the sauerkraut-covered sausages with large quantities of another venerable Wisconsin product, beer. Of late, out- landish costumes have come to comple- ment the ubiquitous “cheeseheads,” inflatable Packer helmets, Packer jerseys, Packer jackets, and green and gold face paint worn by most fans to tailgate par- ties and Packer games. Among the cos- tumed characters regularly sighted in and around Lambeau these days are the
16
antlered “Packalope” and the blessed “St. Vince.” Occasionally, the University of Wisconsin Marching Band will add its postgame concert, known as the Fifth Quarter, to the conclusion of a Packer game, thus combining two long-standing state athletic traditions. After the game, more tailgating or a trip to the local tav- ern to review the highlights may well be in order.
With their victory over the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XXXI, the Green Bay Packers demonstrated that — as bumper stickers had proclaimed hope- fully, but prematurely, for years — “The Pack Is Back.” With their second consec- utive appearance in football’s grand finale in Super Bowl XXXII, the team has shown that it ranks among the NFL’s best. Whether such good fortune contin- ues for Green Bay or not, the Packers will remain near and dear to the hearts of all Wisconsin residents because of the team’s abiding appreciation for tradition, community, and celebration.
°
Suggested Reading
Cameron, Steve. Brett Favre: Huck Finn Grows Up. Indianapolis: Masters Press, 1996.
Favre, Brett. Favre: For the Record. New York: Doubleday, 1997.
Green Bay Packers Yearbook. Green Bay, 1997.
Kramer, Jerry. Instant Replay. New York: World Publishing, 1968.
. Distant Replay. New York: G.P. Putnam, 1985.
Lombardi, Vince. Run to Daylight. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1963.
Schaap, Dick. Green Bay Replay: The Packers’ Return to Glory. New York: Avon Books, 1997.
Robert T. Teske is a folklorist and has
served for the last ten years as the executive director of the Cedarburg Cultural Center. He is the curator of the traveling exhibition Wisconsin Folk Art: A Sesquicentennial Celebration, which is touring the state dur- ing 1998 in conjunction with the Wisconsin Folklife Festival.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
“Scatter My Ashes”
By John Harmon Shardik
Just let me hear that Lambeau cheer To set my spirit free
Scatter my ashes in Lambeau Field That's where | want to be.
In the fall | count the days ‘til Sunday rolls around,
Cuz that’s the day the Packers play — the only game in town.
| haven't missed a game in years; some say I've paid my dues,
But in my soul I’m green and gold. |'ll be there win or lose.
And when | die, don’t nobody cry
And no pine box for me.
Just scatter my ashes in Lambeau Field, And | can rest peacefully.
Through the years I've shed some tears, | ain't ashamed to say.
Through thick and thin, I've always been behind them all the way.
And Lambeau Field is home-sweet-home to die-hard fans like me.
There’s no place like home, they say, no place I'd rather be...
Courtesy Hillfield Publishing
1998
Wisconsin
F he Gina Grumke e@ N e& i g iy b oO i By oO oO d Taverns contained fantastic, mysterious
things that flickered, beeped, and i ave ¥ n e squawked. We pestered our parents end- e lessly for quarters to fill pinball
Com mun ity Trad ition at the machines, juke boxes, and pool tables.
The adults who frequented these places, rmon including our parents, were more toler- Ha = y ant there of kids’ behavior and exuber- : ance. They themselves talked and hen | was a child, a perfect meal was a greasy de wes ee pean : Z : laughed more than they did at home. hamburger topped with a slice of raw onion, Taverns or bars (these words seem to
accompanied by krinkle-cut french fries slathered with Mee ae
are a ubiquitous feature of the landscape
Heinz ketchup and served ina wax-paper-lined plastic in both rural and urban areas. Local tav- basket, and washed down with an ice-cold, syrupy Coke. “rms "sve been community gathering
places in Wisconsin since European set-
My brothers and | also enjoyed other gastronomic tlement. Although the social fabric of delicacies such as beer nuts, sour cream and onion potato — 'sconsin has undergone tremendous
changes since the days of “a bar on every
chips, maraschino cherries, Slim Jims, Blind Robins, and corner” — in particular, as affects tay Weasel Peters. Food this wonderful was only served ina =“: {ete ate mote heall-conscious
consumers, stiffer drunk driving laws,
neighborhood tavern: a dark, heavenly place that smelled and an increasingly mobile population like fried food and cigarette smoke.
which no longer has to live within walk- ing distance of entertainment — taverns continue to exist and even thrive in vari- ous incarnations in all regions of Wisconsin, and they provide a corner- stone of social life.
When I left Wisconsin in my twenties, I was surprised to realize that most of the country did not share this idea of the tavern as a comfortable gathering place for all family members. Instead, taverns were viewed as places to imbibe liquor, consort with unsavory characters, and generally get yourself in trouble. I was puzzled by what I encountered — bars closed on Sundays, the creation of pri- vate “clubs” to circumvent restrictive liquor laws, the concept of a “dry” any- thing — and I found state-run liquor
Patrons at the Harmony Bar play sheepshead, a German card game popular throughout Wisconsin. Photo © Bob Rashid
1998 SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL 17
Wisconsin
A softball team sponsored by the Harmony enjoys beer and food at tournament time. Photo by Gina Grumke
stores with lab-coat-attired sales staff absurdly funny. In the 1980s I spent a summer working in Germany and dis- covered the neighborhood Staben. They had soup and sandwiches, beer on tap, a juke box, some electronic games, and a crowd that could walk there. The Wisconsin taverns that I grew up around were close cousins of these neighborhood Stuben.
Wisconsin taverns are generally housed in long, narrow buildings and are fur- nished with a counter, bar stools, a few tables, and maybe a pool table and some pinball machines. Most bars have at least a small grill and fryer, and some have full-size kitchens in back. Many bars have an attached “dining room,” which is used for eating, as a performance space for bands, and for parties and other special celebrations. Tavern owners more often than not work several shifts
behind the bar themselves, serving drinks, making burgers, and generally keeping order.
Sitting in Madison on the corner of a busy cross-town artery and a residential street in a couple of connected two-story storefronts is the Harmony Bar. Housing a bar since at least the 1930s, the build- ing has tiny signs out front proclaiming “Bar” and “Grill” and neon beer signs in the small windows. Regular customers enter the bar by the side door, from the side street. (Only new customers use the “front” door.) Bartenders and customers greet each other by name and inquire about each other’s lives. “Did you catch the softball game last night? Did you see Dave slide into third base?” “Where is your wife working now?” During the day people come and go, drinking coffee, reading the paper, watching the news or sports on the televisions, and chatting with the bartenders, many of whom have worked there for years. There is a con-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
stant stream of delivery people bringing beer, liquor, and food. Around 11:30 the lunch rush starts — workers from the neighborhood, government office staff who obviously have driven there from the State Capitol building, and folks from the neighborhood. After lunch peo- ple start drifting in for a beer or two, maybe a bowl of soup, a plate of stuffed jalapeno peppers (“poppers”), or a bas- ket of homemade chips and dip. There are decks of cards and cribbage boards behind the bar for the asking. The tele- phone rings frequently; many calls are for customers whom the bartenders know by name.
The adjoining dining room, with its black-and-white checked tile floor and beautiful tin ceiling, is full of chairs and tables that are easily and frequently rearranged by customers to accommo- date their needs and activities, including eating, drinking, playing cards, holding infant carriers, displaying birthday cakes, and stacking presents. Customers are welcome to bring in their own deco- rations for parties, ranging from embar- rassing photo montages of the birthday person to signs of farewell, good luck, and congratulations and balloons and crépe paper. Also in the dining room are electronic dart machines, framed posters, announcements of past concerts and dances at the bar, and an elaborate menu board. When there is no band playing, the stage is used as more dining space.
Keith Daniels and his wife, Jo Raggozino, opened the bar in 1990. Keith was born and raised in Burlington, out- side of Milwaukee, and spent his youth helping out in the family bar, which was also called the Harmony Bar. He left Wisconsin for a while but returned, with Jo and a strong sense of what kind of bar he wanted to open. When he and Jo, along with a partner, bought the bar, it
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Wisconsin
was, in their words, “a dump.” The only positive angle was that there was no clientele to offend or change. Designing the Harmony to be a place where he would enjoy hanging out with his friends, he packed the juke box with his favorite blues, rock, and some jazz (B.B. King, the Rolling Stones, Stevie Ray Vaughan), stocked local and regional beer, and slowly started building a menu of tasty bar food. He purposefully built a base of customers who were at least in their thirties, relaxed, and would return frequently to a place they liked — in particular, women can come to the Harmony and not be hassled. Although the clientele is primarily from the neigh- borhood, people drive there from all over the city. The owners have installed bike racks for those who prefer to cycle in. In a 90s update, although cigarette smok- ing is allowed in the bar, there is no cig- arette machine. A small number of brands are sold from behind the bar at very high prices, reflecting the manage- ment’s ambivalence towards smoking. Jo’s area of expertise at the Harmony is the food. The Harmony offers wonderful examples of traditional Wisconsin “bar food” — hamburgers, cheeseburgers, french fries, deep-fried onion rings, and even deep-fat-fried mushrooms and cheese curds. Jo has added a chalkboard menu of weekly and daily specials such as quesadillas, vegetarian sandwiches, pasta salads, and stir-fries. She recently installed a pizza oven and now serves an old-fashioned, thin-crust pizza, complete with gobs of cheese and toppings. Using her extensive skills and vision and fresh vegetables from her father-in-law’s gar- den, Jo is redefining what bar food is (at least at the Harmony). Although her hus-
1998
band Keith will never allow brats, burg- ers, and cheese curds to be removed from the Harmony’s repertoire, she is continu- ally changing and tinkering with the menu, with mouth-watering results. Jo was raised on the East Coast and was not familiar with the Wisconsin neighbor- hood tavern, but she has embraced the concept wholeheartedly.
Throughout the year customers from the neighborhood gather at the Harmony for a variety of food and entertainment. There is a daily sheepshead table in the front of the bar, instigated by Keith, an avid player. Keith’s enthusiasm for many professional sports, including basketball, is reflected in the Boston Celtics posters throughout the bar. Several large televi- sions are mounted high on walls — often as not tuned to different sporting events, with the volume turned down except, of course, during big events such as playoffs and anything involving the Packers. On the weekends there is live music in the dining room. Keith only books genres of music he likes.
Throughout the year the bar sponsors darts, basketball, pool, volleyball, and softball teams. The undisputed favorite is softball. The Harmony Bar sponsors the most softball teams in the city of Madison. In fact, the Harmony fields so many that Keith is able to put on a day- long tournament at the end of the season with only Harmony teams. Teams are expected but not required to come to the bar, relax, and, they hope, celebrate after the game. The bartenders keep track of each team’s orders on a big chart behind the bar, and at the end of the season the team that has spent the most gets a free pizza and beer party. The Harmony is developing such a reputation for softball and postgame celebrations that some regular customers stay away on summer
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
evenings because the atmosphere is so frenetic.
The Harmony has close connections with the Atwood community center, a volunteer community service agency a block away. The busiest night of the year at the bar is a tropical theme party which benefits the center. The Harmony sponsors a music stage at the Atwood neighborhood summer festival, and inside the bar a bulletin board displays announcements for upcoming communi- ty events.
Taverns like the Harmony Bar are sig- nificant social and cultural institutions in Wisconsin. At once rooted in past tra- ditions and dynamic, they provide a space where people of all ages can come together and enjoy food and drinks, music, sports, games, entertainment, and each other. Wisconsinites appreciate the idiosyncratic, community-based charac- ter of taverns, which stand in sharp con- trast to the homogeneity of larger American fast-food culture. They are proud that taverns, emblematic of social identity in Wisconsin, are places in which they can assert and maintain their own distinctive cultural traditions.
Gina Grumke, a Wisconsin native, has done fieldwork relating to Wisconsin tav- erns and is now completing her disserta- tion at the University of Wisconsin— Madison. She is currently employed by the Doblin Group, a Chicago-based innovation planning firm.
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Wisconsin
The Wisconsin
Dairy Farm: A Working Tradition
Meso boasts a population of 1 cow for every 3 people. We produce almost 15 percent of the nation’s milk, 25 percent of its butter, and 30 percent of its cheese. With more than 27,000 dairy farms and 1.45 million dairy cows, the state clearly still deserves the title
“America’s Dairyland.”
The honor of having the largest num- ber of dairy cows in the state is shared by Marathon and Clark counties, neighbors near the center of the state. Each has 62,000 cows. Clark County is the picture of a healthy farming community, its landscape dotted with working farms and a plethora of agriculture-related busi- nesses, from feed cooperatives and implement dealers to pole-barn construc- tion companies and milk pickup stations. You're likely to meet a milk truck on any
20)
of the county’s small rural roads and just as likely to come across tractors pulling whatever piece of equipment is appropri- ate to the season.
The culture of dairy farming in the state is pervasive. Many residents either grew up on a farm or have spent time on their old “home farm” run by relatives. Many still value such connections and credit farm life with fostering strong family ties and a spirit of cooperation, moral instruction and a sense of stew-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Ruth Olson
ardship for both land and animals. But most people rely on an image of farming rather than an actual knowledge of farming as it exists in the 1990s. Contemporary dairy farming demon- strates a principle folklorists love to pro- nounce: culture, like the traditions that assist in its maintenance, is dynamic. It changes to suit the needs of the members of a particular community at the same time that it retains the core values of that community. While farms are becom- ing much larger and technologically more complex, they are still community based and resource conscious, and are usually family concerns.
Here’s what more and more contempo- rary dairy farms look like. There’s a “milking parlor,’ where the cows enter into stalls to be milked; then they are released into “return lanes” to head back into the adjacent barn. The milker stands in a “pit” about three feet lower than the milking stalls, where she can easily put the milking machine on the cow without having to bend over. Many farms have free-stall barns — long, open, one-story barns where the cows wander in large pens, entering stalls to eat or lie down. These barns often have curtained sides that can be raised in the summer to allow a breeze to pass through. Most farms still keep their old two-story barns but find new uses for them, frequently as treatment barns for sick cows or mothers ready to give birth.
Near the milking parlor or in the house you'll find the farmer’s office, filled with certificates and awards, pic- tures of both cows and kids, an aerial view of the farm, and, of course, a com- puter. All the information on each indi-
Light spills through the curtain of the free-stall barn at the Boon Farm in Greenwood, Wisconsin. Photo by Andy Kraushaar
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Wisconsin
vidual cow — her breeding records, her health records, her milk production — is kept on the computer, and the computer may be hooked up to the Internet, to allow the farmer to communicate with any of a number of agriculture-based discussion groups, both nationally and within the state. On the bigger farms, you'll find a work force which divides up to perform specialized tasks but in which any individual can handle a number
of tasks.
Where Dick and Peggy Rau run their 700-cow farm, near Dorchester in Clark County, there’s a lot of community sup- port for dairy farming. Peggy says:
We don’t meet a lot of people who are against us. You'll meet a few people that say, “Oh, you’re putting the little farmer out of business.” Well, not really. What would the difference have been if we would have stayed at 72 cows? We'd just be struggling the same as the rest of them, and I'd probably have an off-farm job instead of staying here. I’ve been lucky enough to be here 18 years; I’ve never had to work off. And I’ve always been here when the kids get home, and when they leave, which I consider a
big plus.
The heart of the family farm is its chil- dren. The hope is that the farm will be there for the children who want to con- tinue the tradition. To assure this, the farm has to be more than just financially secure; farming has to be something that the children can imagine themselves doing. Peggy Rau says that expanding helped increase the kids’ interest in farming. Their son Zack helps to main- tain the cows’ feeding schedule, getting up at four in the morning before school to help feed. A year ago their daughter Stephanie began working as a milker, and Peggy and Dick have been surprised by her enthusiasm. “Who would have
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Head milker Carrie Dassow monitors the milking machines in the double-ten parallel milking parlor at the Rau
Farm in Dorchester, Wisconsin. Photo by Andy Kraushaar
ever thought she'd be talking to her friends about cows?”
Part of what makes their current mode of farming attractive to Peggy and Dick’s children is that, with an expanded work force, it’s possible to leave the farm now and then. “When we milked 72 cows, you had to be here at five in the morning, five at night, and now, like Steph’s bas- ketball game tonight, we just go, that’s it. We get done what we have to get done, and then we leave.” Dick and Peggy can take every other weekend off. For their anniversary last year, they flew to a Packers game in Florida. “We never did that in the first 15 years we farmed. We never left.”
Agriculture in Wisconsin remains a family concern. Not everyone who grows up on a farm continues to farm, but many go into related businesses. Dick’s brother, for example, is with Northstar Breeding Service, and Dick and Peggy buy most of their semen from them. Peggy’s brother works for Marawood Structures, which put up the Raus’ newest free-stall barn.
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Although there may be hundreds of cows with numbers instead of names, there’s still a focus on relationships with animals. The older cows, especially, become pets. Peggy describes how her milkers develop attachments to certain cows. Their milking parlor has a base- ment which also serves as a storm cellar. One day last summer Peggy was warning her milkers to get down to the basement in any severe storm. She told them, “Forget the cows, just get yourselves down there.” Her head milker asked, “Can I bring 1459 with me?” All the milkers feed cookies, Hostess cupcakes, and Doritos to another cow, 1541. One milker suggested to Peggy that since they mix bakery waste as part of the cows’ integrated feed program, it was the same thing as feeding the cows cookies.
Most farms still follow the old princi- ple, “Find a use for it.” The original recy- clers, farmers innovate, putting old things to work in new ways. For example, Duane Boon of Greenwood in Clark County recently expanded his herd to
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= a Photo by Andy Kraushaar
120 cows and bought a milking parlor system. Rather than build a whole new operation with all new buildings, Duane decided to modify his existing round-roof barn. He gutted out one end of it, air- hammering out the floor to install the pit for the milking parlor, and changing the gutter system and stanchion setup in the other end to create a holding area for the cows waiting to be milked. He con- nected his new free-stall barn to his old barn, so that the cows could be moved from one location to the other easily. And sometimes old ideas are used to fit new purposes. In Dick and Peggy Rau’s milking parlor pit, all the supplies need- ed to prepare the cows for milking — towels, teat dip, sanitized water — used to be kept in a barrel, and the milkers would have to run back and forth to get supplies. Then Dick’s brother came up with a better idea. He welded together a trolley, much like an old silage cart, that is suspended from a track on the ceiling. Now, the milkers simply pull the trolley along as they milk. In another case, a neighbor found that old tractor tires cut in half make the perfect manure scraper for a free-stall barn. Using a metal buck- et to scrape the concrete floor causes two problems: first, it eventually smooths out the floor too much, making it slippery for the cows; second, metal buckets scraped against concrete wear out rather quickly and are expensive to replace.
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Cows graze in the feeding alley in the free-stall barn at Dick and Peggy Rau's farm.
Using an old tire is cheaper and better for the floor.
The Raus, like other farmers in the area, buy their tractor-tire scrapers from a local farmer who makes them. This specialized market emphasizes how much dairy farmers rely on a healthy, supportive environment. Few dairy farmers find themselves operating successfully in isolation.
In Clark County, many of the farms no longer operating are those owned by older farmers. Duane Boon says that those farms end up getting absorbed by other farms, since not many new farmers can afford to start up. “Like my dad said, I’m farming right now what basically was 10 independent farmers 30 years ago. It’s kind of sad in a way.” Peggy Rau shares Duane’s attitude. “I like the old farms.... I happened to go sit out in the woodlot one day, and you could see around this area, how many people are 60, 60, 60, 60.” She points around her to her neighbors:
Dick’s brother farms right up the road half a mile, so that one’s running. The farm over there with the green silo top, another big farmer that lives out on [County Road] A owns that, and there’s hired people going through it constant- ly, so it’s really not a family-run farm any more. That farm over there is currently running but not for long.
Farmers are well aware of the risks they take in this rapidly changing business, and at least for the Raus and the Boons, it increases their determination to pass on workable traditions.
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Before they expanded, the Boons milked 60 cows and did all right, “but I came to the point where I’m 40 years old. If | keep milking 60 cows, my net worth will probably go down by the time I’m 60, so I either have to modernize and expand, or get out, or just milk it out till there’s nothing left,’ Duane explains. “T’ve got kids coming up, I think they might be interested. Maybe not; if not, I’ve got to have something saleable, too.”
Dick Rau’s uncle, a retired farmer him- self, says, “I remember when I was milk- ing 12 cows. I thought I'd be a big success if I could get it up to 30 cows. By the time I retired, | was milking 70, and now....” He gestures behind him at the complex that milks and cares for 700 animals.
°
Suggested Reading
Belanus, Betty J.”Family Farm Folklore.” In Festival of American Folklife Program Book, ed. Peter Seitel. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1991.
Leary, James P. “The Farmer and American Folklore.” In Festival of American Folklife Program Book, ed. Peter Seitel. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1991.
Mitchell, Roger. From Fathers to Sons: A Wisconsin Family Farm. (Special issue of Midwestern Journal of Language and Folklore.) Terre Haute: Indiana State University, 1984.
Vogeler, Ingolf.“The Cultural Landscape of Wisconsin's Dairy Farming.” In Wisconsin Land and Life, ed. Robert C. Ostergren and Thomas R. Vale. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997.
http://www.wislink.org (the electronic network for Wisconsin Dairy Producers)
Ruth Olson was raised on a dairy farm in northwestern Wisconsin and has done extensive fieldwork on the occupational, recreational, and ethnic life of rural com- munities in the northern part of the state, with an emphasis on issues of land use and agriculture. She teaches at the University of Wisconsin—Madison and is on the staff of the Wisconsin Folklife Festival.
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“A Good Way to Pass the Winter”: Sturgeon-Spearing in Wisconsin
y talk with sturgeon
fisherman Bill Casper begins with an early history lesson. The healthiest popu- lation of sturgeon in the world is in Lake Winnebago, in eastern Wisconsin.
Lake Winnebago, one of the largest inland lakes in the area, is 11 miles wide and 28 miles long — but at its deepest point only 22 feet deep. “It was shoved in here by the glacier. You can tell by all the north-and-south running lakes in the Great Lakes area. Even Lake Michigan got sort of plowed in here. You can see where the drumlins in the land were formed by the great glacier pushing the earth and bringing stone and debris along down. Must have been quite a time.” As the glacier melted, lakes formed and fish migrated into the area. Bill believes the sturgeon came into the Great Lakes and Lake Winnebago area from glacial runoff and by traveling north along rivers like the Mississippi.
Sturgeon have been around for 3 or 4 million years. They are a primitive fish, growing to be decades old and yards long. Bill describes them as “a very nice fish to eat — their meat is very good.” They have marrow — a soft, cartilage- type bone — and gizzards, like dinosaurs and chickens. Covered with a tough hide, sturgeons’ backs and sides are ornamented with “scoots” or hackles. Their heads are a heavy mass of bone.
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Ruth Olson
On opening day of sturgeon-spearing season on Lake Winnebago, thousands of fishing shacks are brought onto the ice with the help of four-wheel-drive vehicles and snowmobiles. Photo © Bob Rashid
Until the 1800s, lake sturgeon were abundant in the Great Lakes. Although commercial fishing there almost wiped them out in the mid-1800s, it was a dif- ferent story for the fish in Lake Winnebago. The lumber boom in the area resulted in a number of dams on the Fox River between the lake and Green Bay, practically trapping the crop of sturgeon in Lake Winnebago. The stur- geon still have ample place to spawn in the Wolf River, which runs 125 unre- stricted miles from Lake Winnebago to the Shawano dam.
Spearing sturgeon on the lake has long been a tradition. Bill remembers going out with his Uncle Ambrose and com- pares those earlier seasons with the more restrictive season now, when individuals are only allowed one sturgeon each year:
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He would come up from Milwaukee on weekends and stay at our home, and then he'd go fishing, and I’d always want to go with him. And so my mom said, “Well, you’ve gotta be eight years old at least.” So when I was eight and he showed up, I started going with him.... We'd leave when it was almost dark, and we'd go out to the lake. He had just a car...and we'd drive out on the lake, and shovel our way out there because there were no snow plows at that time. And we'd start fishing. Fish till he couldn’t see anymore down in the hole...then we’d come back home and have our supper at our house.... It was at a time where you could get five fish. Well, some days we'd get two, but in those years there weren’t so many sturgeon fishermen out there.
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It’s different today. Bill estimates that during sturgeon- spearing season, which runs from the second Saturday in February through the third weekend of that month, there can be 3,000— 4,000 shanties on the lake, and of course the same number of pickups.
Twenty-four hours before the season starts, peo- ple can cut their hole in the ice — producing a block about 4 feet by 6 feet, and 2 feet thick. To cut through that ice a chain saw with a special 42-inch-long ice bar is used. The ice is cut at an angle — narrower on top, wider on the bottom — to make it easier to push the ice block down into the water. They then use long pike poles to sink the block under the ice.
Once the hole is cut, the ice shanty gets dragged over it. A shanty typically is equipped with two doors in the floor that raise up to expose only the hole. Thus, the sturgeon spearer can sit on a nice, dry, carpeted floor, in a heated shanty, while waiting to spot a fish.
When Bill fished with his uncle, the hole would be sawed entirely by hand with ice saws, and, once they had a hole cut, they didn’t move. Now, with a chain saw, a shanty can be set up in 20 minutes. Like most spearers today, Bill hires someone with a chain saw to cut his hole.
Photo © Bob Rashid
A big chain saw is so very expensive ...S0 a guy will buy [one], and he'll go out there and cut holes for ten bucks apiece. People will leave their name at a
Sturgeon fishermen push cut ice underneath the surface and away from the fishing hole on Lake Winnebago.
tavern, or he’s got a radio in his truck with a flasher on the roof, and you can usually spot him out there, and you just go over and say, “Hey, I’m over here. When you're ready, come cut a hole for me.” And it works out very nicely. He has all the gear for sinking the block, he’ll help you move your shanty on the hole, and then they leave and cut the next hole.
People may move three times a day, but Bill stays put. Sturgeon-fishing requires a lot of waiting. Some people wait for two or three years to see a fish. Some, in half an hour, see a fish or maybe two. Bill's had pretty good luck over the years get- ting his sturgeon.
Is there a good strategy for picking a place to set up? Bill says you try to get closest to the spot where you caught a fish last year.
Or you turn on your radio.... Jerry Schneider, the radio station up at Chilton,...has a sturgeon report every hour or so, where if you get a sturgeon in the morning and you take it in and
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register, it'll auto- matically get called in to Jerry Schneider's radio station. So every- body on the lake will know who got it — there’s no secrets any more. ... Then they may start moving.... If they know where I’m at, and they know someone else near me and if we happen to both get a fish, they'll say, “Wow, they’re in there.” Shanties will come in, and they'll be cutting holes around you, chain saws are going.... Some morn- ings you go in your shanty, and there’s four shanties out where you are.... You come out in the evening, and you could be right in the middle of a big town.
pe
But life on the ice is more sociable than competitive. People stop to visit each other’s shanties, maybe sharing a beer while they sit and talk. Many people have CB radios in their shanties and chat back and forth. Like most shanties, Bill’s is equipped not only with a heater but with a two-burner gas plate. “If you spend a whole day out there, you have to do a lit- tle cooking. If somebody visits, you gotta have a bowl of chili.”
Most of the gathering is in the taverns in the evening. “It used to be years ago, the guy would walk in with a sturgeon on his shoulder and flop it on the tavern floor, even on the bar — everybody had a treat. Now, of course, they don’t want you to do those things. It’s always kind of a fun time, you know. And it’s a good way to pass the winter in Wisconsin.”
Bill’s sister Mary Lou Schneider not only spears sturgeon, she carves the
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Dennis Haensgen waits for sturgeon to swim by the hole in the floor of his sturgeon shack on Lake Winnebago. Photo © Bob Rashid
decoys she uses to attract them. She’s gained local popularity as a decoy maker. Decoys are one of the most important elements in sturgeon-spearing. As Bill says, everyone has a favorite. They can range from brightly painted carved wooden fish weighted down with lead, to corn cobs, to kettles. “I’ve seen washing machine agitators down in the sturgeon holes.... Whatever got lucky a year or two ago, that’s what [people] like to use.”
While many people use spears with detachable spearheads (once the fish is speared, the handle comes free, exposing the rope attached to the spearhead), Bill does not.
Because when you first hit the fish, it will just stop. And if you bring it up right away, and you’ve got a gaff hook, depending on how you got him, you can take him right outside before he gets too
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wild on you. If you just leave him alone for a little while and he starts coming to, they will take off like a wild calf on a rope. And they’re all over the place, down in the mud and up against the ice, and down and up. You will not believe. And then when they come up into the shanty with you, there’s water flying, water on the stove — you know, the tail is going! If you get a big fish, 80 pounds, every swat of the tail seems like 5 gallons of water comes up at you.
Yet one person usually can bring the fish out of the lake. In fact, one woman can do it. Mary Lou, who weighed only 115 pounds, speared one that weighed 117 pounds. She got it out by herself.
It’s not just the good meat or the plea- sure of the company that keeps people sturgeon-spearing. For many, to be out on the ice is a clear statement of who they are — as displayed through their ice shanties, for example. People put a lot of effort into personalizing their shanties. Bill’s is a Green Bay Packer hel- met. A lot of people come to see it, and on the lake they always know where he’s at. “If you have your radio they'll say, ‘He got one in the Packer helmet!’” But it’s all right, Bill doesn’t mind that people like to come and visit. “You just sit and talk and fish.”
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Suggested Reading
Boyle, Robert H.Friends of a Living Fossil.” Sports Illustrated, 4 March 1996.
Lyons, John, and James J. Kempinger. Movements of Adult Lake Sturgeon in the Lake Winnebago System. Madison: Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources, 1992.
Priegel, Gordon R., and Thomas L. Wirth. Lake Sturgeon Harvest, Growth and Recruitment in Lake Winnebago, Wisconsin. Madison: Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources, 1977.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Sturgeon For Tomorrow
Bi Casper founded Sturgeon For Tomorrow (SFT) 21 years ago, after he decided there was a need to learn how to raise sturgeon artificially in case something happened to the healthy local fish population. He printed up bulletins, posted them in local taverns, and had 150 fishermen show up at his meeting. Eventually, with the help of William Ballard of Dartmouth College, who had studied sturgeon in Russia and Romania, SFT spearheaded the effort to hatch sturgeon artificially.
Today, the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (DNR) manages to hatch more than 90 percent of fertilized sturgeon eggs. They have helped to restock sturgeon in the surrounding States of the Midwest and even Canada. SFT con- tinues to work closely with the DNR, as members serve on a sturgeon advisory board and help staff a volunteer patrol every spring to stop poaching on rivers while vulnerable fish are spawning. When SFT started in 1977, there were 11,500 sturgeon in Lake Winnebago; now, helped by both a reduction in poaching and adding to the natural population, the population is estimated at 45,000—50,000 fish.
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1e Enduring
Craftsmanship of Wisconsin’s Native Peoples: The Ojibwe Birch-bark Canoe
he bark canoe of the Chippeways [Ojibwe]
is, perhaps, the most beautiful and light model of all the water crafts that were ever invented. They are generally made complete with the rind of one birch tree, and so ingeniously shaped and sewed together, with roots of the tamarack . . . that they are water-tight, and ride upon the water, as light as a cork. They gracefully lean and dodge about, under the skilful |sic| balance of an Indian... but like everything wild, are timid and treacherous under the guidance of [a] white man; and, if he be not an equilibrist, he is sure to get two or three times soused, in his first endeavors at familiar acquaintance with them.
—George Catlin, Letters and Notes of the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indian (1841)
The traditional crafts of Wisconsin Indian tribes are perpetuated by many of their talented craftspeople, several of whom are represented in this year’s Festival. Centuries-old traditions contin- ue to flourish and develop, not only in the realm of decorative arts but also in the manufacture of utilitarian objects. Wisconsin Menominee, Potawatomi, and Ojibwe still produce bark containers tra- ditionally used to store wild rice and maple sugar, historically the principal subsistence foods of Woodlands Indians in the western Great Lakes area. And even materials not naturally found, such
Thomas Vennum, Jr.
Fig. 1. Ear! Nyholm and Charlie Ashmun tie inner stakes to exterior canoe form-stakes. Note the boulders weighting down the canoe form; also, that the white outer bark of the tree becomes the inside of the canoe.
Photo by Janet Cardle
as metal and plastic, as they became available were adapted by Indian people to age-old technologies. For example, the traditional birch-bark tray used to “fan” wild rice — that is, to separate the seed from the chaff — is generally made using birch bark, cut and folded into shape, then sewn with split roots. But some Indian people create the same object using heavy cardboard or even pieces of sheet metal riveted together. Perhaps no single item in the tradi- tional economy combines finesse and craftsmanship better than the birch-bark canoe — historically the principal mode of transportation and cargo-freighting
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for Indian peoples in the western Woodlands. Early European travelers in the American wilderness were amazed by this unfamiliar type of boat and rarely failed to comment on its construction. Most scholars generally agree with the 19th-century artist George Catlin that the Ojibwe more than any other people raised canoe-building to a fine art. Although the birch-bark canoe today has been supplanted by wooden, metal, and plastic boats, a handful of Ojibwe crafts- men still retain the important knowledge of all the steps in its traditional manufac- ture and the skills needed to apply them.
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In the summer of 1997, a film crew from the Smithsonian Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies docu- mented the construction of a traditional Ojibwe canoe. (Currently in pro- duction, the film, like this year’s Wisconsin program, was supported by a grant from the Wisconsin Sesquicen- tennial Commission.) The master builder, Earl Nyholm, is a professor of the Ojibwe language at Bemidji State University in Minnesota and had demonstrated his canoe-building skills at two of our earlier Festivals. Earl was assisted by his 84-year-old mother, Julia; an apprentice, Mark Wabanikee from Bear Island in Lake Michigan; several of Earl’s relatives living on the Bad River Reservation in Wisconsin; and a craftswoman from the Red Cliff Reservation, Diane Defoe, whose birch- bark work is featured in this year’s Festival. The five-week-long construc- tion took place on a Lake Superior beach on Madeline Island — the ancestral homeland of the Ojibwe peo- ple. The site selected was in fact the location of the first trading post of the Northwest Fur Company in the 18th century; undoubtedly this very beach had witnessed canoe construction in earlier times.
The process began with an exhaus- tive five-day search for the proper birch tree. The German cartographer Johann Kohl visiting Madeline Island in 1854 to observe the distribution of treaty annuities remarked on the importance of good bark for a canoe:
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Fig. 2. This detail of the gunwale assembly shows the tapered end of the thwart inserted into the mortise of the inwale, split jackpine roots for lashing, and double-stitch sewing. Photo by Janet Cardle
Fig. 3. Canoe-prow assembly with “man-board” — so called because it resembles a human form. A single piece of cedar is used which is split into more than 30 laminations to effect the bends in its form. These are held in place using wiigoob (the inner bark of the basswood tree) and threaded through
and inserted over the man-board. Photo by Janet Cardle
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[N]ew canoes are being constantly built around me or old ones repaired and I saw them in every stage of perfection. The Indians expend as many bark canoes as we do huntingboots.... The largest and smoothest trees are selected so that the pieces of bark may be as large as possible and prevent too much sewing (Kohl 1860:2829).
Canoe builders have a trained eye for picking out a “canoe birch-bark tree,” which ideally should be some 50—60 inches in diam- eter. Due to the decimation of forests for lumber and pulpwood, birch trees this size are a rarity today. Furthermore, the tree must be straight, free of “eyes” and lichen growth that might cause the bark to tear under pressure, and must not bifurcate at its top. (Earl suggested that only one in a hundred trees meets these criteria.) After they had rejected for imperfec- tions a number of large trees identified in advance of the builders’ arrival on the mainland opposite the island, their search ended in a wilderness preserve on Madeline Island with the discovery of a 54-inch tree.
(Canoe builders need a single large piece to run the bottom length of the vessel; if the bark is not wide enough to reach the gunwales on either side, it requires “piecing”; that is, bark must be added along the gunwales at the widest part of the canoe. Such “pieced” bark requires double-stitch sewing to the bottom strip, which is very time consuming. Thus the harvest of large birch by the dominant society
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‘“onsin
he decline of the craft — one in there are so few today building
bark canoes.)
lhe builders made their incisions to remove the bark. (Some builders will fell the tree, but Earl likes to take his bark from a standing tree. The removal of bark does not kill the tree immediately since the exposed cadmium layer will heal, although the tree will eventually die.) Timing is critical, for there is only about a five-day window of opportunity in late June, dependent on both day- and nighttime temperatures, when the bark is ripe for taking. After two circumference incisions, the final cut was a straight ver- tical joining them. The bark of this birch
virtually sprang off the tree with a loud zipping noise; several days later it would have been irremoveable.
To begin canoe construction a flat rec- tangular bed of sand was spread out evenly and picked over for rocks and twigs. At the site a wigwam framework was improvised over this building area to accommodate tarps (see Fig. 6). These kept the canoe out of direct sunlight and thus prevented materials from drying too quickly; bark, for example, will curl. On the level bed of sand, Earl spread out the piece of bottom bark with its exterior (the white side) facing upward. (Miniature canoes made for sale to tourists mistakenly give the impression
that the outside of the tree becomes the exterior of the canoe.) An elliptical wooden canoe form with pointed ends was placed on top of the bottom bark and weighted down with rocks to stabi- lize it. Ojibwe believe that their culture hero, the legendary Wenabozho, invented the canoe for them, and Indians can point to a pile of rocks on one of the Apostle Islands, saying these were the ones he used in weighting down the form of the first canoe.
The bark was brought up outside the length of the canoe and large birch canoe stakes driven into the ground along each side the length of the canoe to begin to form its shape (see Fig. 1).
Fig. 4. Earl Nyholm bends canoe ribs, using two at a time to guard against
breakage. Photo by Janet Cardle
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Fig. 5. View of the interior of the canoe with some of the thin cedar planking in place. Note the hanging bent and dried ribs which will be reinserted once the flooring is completely set in place. Photo by Janet Cardle
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Wisconsin
The ends of the bottom piece were clamped together using “Indian clothes- pins” made of cedar. The outer stakes were then tied to the inner stakes with “Indian string” (pieces of the inner bark of the basswood tree; see Fig. 1).
Because the bottom bark was not suffi- ciently wide to reach completely from gunwale to gunwale at the canoe’s mid- point, a strip of added bark had to be sewn (“pieced”) on either side for a length of perhaps three feet. All sewing is entrusted to the women, using roots of the jackpine tree which are split and kept in water until needed. Julia and Diane attended to this task, laborious and time consuming as each stitch must be dou- bled for strength, that is, brought over and under each side of the overlapped bark (see Fig. 2). To accommodate the stitches, an awl was used to poke holes through the bark. (In his famous poem “Hiawatha,” Longfellow, basing his infor- mation on Henry Schoolcraft’s Ojibwe
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research, extolled the creation of the canoe from natural resources: “All the forest’s life was in it,/All its mystery and magic,/All the lightness of a birch- tree,/All the toughness of the cedar,/All the larch’s sinew supple.”)
After the added pieces were sewn, the long, thin, cedar gunwales were created, both an outwale and inwale, the latter being mortised to receive the tapered butt ends of three cedar thwarts which serve to hold the top of the canoe apart (see Fig. 3). Once in place, the gunwales had to be lashed to each other and to the bark for the full perimeter of the vessel. At this point Earl, as the master crafts- man, completed the all-important finish- ing work at both ends by inserting an elaborately constructed cedar prow-piece (Fig. 3).
(Thomas McKenney, touring the area around Madeline Island in the mid-19th century, praised the Indian talent in using only natural materials in canoe
on
construction: “The Indians make no use of nails and screws, but everything is sewn and tied together. But the seams, stitches, and knots, are so regular, firm, and artistic, that nothing better could be asked for” [1827].)
The next and crucial step in construc- tion involved bending and inserting the cedar ribs, which give the canoe its final rounded shape. About 40 thin cedar ribs had been soaking for several days to make them more pliable. Still, boiling water must be poured over them to increase their pliancy. Rib-bending is a most frustrating time for every canoe builder. Despite all the soaking and heat- ing, the ribs are still quite brittle and easily broken. (Canoe-builders always prepare additional ribs, knowing they can expect to break several in the bend- ing process.) Wearing a special pair of moccasins, Earl stood each time on a pair of ribs and through exertion gradu- ally pulled up on either end (Fig. 4) until
Fig. 6. The 14-foot canoe, invert- ed for “gumming’ (‘pitching’) all cut and sewn areas on the bark, is ready for launching.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Photo by Janet Cardle
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he achieved the proper bend, at which point he carried it to the canoe to insert it in place. Once all the ribs were intact, the canoe was allowed to dry for a day; then the ribs were removed and thin cedar planking, constituting “flooring,” installed along the length of the craft and held in place by reinserting the ribs (see Fig. 5).
Finally, a gunwale cap was installed over the gunwale assembly with birch- wood pegs; the cap offers protection to the lashing holding it together. The canoe was then inverted for “pitching” (see Fig. 6). Places where the bark had been cut and sewn had to be made watertight. Pitch for this purpose, made from spruce gum and deer tallow, was heated and melted down, with black charcoal from a maple log added for col- oring. (Black is a popular choice in the Ojibwe repertoire of colors.) Like a bicy- clist’s patch kit, Ojibwe canoers always kept a small supply of pitch with them in the boat in case repairs were needed.
Once the pitch dried, the canoe was ready to launch. Wearing beautiful Ojibwe black velveteen vests adorned in typical curvilinear beadwork represent- ing flowers and leaves, Earl and Julia climbed aboard and paddled off into the sunset to provide the Smithsonian cam- eraman his final shot for the film.
The 14-foot canoe Earl built for the filming was fairly typical of a “family- size” two-man vessel; during the fur trade much larger ones were built for long-distance freighting on the Great Lakes. (McKenney [1827:146] described a 30-foot canoe which by his estimation could carry 2,000 pounds.) Kohl in 1854 was amazed at how much Indians could pack into a canoe and describes a family from 150 miles in the interior of Wisconsin arriving on Madeline Island. As the father and one son glided the canoe into an inlet, he observed that
the wife, with her other children, two boys and two girls, was buried beneath a pile of parcels and boxes. Among them lay a dog, with three pups, and on top of all the plunder, was a large cage, with two tamed falcons in it. The gunwale of the boat was only a few inches above the water, and in this way all these beings, and animals, and lumber, had made a seven day’s voyage (Kohl 1860:35).
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Works Cited and. Suggested Reading
Catlin, George. Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians. 2 vols. London: Tosswill and Myers, 1841.
Kohl, Johann G. Kitchi-gami, Wanderings round Lake Superior. London: Chapman and Hall, 1860.
McKenney, Thomas L. Sketches of a Tour to the Lakes. Baltimore: Fielding Lucas, Jr., 1827.
Ritzenthaler, Robert E. Building a Chippewa Indian Birchbark Canoe. Milwaukee Public Museum Bulletin 19(2). Milwaukee: Milwaukee Public Museum, 1960.
Thomas Vennum, Jr., is senior ethnomusi- cologist in the Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies and co-curator of the Wisconsin program. His books include Wild Rice and the Ojibway People ad American Indian Lacrosse: Little Brother of War.
1998
Wisconsin
Polka:
Wisconsin’s State Dance
he 19th-century
European immigrants to Wisconsin arrived with polkas ringing in their ears. The polka, a lively couples dance in 2/4 time, had developed from folk roots and became a European popular dance craze in the 1840s.
In elite Paris salons and in humble vil- lage squares and taverns, polka dancers flaunted their defiance of the staid dance forms, the minuets and quadrilles, which had preceded this raucous and, for the times, scandalous new dance.
The political and social upheavals that coincided with the polka craze also launched thousands of European vil- lagers on their hazardous migration to the American Midwest. They became farmers, miners, lumberjacks, factory workers, and entrepreneurs and contin- ued to enjoy the music and dance tradi- tions of their homelands, passing them on to the American-born generations.
Concurrent with the emergence of the polka was the booming popularity of brass bands and the invention of a vari- ety of squeeze boxes — accordions and concertinas. Innovative tinkerers in France, England, and Germany devel- oped a new family of instruments based on the principles of the sheng (a Chinese free reed instrument) but using the levers and springs of the Machine Age.
1998
Richard March
Couples at the Ellsworth Polka Fest in Ellsworth, Wisconsin, dance a ring schottische, in which ladies advance to the next partner as part of the dance’s pattern. Photo © Richard Hamilton Smith
Like the electronic keyboard in the late 20th century, the squeeze box was the 19th-century’s most popular mechanical instrumental innovation. A single musi- cian could replace a small ensemble, playing melodies and harmonies with the right hand while producing rhythmic chords and bass notes with the left. The prized possession in many an immi- grant’s pack was a button accordion or concertina, and that musician undoubt- edly played a lot of polkas.
Upon its arrival, the polka became an American folk tradition. At rural house parties with the rug rolled up or at cor- ner taverns in industrial towns, a squeezebox or a horn was likely to keep neighbors’ feet stomping out polkas. A variety of American polka styles evolved in different sections of the Midwest, shaped by the creativity of particular tal- ented and influential musicians. The styles have ethnic names — for example, Polish, Slovenian, Bohemian, Dutchman — based on the origin of the core reper-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
toire and the ethnic heritage of many of the musicians. But in the Midwest, music and dancing are shared among ethnic groups, and most bands are ethnically mixed.
In the 20th century, radio broadcasts and recordings delivered the polka to more new enthusiasts. Clear channel WCCO in Minneapolis broadcast Whoopee John’s Dutchman music to six or more states, much as WSM’s Grand Ole Opry spread Southern traditional music far and wide. The recordings of groups like the Romy Gosz Orchestra and Lawrence Duchow’s Red Ravens aided their efforts to become popular as regional touring dance bands.
Right after World War II, almost exact- ly a century after the original polka craze in Europe, polka music and danc- ing briefly entered popular culture in a big way once more, this time in America. Slovenian-American accordionist Frankie Yankovic, of Cleveland, became the
31
Wisconsin
biggest star and attracted devotees nationwide to his style. Lil’ Wally Jagiello’s recordings on his own Jay Jay label established Chicago as the center of influence for Polish polka and converted many musicians to his “honky” sound. By the 1960s, rock ’n’ roll had captured the popular music industry, but polka has endured in enclaves of a variety
of communities.
have absorbed the style like a sponge.
In response to his pleas, Karl received a concertina as a Christmas present when he was 12. A few months later he was sitting in with the Swiss Boys, and six months after that, at age 13, he had his own band, the Country Dutchmen, now in its 24th year. Karl has turned out to be just as original and passionate a
Virtually every weekend he packs up the van and instrument trailer, and he and his sidemen converge on a dance hall or outdoor polka festival. Casual in his dress and personal style, Karl is nonetheless very serious about his music. He is recognized as the outstanding Dutchman concertinist of his generation. Paradoxically, his music is at once
In these communities, during the last quarter-cen- tury, polka musicians and dancers have organized institutions to perpetuate their passion. These include a network of polka dance halls, clubs, festivals, newsletters, mail-order recordings outlets, accordion makers and dealers, and radio and television shows.
Karl Hartwich was born in Moline, Illinois, in 1961. His father had relocated about 200 miles down the Mississippi River from his hometown near La Crosse, Wisconsin, seeking the good-paying factory jobs making agricultural imple- ments in the Quad Cities area. But farming was in his blood, so the Hartwiches lived outside of Moline in rural Orion, where they raised hogs and
° v.30
Appleton,
Polka Map Key Each dot on the map represents the home of a musician, the location of a radio station with polka programs, or a site where polka music or dance is performed.
A Polish-Style Polka lm German-Style Polka @ Czech-Style Polka # Swiss-Style Polka Slovenian-Style Polka + Finnish-Style Polka ¢ Norwegian-Style Polka
e “ 2 ih a Re os & ® = re e ge = 5, ee hs
3,Milwaukee
controlled and free. Karl ii has emphasized the syncopation, chromatic runs, and improvisational flourishes of the basic Dutchman style more than any of his predecessors.
It is indicative of the unique cultural milieu of eastern Wisconsin that Cletus Bellin, a proud member of the Walloon Belgian ethnic community of northeastern Wisconsin, is also the leader of one of the finest Czech-style polka bands in the Midwest, the Clete Bellin Orchestra. A proficient pianist and a very strong singer, Clete took the trouble to learn the correct pronunciation of the Czech folk song lyrics from a friend in the nearby town of Pilsen.
As a boy in the 1940s on a farm in southern Door County, Wisconsin, Clete was as likely to use the
field crops.
Karl’s family kept in touch with their Wisconsin relatives. Karl remembers that at least twice a month they would make the trek upriver to attend dances where his distant cousin Syl Liebl and the Jolly Swiss Boys were playing. Syl Liebl, a Dutchman-style concertina player, is a natural musician, inventive, sponta- neous, and passionate. Little Karl must
32
musician as his mentor. He recalls dri- ving the tractor on his family’s farm, with dance tunes ringing in his head — the engine roaring, his left hand on the wheel, his right hand on the tool box beside the seat pressing out concertina fingerings on the vibrating metal.
Karl has moved back upriver to Trempealeau, Wisconsin, a location more central to his band’s regular gigs.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Walloon Belgian dialect of
French spoken in his highly culturally retentive community as the English he learned in school. Clete has had a life- long interest in his Belgian culture, and, now in his fifties, he is one of the area’s youngest remaining truly fluent speakers of Walloon.
Clete’s career in music has included playing in the Wisconsin Bohemian- or
1998
Wisconsin
Czech-style bands of Marvin Brouchard and Jerry Voelker and working for many years as the radio station manager and on-air personality for a Kewaunee, Wisconsin, polka station. Moved by the style of singing and playing of the Czech musical performing groups Budvarka, Veselka, and Moravanka, which toured Wisconsin in the early 1980s, Clete resolved to start a band to perform in a style closer to the European manner from which the other Wisconsin Bohemian bands had diverged. His group is widely acclaimed at polka festivals and Czech ethnic events throughout
the country.
Steve Meisner was born in 1960 in Whitewater, a small town southeast of Milwaukee. At the time, Steve’s father Verne was already an established musi- cian, an accordion prodigy whose origi- nal band, Verne Meisner and the Polka Boys, was aptly named — the members were in their early teens when they started taking professional gigs. That was the early 1950s, just in the wake of Frankie Yankovic’s having made the Slovenian style of polka one of the most popular forms of music in Wisconsin. By the 1960s, the Verne Meisner Band was one of the best-known polka groups in the region.
Steve received an ambivalent message from Verne when he showed an interest in music. Seven-year-old Steve’s entreaties to his father to teach him to play were rebuffed at first. Then Verne thrust a momentous decision upon his young son: “If you begin to play, you have to promise that you'll never quit.” Steve leapt at the challenge without a safety net and made it. Only a year later his father began to bring Steve along to play with the Meisner band, often plac- ing the diminutive kid on a box so that he could reach the microphone.
Steve started his own band, the Steve Meisner Orchestra, while still in his teens
1998
and has continued the family tradition in the polka-music business, playing regionally and nationally, producing his own CDs and videos, and organizing polka tours and cruises. Steve acknowl- edges his musical debt to the Slovenian- style musicians of the previous generation but has pushed the envelope of the form in hot arrangements and in original material which expresses a range of emotions.
When Norm Dombrowski was a teenager in the 1950s, he wasn’t particu- larly inspired by the polka bands active in his hometown of Stevens Point, in a rural area of central Wisconsin populat- ed by Polish-American dairy and potato farmers. The Dutchman style was the popular sound then at old-time dances. According to Norm, the bands he heard didn’t sound too spontaneous; perched behind bandstands, the musicians’ noses seemed to be stuck in their sheet music.
Then, in 1956, Chicago’s Lil’ Wally Jagiello gave two legendary performances at the Peplin Ballroom in Mosinee, just north of Stevens Point. Huge crowds turned out. Norm heard a modern Polish polka sound firmly grounded in the Polish folk music familiar to him from house parties and weddings. What impressed Norm were the band’s lack of sheet music and their liveliness, reminis- cent of rock ’n’ roll bands. Norm decided he wanted to play in this style, and, like his new hero Lil’ Wally, he was deter- mined to become a singing drummer. By 1960 he was able to start the Happy Notes Orchestra with three friends, play- ing for dances locally and as far afield as Minneapolis and Chicago.
The Happy Notes evolved into a family band as Norm’s children grew old enough to be competent musicians. Unlike most other Polish-style bands at the time, Norm’s did not adopt the streamlined “Dyno” or “Push” style, but remained closer to Lil’ Wally’s “honky” sound, which emphasized call and
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
response. Norm stresses the singing of the old Polish songs but also includes in the band’s repertoire German, Czech, and even Norwegian numbers to satisfy patrons of other ethnic backgrounds.
These four polka musicians represent the ways in which ethnic polka styles have remained distinct in Wisconsin. Their repertoires also demonstrate the transformation of polka traditions in the Midwest, the development of regional sounds played by bands of mixed ethnici- ty. The dedication and artistry of these and many other musicians, who contin- ue to reinvent tradition, attest to the vitality of the polka in Wisconsin.
The polka was a rebellious dance in the 19th century and has become a Midwestern regional tradition since. Today Midwesterners have the opportuni- ty to dance to rock music, join square dance clubs, or do Country line dancing, but instead choose to polka. It is a vali- dation of their regional and ethnic roots, an expression of their determination not to be homogenized out of existence. Through the polka they reaffirm mem- bership in a supportive and embracing community based upon friendship, eat- ing, drinking, and socializing, as well as plenty of dancing.
e
Suggested Reading
Greene, Victor. A Passion for Polka. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992.
Keil, Charles, Angeliki V. Keil, and Dick Blau. Polka Happiness. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992.
Leary, James P., and Richard March. Down Home Dairyland: A Listener's Guide. Madison: University of Wisconsin-Extension, 1996.
Suggested Listening
Deep Polka: Dance Music from the Midwest. Smithsonian Folkways 40088. A new release featuring the groups discussed in this article and others.
a]
Faith,
Politics, and Community at the Dickeyville
Grotto
he southwestern corner of Wisconsin is a
beautiful series of rolling hills, hidden valleys, rocky bluffs, rivers, and caves, all part of Wisconsin's “driftless region” not flattened by glaciation. Bordered by the Mississippi River, this former lead-mining region is today farmland and cheese-
making country.
In Dickeyville, one of the area’s small towns, is Holy Ghost parish, the home of a remarkable piece of folk architecture. Situated between the rectory, church, and cemetery is the Dickeyville Grotto, a structure so amazing that I have seen unsuspecting drivers come to a full halt in the middle of the road to gape. What stops them short is a 15-foot-tall false cave, decoratively covered with colored stone and glass, dedicated to Mary the mother of Jesus, to God and country.
Although the name implies a singular structure, the Dickeyville Grotto is actu- ally a series of grottos and shrines. It includes the grotto dedicated to the Blessed Mother, the structure seen from Highway 61; a shrine dedicated to Christ the King; a shrine to the Sacred Heart of Jesus; and a Eucharistic Altar in the parish cemetery, formerly used for annu- al outdoor Corpus Christi processions. The large Patriotic Shrine depicts the
Anne Pryor
history and love of country represented by Columbus, Washington, and Lincoln. All of these creations display decorative embellished cement ornamen- tation, achieved by placing patterns of colorful materials in the concrete when
it is still damp: shells, stones, tiles, glass, petrified moss or wood, geodes and gems. Iron railings with the same distinctive decorations border the walkways between the different shrines and grottos, unify- ing these separate structures.
All roadside shrines in Wisconsin reflect their time. In the 19th century, ill- ness was a major concern. In the north- eastern part of the state, French-speaking Belgian settlers built small chapels in thanksgiving for the recovery of an ill family member. Today in Kewaunee County, one can visit these chapels, no longer used for community prayer but proudly maintained as part of local
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Like the Dickeyville Grotto, the Holy Family Grotto in St. Joseph, with its embedded | cement flags, was built in the 1920s to represent Catholic allegiance to both God and country. Photo by Anne Pryor
Walloon heritage.
On Highway B in the rich farmland of central Wisconsin, a sign reading “Welcome to Visit Our Chapel” invites the traveler to enter a three-sided struc- ture. A motion detector triggers a taped message explaining that the Memorial Expellee Chapel, built in 1995, is dedicat- ' ed to beloved relatives who were slain or | expelled from the Sudetenland due to the Yalta and Potsdam agreements.
At least two embedded cement grottos in Wisconsin, the Holy Family Grotto in St. Joseph and the Dickeyville Grotto, reflect American religious politics in the 1920s. Until the election of John Kennedy | as the United States’ first Catholic presi- dent, the patriotism of Roman Catholics was often questioned due to misunder-
| | | | | | |
1998
Wisconsin
standings about their allegiance to the pope (Stone and Zanzi 1993). To show that Catholics could love both church and country, Fr. Mathius Wernerus, the Dickeyville Grotto’s builder, created two stone pillars on either side of the main grotto. In colorful tile and stone, one pil- lar depicts the U.S. flag and spells “Patriotism”; the other shows the papal flag and spells “Religion.”
While the Dickeyville Grotto began as the story of 1920s Catholic patriotism, today it speaks more of community pride in local history. When Fr. Wernerus was the pastor of Holy Ghost parish, he relied on the devoted volunteer labors and donations of his parishioners, young and old, to help him build his masterpiece. In the care and management of the grotto today, current pastors do much the same. The results are strong personal connec- tions to the grotto held by all ages of parishioners. Fr. Jim Gunn, pastor of Holy Ghost parish from 1995 to 1997, explained, “People have the pride, so it’s not something that somebody else did but it’s something that ‘I had a hand in’ as well.”
Holy Ghost parishioners participate in the grotto’s upkeep in various ways. A parish Grotto Committee has been suc- cessful for many years in keeping the grotto financially sound. One source of income is the donations made by the 40,000—60,000 visitors who tour the grotto each year. Another is the income from sales at the grotto’s gift shop. Because the grotto is run as a nonprofit organization, any excess funds generated go to charity work or for special needs in the parish or town. As Fr. Gunn explained, “The grotto tries to pour back into the community as much as possible.”
By 1995, the grotto needed extensive restoration. Cement and embedded stones were coming loose and falling out, iron railings were falling apart, and decades of weathering had compromised
1998
Jr"ag
Ny
, oe (nt Rh seed 7) A ae ss
The Dickeyville Grotto is actually a series of shrines consisting of gardens, fountains, and sculptures made of
stone and embellished cement. Photo by Anne Pryor
the beauty of the shrines. Despite the general financial health of the grotto, such a large project was beyond its means. As grotto manager Marge Timmerman recalled, “We thought, ‘Where is the money going to come from for all this repair?’ And then out of the blue comes this man and he says, ‘I feel
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
God led me to this place. I'd like to help restore this grotto.”
This local hero had been visiting his daughter, a student at nearby UW- Platteville, when he happened upon the grotto. A devout Christian, he explained to Timmerman, “God has been so good
3S
Wisconsin
to me and my construction business that | feel he led me here to do this to thank him.” The Grotto Committee accepted his offer of a crew to lead the restoration and paid for only the materials. Parish members eagerly participated in the pro- ject, donating funds, learning techniques, replacing missing stones, and cleaning years of discoloration off the shrines. Excitement was so high and so many people volunteered that Timmerman recalled, “Sometimes there was almost too much help.”
When Fr. Wernerus constructed the grotto, he collected many natural materi- als from local caves and fields, solicited manufactured materials from Midwestern industries, and encouraged his parishioners to donate common household objects, all of which he used to decorate the cement. Parishioners were happy to participate in this way, even though material wealth was scarce in those post-Depression years.
During the restoration, Fr. Gunn put a box outside his rectory door for parish- ioners to donate items just as their 1920s counterparts had done. Even though the grotto’s storage shed was filled with materials left over from Wernerus’s own collection, Gunn solicited these new donations so that the current generation of parishioners could later point with pride to what they or their family had contributed.
Additionally, Fr. Gunn made sure to include the children of the parish in the restoration process, just as Wernerus had done. Current parish elders recall work-
ing with Fr. Wernerus when they were youths. Henrietta Hauber washed rocks and helped to “put things together.” Esther Berning placed glass shards in the wet cement. Henry Mellsen helped carry completed sections out from the rectory basement in the spring. Today’s parish children participated in the restoration by placing stones and shells in the iron railings’ damp cement.
With the restoration completed by 1997, the grotto’s structures are in fine physical shape and will not need such massive attention for a long time to come. An integral part of the grotto that does annually require a great deal of attention, however, is the gardens. Filling the space around and between the differ- ent shrines in the grotto, the gardens give the grotto its park-like essence and were an important part of Fr. Wernerus’s overall design. Parishioner Delia Schroeder organizes each year’s group of gardeners, with an individual or family taking one of the gardens to design, plant, weed, and maintain. Using a mix of annuals, perennials, and statuary, they proudly add to the grotto’s beauty and tranquility. These volunteers tell of work- ing in the gardens from before sunrise to after sundown. A local joke about their diligence says that they’re out there wait- ing for a weed to come up just so they can pull it.
The last area of the Grotto Committee’s responsibilities is planning for the future. Many parishioners talk of expanding the grotto by building another shrine, possi- bly in honor of Our Lady of Fatima or the Right to Life movement. Such discus- sions are the source of debate about how to approach the grotto’s management: is
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
the grotto one man’s masterpiece that should be maintained as is and not changed, or is the grotto a community creation that should absorb new artistic endeavors and reflect current religious and political issues? This question is not easily answered in Dickeyville, requiring a balance between the many opinions of parish leaders and grotto volunteers with generations of connection to the grotto.
The Dickeyville Grotto is an extraordinary display of religious faith, secular allegiance, personal genius, and community pride. A visit to this south- western Wisconsin roadside gem is well worth the trip.
Work Cited and Suggested Resources
“Grottos and Shrines, Dickeyville, WI.” N.p., n.d.
Niles, Susan A. Dickeyville Grotto: The Vision of Father Mathias Wernerus. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1997.
Stone, Lisa, and Jim Zanzi. Sacred Spaces and Other Places: A Guide to Grottos and Sculptural Environments in the Upper Midwest. Chicago: The School of the Art Institute of Chicago Press, 1993.
The Story of the Dickeyville Grotto. 9 min. Richland Center, WI: Nova Video, 1995.
Anne Pryor is a cultural anthropologist who specializes in religious traditions and children’s folklore. She is also a specialist in Jolklife education and conducts teacher workshops and school residencies. Currently, she works for the Wisconsin Arts Board on the staff of the Wisconsin Folklife Festival.
1998
pine Harvest
Rethinking Categories: The Making of the Pahiyas
A hundred years after the leaders of the Philippine Revolution declared their archipelago a nation, Filipinos maintain an intense fascination for the develop-
ing shape of that body politic. We talk eran — indeed incessantly — of the relative strength of
in and
other allegiance araus in the fabric of the nation and
the dynamic balance differences.
We wonder aloud about the way we think in our tenacious vernaculars, even as we maintain fluency in universal lan- guages. Particularly during elections, we carry on about the relationships between the ambitions in cities and the longings in rural areas and between charismatic leaders and their eager, if fickle, follow- ers. As the 1998 century-mark of the declaration of Philippine independence
etween our many similarities and
approached, we had impassioned debates about the historical narratives which instill pride — or demand pause. We conjured hundreds of ways of explaining who we are and why we do things as we do, all the while maintaining with cer- tainty that our nation is built on a funda- mental, and perhaps even stubborn, Filipino-ness.
At the start of work on this Philippine
A child watches the parade of the Pahiyas festival in Lucban, Quezon Province. Kiping, elaborate, colored, rice- flour designs, decorate the windows and balconies of houses throughout the town during this annual May harvest celebration. Photo by D. Martinez, courtesy Cultural Center of the Philippines
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Marion Pastor Roces
Festival program, the first order of busi- ness was to define an approach that engages not only how intricately we artic- ulate identity and reweave tradition with 20th-century passions, but also how we do this while simultaneously expressing delight and dignity, vivacity and solemni- ty. The demand for accuracy of represen- tation has been extraordinarily high. The project was negotiated by the Philippine Centennial Commission with the Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies of the Smithsonian Institution in the con-— text of the Philippine Centennial celebra- tions in the Philippines and of the associ- ated events planned in many cities in the United States.
It has been clear from the outset that during these celebrations, Filipinos wish to signal our arrival at a juncture in history where we can enjoy a complex understanding of the deepest sources of our cultural pride. It has been clear that the project’s goal is to express a sophisticated sense of the dynamics of folklife in a national formation. Thus, the _ Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), the implementing agency for the project on the Philippine side, assembled a project team of independent cultural workers and began working with the Smithsonian to create a Festival concept and presentation to communicate that sense of arrival and register that refined understanding.
1
The Philippines program is produced in collaboration | with the Cultural Center of the Philippines and the Philippines Centennial Commission and is supported by the American International Group, Inc., The Starr Foundation, Bell Atlantic, the Philippine Centennial Foundation/USA, and the Asian Cultural Council.
1998
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
The Philippines
Ifugao
Kalinga-Apayao Province
Province
e@Baguio
LUZON
Pampanga Province Malolos, Bulacan Province
Manilax
e@Paete e@Lucban
@Paracale
e@Batangas
MINDORO
PALAWAN
SAMAR VISAYAN ISLANDS
CEBU LEYTE Cebu City
Aklan Province
PANAY
NEGROS
@Bacong
Bukidnon
Province MINDANAO
Cotabatoe Maguindanao Province Davao
del Sur South Province Catabato Province
SULU ARCHIPELAGO
Conscious of the pitfalls of viewing tra- dition as a static legacy from the past, the research team under the direction of Dr. Lennette Mirano guided planning with a sure grasp of the persistence of tradition- al culture in contemporary experience. Dr. Mirano, program director Ramon Obusan, project manager Eva Marie Salvador of the CCP, and their respective associates each brought to the project the
1998
benefits of long years of experience with cultural analysis and representation. The project has been built on their well-estab- lished connections with long-term efforts of cultural institutions and academic cen- ters. In the course of working with, sup- porting, and helping articulate the special devotions of traditional artists, these institutions and centers have identified those rare individuals and groups in many parts of the Philippines who have
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
A map of the Philippines highlighting the home- towns and provinces of Festival participants.
invested whole lifetimes in mastering their art forms. These artists have achieved such ievels of virtuosity that there can be no doubt of the continued power of their forms to move people today, even across extremely wide cultur- al and social divides.
Early in the planning, the team decided to rethink the categories promoted by many previous presentations of Philippine culture which subsequent scholarship has shown to be “thin” and lacking in descriptive power. For instance, separate historical experiences have heretofore justified the now-standard division of Philippine peoples into low- land Christians, Muslims, and highland “pagan” or “tribal” groups. These cate- gories, however, are not useful in under- standing the cultural forms shared across contiguous areas of the Philippines.
Those similarities are pronounced despite differences in religious beliefs or experiences during the colonial period. Happily, co-curator Dr. Richard Kennedy endorsed the possibility, for instance, of exploring relationships among diverse musical traditions that use percussion instruments, or among celebrations and rituals associated with harvest, or among gift-giving traditions from all over the Philippines. Work on the Festival proceed- ed with great energy in anticipation of possibilities such as masters of carving traditions from Muslim, Christian, and animist groups sharing a single space, or cooks from a wide variety of Philippine culture areas demonstrating their com- mon relationships with the food sources in the archipelago. More importantly, the project team felt the need to consider the links among art forms normally separat- ed by the disciplines of those who study them. Hence our plans embody the hope that some viewers may intimate connec-
3?
iyas: A Philippine Harvest
Staff of the Cultural Center of the Philippines carry out research near Lake Sebu, in southern Mindanao, in preparation for the 1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival. Photo by Richard Kennedy
tions between weaving traditions and musical forms, and between the processes of metallurgy and those of food prepara- tion. The project team also wanted to bring together a wide variety of beating and pounding processes — finishing cloth made from the Musa textiles (wild banana) plant, the drone melodies of gong music, repoussé goldworking, hulling rice with mortar and pestle — to convey a sense of rhythm that seems to be universal in the Philippines.
As long-time cultural workers, mem- bers of the project team were aware of the difficulties inherent in a festival — particularly one in a foreign land — which often make it impossible to communicate the nuanced relationships that exist in traditional contexts among artists, materials, processes, perfor- mances, and their audiences. Moreover, logistical limitations make it impossible to represent all Philippine languages, regional groups, or forms of traditional art. The Festival emphasis on local traditions, which may be long-standing,
inaudible at a distance, and highly dependent on context for their meaning, may require that they be abridged, ampli- fied, or reconfigured. Framing the artists in physical structures that inevitably are simulacra of fragments of home and per- haps in conceptual categories that do not resonate with the way the artists under- stand their own experience also leads to compromise. These can make artists
and audiences uncomfortable and
lose an opportunity for cross-cultural communication.
However, the project team has taken these problems as creative challenges in their work of cultural translation. The meanings may not wholly carry over, but the effort is valuable in a world constant- ly recrafting ways to celebrate and honor those among us who courageously, inventively, and often joyfully carry a valuable past into the future. Our empha- sis on relationships across domains embodies the Festival project team’s determination to achieve fresh perspec- tives in translation.
The 80 Philippine master artists hon-
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mae te
ored by the Smithsonian Institution and their nation have in common — aside from their exquisite levels of achievement — a strength of character that has enabled them to meet the challenge of modernity by accepting and reworking certain aspects of it. Many of the artists are savvy about recordings and other —_| forms of documentation, marketing tech- niques, alliances with other communities and countries, public presentations, dis- cussions, and political action. Individually and as a group they lay to rest the weary stereotypes of the primitive or the abject rural peasant. Although many of them are poor by the standards of urban society, they all project a grace, a pride, and a sense of assurance which _ seem to issue from the aesthetic pleasure and wisdom inherent in their chosen art | forms. |
Finally, these remarkable artists share a | common involvement in elaborate sys- tems of exchange, reciprocity, and gift- giving — a theme we have chosen to highlight at the Festival. Their lives are essays on gift-giving: mentors of younger generations, diplomatic representatives to worlds outside their communities, custo- — dians of artistic creation, performers and | makers of the implements of celebrations. | They represent the spirit of pahiyas,a word which collects notions of gem-like | treasures and blessings. Pahiyas is a | shower of gifts and blessings in the celebratory abundance of a harvest. Through these artists, the Philippines | celebrates the centennial of its declara- | tion of independence by asserting its free- dom to construct the future with the culture of gift-giving.
|
I
Marion Pastor Roces is a freelance essayist, editor, consultant, television producer, and curator based in Manila. She has published numerous essays and books on Philippine art and culture and is the author of the book Sinaunang Habi: Philippine Ancestral Weave (1992).
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Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Rethinking the Philippine Exhibit at the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair
Wr do we organize a Festival program? And why does the public attend? These are critical questions asked zy organizers of the Philippine program at the 1998 Smithsonian Festival.
The same questions were asked in 1904 of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis, one of the last great fairs from the golden age of world expositions. The answers given to the questions nearly 100 years ago, however, were quite different from those we give today.
The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition celebrated the centennial of the 1803 purchase of the Louisiana Territory from France, which represented the first major expansion of American territory. The public sentiments support- ing expansion in 1904 were not dissimi- lar to those in 1803. In the late 19th cen- tury, the nation responded to the tragedies of the Civil War by isolating itself from major foreign engagements, just as it had done for similar reasons in the late 18th century. But by the 1890s, a spirit of adventure spurred economic and military interests to expand U.S. territory for the first time beyond its borders.
Americans were ambivalent about this expansion, at times supporting the doc- trines of Manifest Destiny and Social Darwinism, which seemed to ordain the country’s expansion, and at other times expressing dislike of any American involvement in colonial rule. In the mid-
1890s, President Cleveland resisted
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Richard Kennedy
The midway at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis was the center of the world’s fair that Henry Adams called “the first creation of the twentieth century.” As part of the celebration of the centennial of the 1803 U.S. purchase of the Louisiana territory from France, the fair presented the cultures of the Philippines, territory bought from Spain in 1898. Photo by Frances Benjamin Johnson, courtesy Library of Congress
demands for the annexation of Hawai'i and the invasion of Cuba, but by 1898, President McKinley had made Hawai'i a territory and ignited the short-lived Spanish-American War by sending troops to Cuba to assist the overthrow of Spanish rule. The Philippines was inad- vertently drawn into that war when Assistant Secretary of the Navy Teddy Roosevelt asked Commodore George Dewey to launch a surprise attack on the Spanish fleet protecting Manila, Spain’s colonial capital for over 300 years.
The United States won the Spanish- American War, and for the public many earlier doubts about engagement were resolved. By 1904 it seems that America was prepared to celebrate the Louisiana
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Purchase centennial as well as its newly gained territory with a major world’s fair. Among the newly acquired lands were the 7,000 islands of the Philippines. Americans had initially indicated some support for the Philippine independence movement but did not recognize its 1898 declaration of independence from Spain (now being celebrated at this Smithsonian Festival in 1998). The McKinley administration, in a highly con- tentious decision that accompanied the end of the war, then bought the country from Spain for $20 million. By 1899, American guns turned on the insurgents, and in the end as many as 200,000 Filipinos may have died as a result of the
41
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
htine. More than 70,000 American sol-
liers were involved. These developments
drew much criticism in the United States. lhe St. Louis Exposition was planned to
be the biggest fair in U.S. history; Henry \dams called it “the first creation of the twentieth century.” Following and in the same spirit as the great 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, the Louisiana Purchase Fair celebrated explo- ration and conquest. It was meant to out- shine Chicago, but in the annals of world expositions St. Louis is not as well known — most people are familiar with it pri- marily through the 1944 film and title song “Meet Me in St. Louis.” Spread over 1,270 acres (twice the size of Chicago’s cel- ebration), the fair followed the pattern of past expositions but on a much grander scale: it featured individual state exhibits, “palaces” of industry, education, agricul- ture, etc., and international pavilions. In addition, over 400 international congresses and meetings were held in the city during the six months of the fair, and the 1904 Olympics were staged nearby. However, what particularly distinguished St. Louis were the size of its anthropology section and the degree to which attempts were made to construct authentic environments for its participants. The grandest of these constructs was the Philippine Exposition.
This special exhibition was also called the Philippine Encampment or the Philippine Reservation, and together these terms reflect some of the conflicting atti- tudes expressed in the program. In dis- cussing the participation of the Philippines in the fair, some advocates of American expansion were concerned that “display- ing” Filipinos would hurt the chances of
The Metcalfe sisters photographed the 1904 fair exten- sively. Here one of the sisters (at right) is photographed with a Bagobo participant. About 30 people from the Bagobo community in central Mindanao were part of the 1,200-member Philippine delegation to the fair.
Photo by the Metcalfe sisters, courtesy Smithsonian Institution
National Anthropological Archives
convincing the American public that the newly conquered country should eventual- ly become a part of the United States. The inclusion of model schools, bands, and police drill teams was thought to balance a program that to some appeared to pre- sent a “primitive” culture. So the term “encampment” highlighted the presence of disciplined military troops, civic order, and, in effect, terrain familiar to the pub- lic. On the other hand, the term “reserva- tion” made a clear reference to American Indians and, by implication, created a par- allel between the takeover of the Philippines and that of the American West. Both these messages were encoded in the Philippine Exposition program.
Many players were involved in the exposition, which cost $15 million. Individuals, the U.S. government, and the city of St. Louis each committed $5 million in the hopes that an event of profit (from entrance fees and fair sales) as well as of world importance would take place. The $1.1 million Philippine program similarly had a variety of supporters. In 1902, the U.S. Colonial Administration in Manila allocated $250,000 (later supplemented with another $250,000) for the program. Behind the decision was President
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Roosevelt himself, a leader in the Spanish- American War, and Philippines governor William Taft (soon to be secretary of war and then president). W.P. Wilson, director of the Philadelphia Commercial Museums, was soon appointed to be head of the installation, and Dr. Gustave Niederlein, also from Philadelphia, was placed in charge of collections. John Barrett, com- missioner-general for Asia at the fair, called on the business community to orga- nize a committee to advise the govern- ment on the project, and many of the exhibits in the forestry, agriculture, and commerce pavilions would portray the natural resources and potential riches of the Philippines. The fair was part trade show, and thousands of examples of crops, tropical woods, and other goods were exhibited in addition to Philippine
ethnic communities.
For the presentation of Philippine cul- ture four major ethnic villages were built. A copy of the walled city of Intramuros in Manila housed, among other things, cap- tured weapons. A plaza surrounded by reconstructions of official buildings con- tained the above-mentioned topical pavil- ions, including an ethnology exhibit in a building modeled on a Manila cathedral.
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Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
The symbolism of the site design was clear. After crossing a bridge and walking through the walled city, the visitor would come upon the center of the exhibition, the Plaza St. Thomas, which represented in the minds of the organizers the most “civilized” aspects of Philippine society. Also in the plaza, the education pavilion presented the educational activities of American teachers. Nearby were the parade grounds and bandstand in which the more than 400 members of the Philippine constabulary paraded, drilled, and were housed. These troops were also brought to police the site.
The four villages — Igorot, Negrito, Visayan, and Moro — representing a diversity of Philippine communities, were placed in a circle outside the central plaza. This diversity was important to the orga- nizers. The 19th-century process of estab- lishing administrative control of new lands created among many imperial powers an obsession with categorization as a way of understanding (and taxing) colonial pos- sessions. Scholars often assisted their efforts. The turn of the century was in some ways a golden age of applied anthro- pology. President McKinley's Philippine specialist, Dean Worchester, for example, proposed a division of Philippine people into 84 “tribes” — 21 Negrito, 16 Indonesian, and 47 Malay. The official cat- alogue of the exhibition takes the catego- rization further, stating that 103 “groups” out of 144 and 308 “classes” out of 807 were represented. The specific meanings of these crude categories seem less important than the fact that attempts were being made to represent a hierarchical cultural diversity. The Report to the Exposition Board claimed,
While all of the 70 or more groups of people in the archipelago could not be represented, there were the least civi- lized in the Negritos and the Igorots, the
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PHILIPPINE. Exposition
WORLDS FATE ST. LOUIS, MO. W. 2 Watson eee
The Philippine exhibit at the 1904 World’s Fair was an elaborate re-creation of elements of Philippine culture. Surrounding the central plaza were buildings displaying Philippine commerce, forestry, culture, and education, and the U.S. role in their development. Skirting the center of the exhibit were the “villages” of the Igorot, Negrito, Moro, and Visayan participants. Plan reproduced from William P. Wilson, Official Catalogue. Philippine Exhibits. Universal Exposition (St Louis: The Official Catalogue Co., Inc. 1904), courtesy Library of Congress
semi civilized in the Bagobos and the Moros and the civilized and cultured in the Visayans as well as in the Constabulary and Scout organizations. In all other respects — commercially, industrially, and socially — the exhibit was a faithful portrayal.
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Defining degrees of “civilization” was an important message of the fair.
The 335 ethnic Philippine participants included members of the Bontoc, Suyoc, and Tinguian (collectively known as Igorot) communities in upland mountain Luzon; Bagobo from Mindanao; two
43
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
\iuslim Moro groups from Zamboanga; and a variety of Negrito and Visayan com- munities. Singers, dancers, and musicians performed regularly on stages from 11 A.M. to 6 pM., and craftspeople such as pina (pineapple fiber) weavers and basket mak- ers demonstrated their skills. They were housed on the site and were paid for their presentations. The specifics of the selection process of participants were not recorded other than that Dr. Niederlein was appointed in September 1902 to begin working with local administrators throughout the Philippines to identify peo- ple and goods for participation in the exhibition. Except for one or two Philippine names on the various commis- sions, the selections seem to have been made entirely by American officials.
The choice of the tribal communities led to extensive media coverage, and perhaps as a result the Igorot village was one of the most popular at the fair. In response to charges that this coverage was exploita- tive, a report to the Exposition Board stat- ed, “It is not true that the savages have been unduly exploited at the expense of the more dignified exhibits, but no amount of emphasis on commercial exhibits, constabulary drills and Scouts parades has distracted attention from the ‘dog eaters’ and ‘head-hunters’.”
The Philippine exhibition at the
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St. Louis World’s Fair was the product of many voices. The dominant one spoke of the rich potential of America’s newest colony and the important role civilization would play in the development of this dis- tant land. But other voices wanted simply to show how other cultures live and to “promote peace and good will.” Audiences certainly did come to see these “others,” and heard all these voices. And undoubt- edly some came to stand for a moment in the dawn of the new century to reflect on the new status of America in the world. Organizers of the fair had encouraged this.
A hundred years later the voices involved in the organization of the 1998 Philippine Festival program have been quite different, as Marian Pastor Roces writes in her article in this volume. The Festival team organized by the Cultural Center of the Philippines in Manila researched, conceived, and produced an event that, at its heart, honors and puts at the center master artists. The Festival aims to present their traditions with sensitivity and does not by implication, as in 1904, present these artists as representatives of stages of civilization. Artists were selected for their ability to keep their tradition vital and relevant in the contemporary world. And, most importantly, the Festival enables artists to speak for themselves. At the cen- tennial of its declaration of independence the Philippines is strong enough to be proud of the traditions of all its people and to let them speak for themselves.
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— eS
a
e
Suggested Reading
Breitbart, Eric. A World on Display, Photographs from the St. Louis World's Fair, 1904.
Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997.
Karnow, Stanley. /n Our Image, America’s Empire in the Philippines. New York: Ballantine, 1989.
Lowenstein, M.J., comp. Official Guide to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. St. Louis: The Official Guide (0., 1904.
Rydell, Robert W. All the World’ a Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876-1916. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994.
Terry's 1904 World's Fair home page at www.inlink.com/~terryl/index.html
Richard Kennedy is co-curator of the Philippines program at the 1998 Smithsonian Folklife Festival. He is deputy director of the Smithsonian Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies, where he also has co-curated Festival programs on Hawaii, Indonesia, Thailand, and Russian music. He was chair of South Asian Area Studies at the U.S. State Department's Foreign Service Institute.
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Masters of Tradition in the
Modern World
eyeacnon bearer is sometimes stereotyped as a quaint relic in a remote setting, admired and extolled but isolated and left behind by the times, focused on the past while others face forward to the future.
Staff of the Community Crafts Association of the Philippines film basket makers in Manila. As part of a project to train traditional craftspeople to market goods directly through the Internet, these basket makers learn to photograph and write about their work for direct sale on the Web. Photo courtesy PEOPLink
The year-long research that identified “traditional Filipino artists” for the 1998 Folklife Festival made it clear that this figure does not exist. The picture that emerged was strikingly different. Most artists were equally at home in villages and in more cosmopolitan settings. Born and raised in traditional communities, many had come to the cities as young people to study or find work. There they learned to negotiate with modernity. But they chose to invest their training, educa-
1998
tion, and energy in traditional culture, though knowing full well that it is easier to reject the old ways while living in the city. They have become masters of their traditions despite pressure from the swift change that engulfs the cities and every village in the Philippines. They under- stand commerce and have found ways to maintain standards of excellence against demands for mass production. Well aware of the emphasis on glossy and elaborate production values in the entertainment industry, they have decided to project the
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Elena Rivera Mirano
subtler and healthier values that reflect older ways of thought and living. And some of them have been able to enlist government and corporate support for their individual and collective programs. Three accounts from our research files fill in these general outlines with glimpses of the human experience reflected in Philippine traditional arts.
Victorino Saway
Victorino Saway was 16 when he first saw the city. His father was the great Datu Kinulintang, leader of the Talaandig peo- ple and epic singer from the southern mountains of Bukidnon. He was sending his third son, Vic, to the University of the Philippines in Manila to transcribe and translate the Agyu epic. Vic had attended school in his home village of Sungko and was excited about going to the city. But the university disoriented him. Sitting at a desk, listening to his father’s taped per- formances day after day, he realized that the epics, which he had never paid atten- tion to because they were old-fashioned, were difficult to understand. One day, he recalls, he asked a young Mansaka sitting beside him for help. The latter chided him, “I’m having enough trouble deci- phering my own language, and you ask me about yours?” After three weeks, Vic gave up and went home.
But the datu would not give up. When Carmen Unabia appeared in Sungko looking for an assistant for her own dis- sertation research on the Agyu epic, Vic was enlisted. He had begun to understand his father’s intent. Later the datw packed him off to Silliman University, and by the time he graduated with a bachelor’s degree in anthropology, he had learned to sing the Agyu as well.
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\ Philippine Harvest
Aga Mayo Butocan presents Maguindanao kulintang music in Manila. Photo by Richard Kennedy
Two graduate degrees later, Vic, now also known as Datu Migketay, is a respected Talaandig leader. He was instrumental in drafting the newly signed Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act (IPRA), which seeks to protect the rights of indigenous people to their traditional lands, and is now busy explaining the law to these groups all over the Philippines. Recently, he was appointed commissioner of the National Commission on Indigenous People (CIP) created under the new law.
On the community level he and his many talented and far-sighted siblings have organized a preschool for the traditional arts in Sungko that is a model for the teaching of indigenous culture in the Philippines. Children from the age of three onwards learn songs, dances,
40
games, and stories of their people as well as the rudiments of reading and count- ing. Their older siblings in elementary and high school congregate here after class hours to learn to make and play instruments, embroider, weave, and man- ufacture clay beads in the traditional way. Their elders who teach in the school share with the members of the communi- ty their expertise in plant and herb lore, myth recitation, ritual performance, and methods of healing. In this way, they con- sciously ensure that the wisdom of Datu Kinulintang’s generation is handed down.
Aga Mayo Butocan
When she was asked to teach Maguindanao kulintang at the Department of Music Research in the University of the Philip- pines in 1968, Aga Mayo Butocan was a 19- year-old schoolteacher in the seacoast vil-
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lage of Simuay on the island of Mindanao. She was an accomplished player in the village, but she had never taught elin- tang in school. Nor had anyone else in
the Philippines, for that matter, tried to teach this ancient Southeast Asian form
of bossed gong music in school. Aga’s naturally reflective spirit rose to meet the challenge, supported by a quiet strength that had served her well as a young student who traveled through crocodile- infested waters to reach the Cotabato Public High School three hours away
from Simuay. The Muslim village girl
who persisted came back to her village with a teacher’s certificate. Later she had | come to Manila hoping to get accepted into a more advanced teacher training | program, but, lacking important political _| connections, she could not get in. The job
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Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
‘T had to study myself,...[ had to learn about my own
body, mind, and spirit.”
at the University of the Philippines was a valued opportunity.
The challenges Aga faced in the first years were formidable. Outside of the island of Mindanao, most Filipinos were not aware of kulintang, and there were no models for teaching it other than the traditional system of listening and imitat- ing. In the capital city of Manila, music students were well versed in Bach and Beethoven, jazz and rock ’n’ roll, but had never heard of kulintang. Aga herself had never conceptualized the kulintang. Meeting students’ needs, teaching them to play for eight hours a day, five days a week, she was forced to think through her playing, to focus on how she moved, what she thought about, and how she felt as she played. “I had to study myself,” she recalls. “Before I could understand what the kulintang meant, I had to learn
1998
—Aga Mayo Butocan
about my own body, mind, and spirit.” Slowly, she developed a method that has been elaborated and published as the textbook for teaching kulintang-playing in Philippine schools of music. In her 30 years of teaching she has taught the kulintang to thousands of students. She has inspired many composers, teachers, and researchers. She has organized and trained kulintang ensembles that have played all over the world. Despite a grow- ing clamor for dramatic and showy preci- sion in performance, she maintains a tra- ditional improvisational style that is quiet, reflective, and focused on the spirit.
Benecio Sokkong
Although the office of peace-pact holder is handed down from a father to a son in communities in the northern Cordillera mountains, the selection is further refined by criteria of social stature, skill
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A group of Kalinga men participate in a budong (peace pact). Photo courtesy Cultural Center of the Philippines
in negotiation and diplomacy, and knowl- edge of ritual and protocol. In this way, a community assures itself that it will be well represented in intra- and intervillage disputes about land, security, peace-keep- ing, and domestic conflict. The communi- ty leader who holds the pact is the one who is entrusted with negotiating and recording its terms.
Benny Sokkong is the chosen budong (peace pact) holder of the village of Tanglag, Lubuagan, in the province of Kalinga. As a young boy, he watched and listened as his father held sensitive discussions with elders from other villages. He saw how peace and harmony were ensured. By the time he came down to Manila in 1978, hoping to study den- tistry, he was already skilled in the ritual preparations of materials involved in holding peace pacts. Lacking the means
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Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
nance his education, Benny took a night job as a security guard. He also became a member of BIBAK, a cultural organization of highlanders from the northern Cordilleras with a chapter in Manila. Although BIBAK was conceived as a performing group that could be invited to school programs, cultural shows, and festivals to present northern Cordillera culture, it also developed into a support group for highlanders in the city. It helps organize traditional weddings, funerals, and other large community events, and it transports people, equipment, and mate- rials to and from these events. Benny found himself working not only with kinsmen from Kalinga but also with other highlanders from different parts of the Cordilleras.
His triple life in Manila — as security guard, dental student, and culture bearer — intensified as he was about to finish his dental degree. He accepted an invita- tion to teach Kalinga music at the University of the Philippines. With the teaching job came lucrative work as an instrument maker. Cordillera culture has a high visibility in Manila, and many schools, cultural troupes, and community organizations regularly purchase its frag- ile bamboo instruments. They know their reliable source is the instructor at the
48
College of Music, not commercial centers like the Baguio market, for the instru- ments there are made for the tourist trade. Now a dentistry graduate and working as a dental technician, Benny set up a workshop/factory in Baguio city, the hometown of his wife, who is a Kalinga- [baloi nurse. The new facility has made it easier to keep up with orders, and his res- onant instruments, full of the sound of the mountains, fulfill their purposes in rituals and other cultural events.
Benny continues to commute to Quezon City in metropolitan Manila to teach at the university every week. But he travels just as regularly to Tanglag to set- tle disputes and conflicts among his kins- men. He looks forward to the day when he, like his father before him, will offici- ate at a full-scale budong, a peace pact between communities, which requires an intimidating array of financial, physical, cultural, and spiritual resources, but which assures these communities a har- monious, peaceful coexistence.
Reviewing the life stories of these admirable men and women, one can begin to reflect on the questions, what is tradition, and how is it related to the national life of the Philippines a century after the birth of the nation? Tradition is society's perception that there are proper ways of doing things. Undertaking activi- ties in the right way is important because
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this ensures the health and well-being of the community. As conditions change and time passes, parts of tradition may alter or even disappear to suit changing needs, — but the core, the heart of the “proper way,” must remain recognizable. The tra- dition bearer has invested time and ener- gy in mastering the knowledge, skills, and meaning needed for “the proper way.” Thus, as artist and community are drawn into conditions of change, the cen- ter can stand to remind us all of what is healthy, whole, and lasting. The germ charged with meaning is passed on, grows, and develops. Traditional masters have made a difficult journey in time and space while living and acting in a world full of tumult and change. The core, the germ of their vision and wisdom, will carry us all, as a nation, into the future.
Elena Rivera Mirano is professor of music at the University of the Philippines. She is an author and performer of traditional Philippine music. Her book Subli: One Dance in Four Voices won the 1989 Philippine National Book Award. She is also artistic director of the Cherubim and Seraphim, the official children’s choir of the University of the Philippines. |
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Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Traditional Music in Philippine Cultures
[? an environment of modern, technological material- ism, Philippine musical traditions remain rooted in epeaanty and ancient wisdom about life and nature. They provide valuable, alternative perspectives on Philippine life, tat and culture. Even a fleeting survey of these musical traditions reveals a multisided prism that reflects Philippine society and culture as a complex amalgam of forms in time and space. These forms present striking varieties and nuances, and delineate not only distinct regional and cultural borders and social structures, but also connections to peoples and cultures outside the Philippines.
kulintang are suspended in pyramid for- mation from the lowest drone gong (bandil) to the highest of the melodic gongs called sagungguan. The gongs of the kulintang from western Mindanao are laid in a row. In the ensembles of the
The kaleidoscopic variety of indigenous musical traditions is easily seen in their instruments, performance techniques, repertoires, and languages. Flat gongs, from the uplands of northern Luzon, are played in a variety of styles and in groups ranging from five to six musicians among the Kalinga, Bontoc, Bago, and Gaddang communities, to an ensemble of three among the Ifugao, accompanied by a single conical drum among the Applay, and an ensemble of two gongs and two drums among the Ibaloi of Benguet.
Such an abundance of musical styles also can be found for bossed (knobbed) gongs, which cover a much wider area from Palawan to the southern islands of Mindanao and Sulu. Among the Bagobo, Manobo, and Bla’an in eastern Mindanao, sets of graduated gongs called
Maguindanao, Maranao, Tausug, Sama, Yakan, and Subanen, the kulintang is
Musicians from the Manobo community in Malaybalay, Bukidnon Province, Mindanao, perform on the tangkol (bamboo zither) and kudyapi (stringed lute). Instruments like these are found throughout the Philippines. Photo by E. Caballero, courtesy Cultural Center of the Philippines
1998 SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Ramon P. Santos
musically complemented by larger gongs with varying resonance and tone colors. On the other hand, aerophones (flutes and trumpets), idiophones (buzzers, stamping tubes, log and bamboo slit drums), and chordophones (lutes and zithers), mostly made of bamboo and local timber, also represent specific lan- guage groups and communities through their physical and musical characteristics. Melodic drones from these instruments usually combine with kinetic movements in physical and metaphysical space to create an intense, integrated form of expression. This integration is character- istic of pagipat healing rites of the Maguindanao and the death ceremonies of mattala’'tam among the Aetas from Kalinga Apayao and himmung among the Ifugao.
Vocal repertoires offer an even more intriguing variety of forms and styles, from epics such as the Ifugao’s Hudhud and the Mansaka’s Manggob to forms of lyrical poetry and recitation, e.g., the
49
Musicians on harp and guitar play lively balitaw songs based on the Spanish jota and sequidilla, on the island of Cebu. Stringed instruments introduced by the Spanish in the 17th century remain popular today in traditional Philippine music.
Photo by Rey S. Rastrollo, courtesy Cultural Center of the Philippines
lbaloi badiw, Maranao bayok, and Kalinga dango.
Another type of oral repertoire evolved in Christian communities across the archipelago in four centuries of cultural encounter between East and West. These musical expressions took their present hybrid forms through aesthetic assimila- tion, selective synthesis, and cultural cross-breeding. The varying degrees of acculturation mirrored in these forms indicate the people’s resiliency and cre- ative response to change while preserving fundamental aesthetic values.
In Christian population centers, indige- nous practices such as epics and rituals gave way to musical resources introduced by Spain. One of these is the long romance narrative later known as awit and kurido. The genius of local literary composers easily assimilated this form, creating highly imaginative stories that combine characters and events from medieval Europe with local heroes and familiar places. Although initially dissem-
50
inated as written literature, the awit and kurido in time became committed to oral memory and were easily quoted in formal and informal discourse. Related genres from Spain also became part of the musi- co-literary and theatrical experience of the early Christian Filipinos, including the komedya and its subgenre moro- moro, named for its perennial plot of Christian-Moorish conflict, and the sar- swela, romantic comedies featuring members of the Philippine upper class at the turn of the 20th century.
In these communities, gongs and bam- boo instruments were replaced by the guitar; by the rondalla, a plucked string ensemble that evolved from the Spanish estudiantina, by the comparza, the brass band, and its local versions, the musikong bumbong and banda boca; and by a variety of instrumental group- ings that accompany other vocal and the- atrical performances.
The impact of Christianity can also be seen in the hybridization of religious practices in rural communities. The sanghiyang in Cavite province is still a trance ceremony, but its practitioners now invoke the names of saints and use rosary beads and scapulars. In Batangas, the swbli, a secular folk dance propagat- ed since the 1930s, is now being rediscov- ered as a complex religious ritual of semi-improvised dances, chanting, and drum playing in honor of the Holy Cross and the Holy Child (Santo Nino).
Locally created musical activities are mostly related to the liturgical cycle of Christmas, Lent, Easter, and Santacrusan, the May commemoration of the finding of the Holy Cross by Constantine and Helena. The spiritual depth of rural Christian Filipinos comes to the surface during Lent, when people perform parali- turgical rituals and acts of self-abnega- tion and penitence. The chanting of the life and Passion of Christ, pabasa and pasyon, and their theatrical reenactment, senakulo, are almost synonymous with
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popular Filipino religious worship, whether they are expressed in Tagalog, Kapampangan, Ilonggo, Sebuano, or Bicol and whether they use ancient regional airs or rock ’n’ roll tunes.
The dynamic kaleidoscope of musical life in Philippine cultures has assumed a significant role in nation-building over the last 100 years. From their virtual iso- lation and derogated status in the emerg- ing Christian society of the 19th century, these musical practices have gained new strength in the present century.
Indigenous and folk artists are now closing ranks with their urban counter- parts to form their own cultural troupes, creating their own choreographies, and sometimes performing Western-derived tunes on gongs and bamboo instruments. As contributors of new structural forms and aesthetic meanings to contemporary musical expression, traditional musical cultures have been selectively adapting to the artistic norms of mainstream society, not only to survive, but also to continu- ously enrich and expand the techniques and repertoires of their unique musical heritage. (
e e Suggested Listening Folk Songs of the Philippines. Folkways 8791. Hanunoo Music from the Philippines. Folkways 4466. Music of the Magindanao in the Philippines, vols. 1 and 2. Folkways 4536.
Ramon P. Santos, an ethnomusicologist as well as a composer, is a professor of music at the University of the Philippines. His own works are strongly influenced by his stud- ies of Philippine and Asian musical tradi- tions. He is also secretary-general of the National Music Competition for Young Artists.
1998
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Philippine Food
hat is the most typical Philippine food? Is it sini-
gang, a cold, sour stew that equally accommodates fish, meat, fowl, or prawns — so refreshing in hot weath- er? Is it adobo, meat, shellfish, or vegetables cooked in vinegar, which keeps without refrigeration? Is it pancit, the many kinds of noodles found at all celebrations? Could it be rellenong manok, the capon stuffed for Christmas? Or might it be pritong manok, chicken fried after a vinegar and garlic marinade?
Even Filipinos cannot frame a simple answer to the question, so varied is their cuisine. Sinigang is obviously indige- nous, with all its ingredients found in the countryside, and with its analogs in Southeast Asia. Adobo, too, is indigenous but bears a Spanish/Mexican name, per- haps because of its similarity to the Mexican adobado. Pancit is obviously a Chinese contribution, but it has been indigenized by native ingredients and tastes. The capon and its stuffing are Spanish in origin and the fried chicken is American, but both have been adapted to the local palate.
The variety is explained by history and social adaptation. First, there was food drawn only from natural surroundings: marine, river, and other creatures from the waters on and around the archipel- ago’s 7,000 islands; other animals: fowl, birds, and other creatures from field and forest; and vegetation for edible leaves, pods, seeds, roots, flowers, tendrils, as well as spices, condiments, and fruits. Indigenous cuisine is found everywhere with regional differences depending on the ecosystem: lowland or highland, inte- rior or shoreline.
Chinese traders, who have been visiting since the 9th century or earlier, brought noodles, soybean products, and pork.
1998
Their dishes entered the local diet at a popular level, and are now found in mar- kets, sidewalk carts, restaurants called panciterias, school cafeterias, and homes of all social levels. So indigenized has comida china become that some dishes bear Spanish names — probably because panciterias were among the first places for public eating during the Spanish colo- nial period. Most of the dishes have been so well integrated into eating patterns that many Filipinos consider them not foreign but native born.
Spanish dishes and cooking techniques came with the colonizers and instantly assumed positions of prestige. For one thing, many of their principal ingredients — olive oil, saffron, hams, and sausages — were imported and expensive. For another, the food of officials, friars, and other foreigners seemed superior and desirable because these people comprised an elite social class. Thus, fiesta food is often Spanish: paella, stuffed turkeys and chickens, morcon, mechado, and rich desserts of the Spanish tradition. Christmas, too, features Spanish dishes, since Christianity arrived with the Spaniards: jamon en dulce, ensaimadas, queso de bola, apples, oranges, and chestnuts.
American dishes and preparation styles — pressure-cooked, precooked, fast, and
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Doreen G. Fernandez
A meal served on banana leaves in Paete, Laguna Province. The foods in this meal were prepared mostly from local products and include bagoong (shrimp paste) and sticky rice, representing an indigenous cuisine. Photo by Richard Kennedy
instant foods — were introduced with American colonization, education, stan- dards of hygiene, and technology. The multitude of advertisements for ham- burgers, fried chicken, fast food, junk food, and soft drinks might make one think that this is the most typical Philippine food.
But typical Philippine food is all of the above. The indigenous cuisine is alive and well in the provinces, where the ingredients are always available, inexpen- sive, and sometimes even free. The flavor- ing sauces and dips — patis or fish sauce, bagoong or shrimp paste, and calamansi (native lime) — are used alone or in combinations to fine-tune even foreign food to local palates. The indigenous, peasant diet of rice, fish, and vegetables has been rated by nutritionists among the healthiest in the world with its high carbohydrate/low protein level and minimal fat.
ail
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Indigenized cuisines originally from China, Mexico, and the United States are fairly ubiquitous, although more readily found in towns and cities, in restaurants large and small, and on the tables of the middle and upper classes.
Imported or foreign cuisine that has not been indigenized is eaten and under- stood as foreign: Japanese, Italian, French, and Middle Eastern. Globalization has made these cuisines known, avail- able, and attractive through the media and through the experience of travelers, the educated, and those who have worked and lived abroad.
Indigenous, indigenized, and imported foods meet and mix on the Philippine landscape. They speak of a history of trade, colonization, foreign influence, and social transformation. They also illumine the social structure.
At home among peasants and workers, indigenous cuisine can also be found on the elite’s tables, where it is the food of memory — childhood and provincial beginnings and ancestral holiday tables. Methods of preparation may have changed from long, slow boiling over wood fires to microwave cooking, but
Ww bo
indigenous cuisine does not seem likely to disappear under the onslaught of fast food, for it remains a deep cultural and personal preference.
Indigenized cuisine is found on urban and upscale tables and in public eating places. The Philippines has the best Spanish restaurants in Asia because they are not foreign here, but part of a 300- year history. Imported food is generally expensive and exclusive, although stalls selling shawarma (Middle Eastern skew- ers of meat) established by returning overseas contract workers are creeping into villages and subdivisions.
Tasting the local variations in Philippine food is savoring the many fla- vors of the Philippine culture and envi- ronment. Try kinilaw, for example, on an island like Bohol. Fish from clean waters is dressed fresh with palm vinegar and condiments to create one of the islands’ oldest dishes. Sample the /echon at a bar- rio fiesta. Unlike the Spanish cochinillo asado, this could be a full-grown pig stuffed with tamarind or lemongrass leaves and spit-roasted over coals.
Compare the many varieties of pancit: from seaside towns served with oysters, squid, or shrimp, from inland communi-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
A meal served on china in Malolos, Bulacan Province. The recipes for several of these dishes are inspired by
Spanish cuisine, and include the use of vinegar, saf- fron, and olive oil. Photo by Richard Kennedy
»
ties served with meat and vegetables, its noodles fat or thin, transparent or opaque with egg, shaken in broth or water (/uglog), sautéed or fried, sauced or plain.
Try dishes that retain their native names: /aing, taro leaves with coconut milk and chile; pinais, shrimp and young coconut wrapped in banana leaves and steamed in coconut water. Taste Chinese dishes with Chinese names — lomi, mami, kekiam — and those with Spanish names — arroz caldo, | camaron rebozado. Venture to taste the | work of young chefs who prepare mango, coconut, and venison in nouvelle ways.
|
Try local fried chicken; let your tongue | tell you how it differs from American | style and illuminate for you some princi- | ples of Filipino flavor.
Food is not only for the eating, but also | for the contemplation of history, society, — and taste.
Suggested Reading
Fernandez, Doreen G. Tikim: Essays on Philippine Food and Culture. Manila: Anvil Publishing, Inc., 1994.
Doreen Fernandez is professor of literature | and communication at the Ateneo de Manila University. She writes books and articles on cultural, theater, literary, and culinary history. Her weekly column, “In | Good Taste,” appears in the Philippine Daily | Inquirer.
1998
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Filipino-American Youth Performing Filipinicity
b ilipinicity, according to nationalist scholar Antonio Molina, is the quality of being Filipino regardless of location or surroundings, a quality that describes many Filipino-American youth in America.
How can we understand their cultural identity, created from a Philippine her- itage in an American context? Any expla- nation is necessarily complex, given their diversity of language backgrounds, class
origins, and histories in the United States.
Filipino Americans (informally, Fil-Ams) have successfully assimilated into the American mainstream, often becoming invisible to the general population while remaining highly visible to one another. Filipinos came to America over 250 years ago, before the Philippines or the United States was a nation. The pioneer Filipino Americans were crew on Spanish galleons that brought luxury goods from China to Mexico for eventual transship-
1998
ment to Europe. They sailed from ports such as Vigan and Manila for the six- month voyage to Acapulco, Mexico. There some jumped ship, and by the close of the 18th century, these seamen had estab- lished the first documented Filipino set- tlement in America in the bayous near New Orleans.
Filipino settlement in the United States was gradual; groups came under a variety of circumstances and for a variety of rea- sons. Besides serving on ships, “Manilamen” (another term for Filipinos) worked on the haciendas of Mexican California, and some were even enlisted as members of the Royal Hawaiian Band. By the turn of the 20th
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Ricardo D. Trimillos
century young intellectuals began study- ing in the United States as pensionados (government-sponsored scholars). A decade later sakadas (workers) were pro- viding cheap and dependable labor for the plantations of Hawai'i, the farms of California, and the salmon industry of Alaska and Washington. Although the early migrants were mostly male, they were eventually followed by couples and entire families. World War II brought another opportunity — citizenship which could be obtained by serving in the U.S. armed services. Until the outbreak of war in 1941, the Philippines’ commonwealth status made relocation to the United States simple. Following the end of the war the number of U.S.-bound Filipinos increased despite U.S. efforts to limit it. They were encouraged by relatives already in the States, by opportunities for study and work, and by the promise of a better life than their postwar homeland could offer. After the imposition of mar- tial law and the rise of the Marcos dicta- torship in 1972, there was another wave of emigration largely from the profes- sions, business, and academe.
Meanwhile, ongoing since 1898, the American military, missionaries, and businessmen were bringing home Filipina brides, and Filipino men living in the States were marrying non-Filipinas. Their part-Filipino offspring would fur- ther enrich Fil-Am identity and shape its version of Filipinicity.
Young Filipino-American dancers perform the tinikling at the annual Philippine Festival in Washington, D.C. This dance from the Visayan Islands has become a standard part of most Filipino-American community gatherings as well as public events. Photo by Paul Tahedo
53
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Danongan Kalanduyan, director of the Mindanao Kulintang Ensemble of Seattle, Washington, performs with his group. Filipino Americans and others join to perform music from the Muslim region of Mindanao. Photo by Xander
Hobayan
Strategies for identity formation in America have been both proactive and defensive, the former arising from pride in cultural achievement and the latter from anxiety about cultural loss through assimilation. Instrumental to both strate- gies, folk dance is the oldest and most widespread focus for Filipino identity. Organized by adults for their children, the dance represents a community-based, grassroots effort to maintan identity. Filipino youth come together (under watchful parents, of course!), participate in cultural learning, and garner positive recognition from non-Filipinos through public performance. Dance groups gener- ally draw upon the choreographies of Bayanihan, the Philippines’ most success- ful folkloric company. For example, their tinikling bamboo dance has become a cultural icon and is now practically de rigeur for the close of any dance pro- gram. More recently some American troupes, like the L.A.-based Kayamanan ng Lahi, are pursuing greater ethno- graphic integrity by seeking models directly in community culture bearers.
The rondalla (plucked string band) is
54
the ubiquitous ensemble of the Spanish- influenced lowlands and stands as a Philippine national icon. It provides fes- tive accompaniment for song, dance, and socializing. Rondallas were popular among prewar immigrants, who soon learned, however, that playing in American dance bands was much more profitable. At present there are youth ron- dallas in such diverse locations as Boston, San Diego, and Seattle. It is a challenge to sustain rondallas overseas. Their musical demands are high — one must be able to play by ear and by nota- tion, and their instruments are crafted only in the Philippines, principally in Pampanga and Cebu. A rondalla is pre- sented at the Smithsonian Festival. Filipino choral groups are very popu- lar: three centuries of Spanish Catholicism have made choral singing central to Philippine heritage. The chorus is also popular in many Fil-Am commu- nities, which sponsor groups such as the Philippine Chorale (New York City), the Mabuhay Singers (Daly City, California), and the Silangan Singers (Honolulu). Choral singing is often the major, if not
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
the only, opportunity for youth to become ©
familiar with Philippine languages. Folk choral genres from the Visayas also are featured in the Festival.
Youth have sparked an interest in kulintang, the gong-chime tradition of Muslim groups from the southern Philippines. Cultural organizations in New York (Amauan) and in California
(World Kulintang Institute in Los Angeles,
Kulintang Arts in San Francisco) have
)
received National Endowment for the Arts |
(NEA) grants to support residencies by master artists Dr. Usopay Cadar of the Maranao tradition and Danongan Kalanduyan of the Maguindanao. Kulintang master Kalanduyan is the sin- gle Filipino-American artist who has been awarded the prestigious National Heritage Fellowship from the NEA. Although most students have lowland Christian rather than Muslim forbears, they have become serious participants in the genre. Its ascendancy has significance for cultural identity: kulintang is clearly a Southeast Asian tradition without Spanish or American influence and is related to the gamelan gong orchestras of Java and Bali. It has become an icon of decolo- nization: associated with high status as entertainment in the courts of the sul- tanates and structured by a highly codi- fied system of music theory, improvisa- tion, and aesthetics, it is art music. Maguindanao kulintang is included as part of the Folklife Festival program.
Young Fil-Ams have also resuscitated several moribund traditions. Thirty years ago, for example, they initiated a renais- sance of Philippine martial arts, particu- larly escrima and arnis, which were maintained in secret by early immigrants to Hawai‘i and California. There are now a national association, a calendar of competitions, and studios and clubs nationwide.
As cultural activists, Filipino-American descendants from the mountain tribes of Luzon formed BIBAK, a network for
Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest
Members of BIMAK, an organization in the Washington, D.C., area, participate in the annual Philippine Heritage Parade in Washington, D.C. BIMAK represents Filipino Americans whose families came from upland tribal communities in Luzon. BIMAK and BIBAK organizations across the United States are proud of their heritage and work to keep these traditions alive in their families
and communities. Photo by Paul Tahedo
defending the cultural rights of upland cultures. Members of these societies, which were put on display at the 1904 St. Louis Exposition and subjected to exoticization and other forms of misrep- resentation, are now demanding accurate and respectful treatment of their heritage. BIBAK, an acronym for the five major upland linguistic groups, provides work- shops on culture, crafts, dance, and music for the general community. It actively assists folkloric dance groups in appreciating the upland repertory. Each BIBAK chapter has young people in posi- tions of responsibility. The Kalinga upland group is presented at the Festival. Fil-Am youth have been creative in the present climate of pluralism and multi- culturalism, using opportunities to explore heritage that were not available in previous generations. Pilipino Cultural Nights (PCNs), presented on numerous college campuses, are evidence of this creativity. Most universities with a signifi- cant population of Filipinos (internation- al students as well as Fil-Ams) have them. Their typical format includes a selection of folk songs and dances, usually drawn from the Bayanihan repertory. In a style reminiscent of the homeland’s bodabil (vaudeville) shows, humorous skits about the Philippines and, increasingly, about life in America are interspersed. Recent PCNs sometimes select a single theme or create a unifying story line. More than just entertainment, some productions address social issues such as glass ceil- ings in employment for minorities, U.S.- Philippine relations, and “Tita Aida”
1998
(AIDS). Remarkably, PCNs are entirely organized, rehearsed, and presented by students, as one year’s producers share their experience with the next. Although originally intended as educational out- reach to the non-Filipino community, they have become largely a celebration of Filipinicity for friends and family. The PCN model has given rise to similar efforts by Korean, Chinese, and Vietnamese campus groups.
We can encounter Filipinicity in a vari- ety of social settings, each reflecting a dif- ferent kind of commitment to heritage. In a nontraditional cultural setting, for example, an emergent Fil-Am theater addresses issues of homeland and dias- pora. For example, “Scenes from an Unfinished Country 1905/1995,” a work by the Pintig Cultural Group (Chicago), explores themes of American interven- tion. Sining Kulisan & Pinoy Ink [sic] (Vallejo, California) treats the Spanish period in its production, “Heart of the Son.” The adjective “Filipino” for jazz, rock, and hip hop carries specific and positive connotations in regional com-
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
mercial music businesses. In classical music, besides performing Schubert and Bach, Fil-Ams may mark Filipinicity by programming kundiman art song or folk-inspired compositions, such as the violin classic “Hating Gabi.”
In even more nontraditional settings, performing Filipinicity may involve a sar- torial dimension — for example, using accessorized kimona or barong tagolog (embroidered gauzy overblouse or over- skirt) as nightclub wear. It may also involve creating in-jokes by appropriating slang: three young L.A. artists collectively call themselves “The Badaf Pinoys.” (“Pinoy” is an informal, in-group term of self-reference derived from the final sylla- bles of “Pilipino,” while “Badaf” defies direct translation.)
There are private displays of identity as well. For example, individual families continue regional customs of the reli- gious year. The Cebuano celebration of the Santo Nino (Christ Child) still takes place during January in Hawai'i, California, and Illinois, replete with songs, prayers, santos (icons), and food.
55
These World War II veterans are members of the Veterans of Foreign Wars Vicente Lim Post 5471 in Oxon Hill, Maryland. More than 120,000 soldiers from the Philippine Commonwealth Army fought alongside Americans against the Japanese. Thousands of these soldiers resettled in the U.S. after the war. Photo by Paul Tanedo
During Holy Week, families in Washington, Texas, and West Virginia per- form the pasyon, a vernacular poetic account of Christ’s Passion that begins with Creation and ends with the Final Judgment; it also has songs, prayers, san- fos, and food. In New Jersey and Nevada Muslim Filipinos observe Ramadan with daytime fasting and singing the maulid, a poetic account about the life of the Prophet. These are the less public parts of identity. Pasyon and other religious gen- res are part of the Festival.
There are challenges to the identity of Fil-Am youth. Assimilation looms large. Among early immigrants its pull was very strong. Its forces had already been at work in the homeland: an American- based public education system, a U.S.- style democracy, and a high degree of English fluency. In general, first-genera- tion immigrants kept many customs, maintained foodways, and retained their languages, speaking Bikolano or Pangasinan at home, for instance. The
56
second generation (the first American born) maintained some foodways, had passive understanding of the languages, and kept some of the customs, such as touching the back of an elder’s hand to one’s forehead as a sign of respect (mamano). The third and fourth genera- tions — most of today’s Fil-Am youth — are often unaware of which Philippine language their elders spoke, observe few of the customs, and know only a few of the Filipino foods served at celebrations, such as spring rolls (umpia), marinated meat (adobo), baked rice cake (bibingka), and banana fritters (cambo/maruya/baduya).
But there is a contrasting segment of Filipino-American youth composed of the newly arrived. Typically having received early schooling in the Philippines and coming from urban rather than rural areas, they are au courant with the latest Manila fashions and music; their food- ways reflect the eclecticism of the pre- sent-day Philippines; and they are fluent in the national language, Pilipino, and often in another regional language.
The two groups constitute polarities: at one end are the children of “old-timer” families, who do not speak a Philippine language, and who feel they have paid their dues by confronting generations of racism in America; and at the other is the “1.5 generation,” Filipino newcomers, who are generally unaware that their way was paved by the old-timers. These con- trasts generate tensions between, for example, an upwardly mobile third-gen- eration student from a farm labor back- ground and a Manila-oriented 1.5-gener- ation youth from a professional family who affects Philippine versions of cloth- ing, music, and dance.
On a continuum between these polari- ties are other groups, including part- Filipino children, whose Filipino identity may be problematic and varied, depend- ing upon whether the other parent is Anglo, African, Asian, or Native American.
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Filipino identity is made even more com- plex by the emergence of ethnically defined gangs.
The Centennial celebration itself prob-
lematizes identity for Filipino-American youth. It raises issues about the two rele- vant countries — one, the source of eth- nic heritage, the other, the place of citi- zenship. U.S. intervention in the
Philippines a century ago interrupted the ©
development of an independent Asian nation. However, that intervention enabled today’s youth and their forbears to become part of American life. Fil-Am identity emerges directly from the com- plex commingling of these two national and cultural streams. We hope that Filipino-American youth will find in our Festival program, Pahiyas: A Philippine Harvest, resonant moments of encour- agement and self-recognition.
Suggested Reading
Gonzalves, Theo.The Show Must Go On: Production Notes on the Pilipino Cultural Night.” Critical Mass 2, no. 2 (1995).
Tiongson, Nicanor. “Filipinicity and the Tagalog kKomedya and sinakulo.” Kulture 1, no. 2 (1998).
Tiongson, Nicanor, ed. CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines, 1994.
Trimillos, Ricardo D.“Music and Ethnic Identity, Strategies for the Overseas Filipino Youth Population.” Yearbook for Traditional Music 18(1985): 9-20.
-“Asian American music, 6. Southeast Asian, ii. |
Filipino.” In The New Grove Dictionary of American Music, ed. H.Wiley Hitchcock & Stanley Sadie, vol. 1, 83-84. London: Macmillan, 1986.
Ricardo Trimillos is chair of Asian Studies
and professor of elhnomusicology at the University of Hawaii, Manoa. He is also a research associate of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, Manila, and a member of the Advisory Board of the Smtibsonian Center for Folklife Programs & Cultural Studies.
1998 | \
' {
| |
NS
tio
Na
tic
he Bal
Th > Baltic Nations
\ Song of Survival
he Baltic nations emerged on the world
news scene in 1988 and 1989 as if from
nowhere. For 50 years they had literally disappeared from the map, subsumed into the monochromatic zone of the USSR. Only occa- sionally would Americans hear that the United States did not recognize the illegal incorporation of the three nations into the Soviet Union.
When Gorbachev invoked glasnost and perestroika to release the tight controls on eco- nomic, political, cultural, and social life, the people of the three Baltic
Demographics
Estonia: Geographic size: 17,375 sq. miles; Population 1.5 million; Language: Estonian (offical); Religion: Lutheran, Russian Orthodox; Ethnic groups: 60% Estonian, 30% Russian, 1096 Other
Latvia:
Geographic size: 24 950 sq. miles; Population 27 million; Lanquage: Latvian (official); Religion: Lutheran, Roman Catholic, Russian Orthodox; Ethnic groups: 57% Latvian, 30% Russian, 4% Belarussian, 9% Other
Lithuania:
Geographic size: 25, 175 sq. miles; Population
3.7 million; Language: Lithuanian (official);
Religion: Roman Catholic, Protestant, Russian
Orthodox; Ethnic groups: 85% Lithuanian, 8%
Russian, 7% Other
countries organized grassroots movements that pushed the experiments to new limits. The demand to discuss the past openly and to raise the issue of “divorce” from the USSR startled and irritated the Kremlin.
On August 23, 1989, people in the Baltics formed a human chain stretching 430 miles, connecting Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius. They remembered the day in 1939 when Hitler and Stalin had made a secret pact that sealed their fate. Their
58
RUSSIA
POLAND
FINLAND Gulf of Finland
RUSSIA
ESTONIA
Lake e Vos’ Tartu
Kihnu@ Island
eValga
Riga Bay
e . Valmiera
LATVIA
e Rézekne
eee Daugavpils Siauliai A e Panevezys
LITHUANIA
e Kaunas
Vilnius BELARUS
Alytus
massive demonstration told the world
that they existed as nations and that they yearned to be masters of their own des- tiny. They sang their messages and called it the Singing Revolution.
The strength of their conviction came from centuries of consciousness of who they are as people, bound by language, customs, and belief. The fact that they settled this Baltic coast so very long ago and stayed there while other tribes and
SMITHSONIAN FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL
Elena Bradunas
nations migrated around them gave them a strong territorial claim. That their languages were neither Slavic nor | Germanic helped to insulate them
through the many years of subjugation to those more powerful neighbors. The conservatism of the peasants who kept strong ties to land and customs enabled | traditions to endure. |
Already in the 18th century, when the — Romantic Movement was sweeping | through Europe, the “lore” of these small | nations had been recognized, first by for- | eign and eventually by their own intel- | lectuals. The first Estonian and Latvian | national song festivals, held in 1869 and ! 1873 respectively, reawakened a sense of f unity. This ethnic awareness built a } national pride in all three countries that | led to their proclaiming independence from Russia in 1918.
The period of independence was short lived, however, as World War II ushered in — the Soviets, then the Germans, and then the Soviets again, unleashing a blood bath © in all three Baltic lands and years of oppression. Closed borders, forced collec- | tivization, and strict controls on all aspects of cultural and social life did much to break the natural continuity of customs and traditions.
However, language held its own in all three countries, despite dictums that everyone learn Russian. Privately, and
cooperation with the Estonian Government and Estonian Ministry of Culture, the Latvian Government | and Latvian Ministry of Culture, and the Lithuanian Government and Lithuanian Ministry of Culture. Additional support comes from the Cultural Endowment of Estonia, the American Latvian Association, and the Lithuanian Foundation.
This program is made possible by and is produced in
1998, |
The Baltic Nations
very carefully, people still held on to reli- gious beliefs and some family traditions. In Estonia, television antennas faced Finland so that people could have a glimpse of life in the West. Writers, artists, and scholars devised clever ways to circumvent Soviet censorship. For example, folklorists would argue that, under Soviet ideology, the ordinary folk,
recording traditional cultural expressions increased on the professional, academic, and grassroots levels. Local folk in vari- ous rural regions and young people studying in urban settings formed per- forming groups to perpetuate song, dance, and musical traditions. Every- where there was an impetus to learn as much as possible about the past and to
independent countries, society is under- going many changes. The market econo- my is affecting daily life, not always bene- ficially. Western popular culture is exert- ing a homogenizing influence, especially on the younger generation. The desire to join the ranks of “modern nations” some- times clashes with the urge to celebrate one’s cultural uniqueness. Will the people
like the proletariat, should be held in esteem. In this way one could defend the study of pre-Soviet songs, tales, and tra- ditions, and interest in authentic folklore became a form of subtle resistance. During the 1970s collecting and
Suggested Reading
General Baltics Clemens, Walter C., Jr. Baltic Independence and Russian Empire. New York: St.Martin’s Press, 1991. Kirby, David G. The Baltic World 1772-1993. London & New York: Longman, 1995. Lieven, Anatol. The Baltic Revolution: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania and the Path to Independence. 2nd ed. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994. Misiunas, Romuald J., and Rein Taagepera. The Baltic States, Years of Dependence 1940-1990. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993. Smidchens, Guntis.“A Baltic Music: The Folklore Movement in Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, 1968-1991.” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1996. Estonia Oinas, Felix J. Studies in Finnic Folklore. Bloomington: Indiana University Uralic and Altaic Series, vol. 147. Raun, Toivo. Estonia and the Estonians. 2nd ed. Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1991. Taagepera, Rein. Estonia: Return to Independence. Boulder: Westview Press, 1993. Latvia Dreifelds, Juris. Latvia in Transition. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Plakans, Andrejs. The Latvians: A Short History. Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1995.
Skultans, Vieda. The