A Packrat's Path to Indian Past (fwd)

[phil cash cash]

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-harrington2jul02,1,979787.story?coll=la-home-headlines

COLUMN ONE

A Packrat's Path to Indian Past

A California linguist's mountain of scribbled notes is the key to nearly
forgotten Native American languages.

By Mike Anton
Times Staff Writer

July 2, 2004

Few understood the true significance of John Peabody Harrington's work
when he died at age 77. For some 50 years, the linguist and
anthropologist had crisscrossed California and the West, cheating the
grave by finding the last speakers of ancient Native American tongues
and writing down their words and customs.

Secretive and paranoid, Harrington was a packrat who stuffed much of his
work into boxes, crates and steamer trunks. After his death in 1961,
the papers turned up in warehouses, attics, basements, even chicken
coops throughout the West and eventually made their way to his former
employer, the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.

"Six tons of material — much of it worthless," recalled Catherine A.
Callaghan, now 72, a linguist who sorted through the Harrington papers
when they arrived at the Smithsonian.

"There was blank paper, dirty old shirts, half-eaten sandwiches. The low
point came when I found a box of birds stored for 30 years without the
benefit of taxidermy 
. But mixed in with all of that were these
treasures."

Forty-three years later, Harrington's massive legacy is regarded as a
Rosetta stone that unlocks dozens of all-but-forgotten California
Indian languages. But the work of deciphering it is far from over.

Researchers at UC Davis, backed by a National Science Foundation grant,
are transcribing Harrington's notes — a million pages of scribbled
writing, much of it in code, Spanish or phonetic script — into
electronic documents that can be searched word by word. The job is
expected to take 20 years.

"I very much doubt I will see the end of it," said project co-director
Victor Golla, a 65-year-old professor of linguistics at Humboldt State.
"Like Harrington's original project, you do this for the future benefit
of other people."

Harrington's work has been used by California's Indians trying to
establish federal tribal recognition, settle territorial claims and
protect sacred sites from development.

It has also played a crucial role in reviving languages. The Muwekma
Ohlone tribe in the Bay Area, for instance, is using a dictionary
compiled from Harrington's research to teach its members the Chochenyo
language, which had been dead for more than 60 years.

"They've gone from knowing nothing to being able to carry on a short
conversation, sing songs and play games. Now they're starting to do
some creative writing," said UC Berkeley linguistics professor Juliette
Blevins, who works with the tribe. "We are reconstructing a whole
language using his material."

Scholars of Indian anthropology are drawn to Harrington's archive as the
definitive work of its kind. There's only one problem: His handwritten
notes are as comprehensible as Aramaic.

"It's impenetrable," said Martha Macri, director of the UC Davis Native
American Language Center and co-director of the effort to computerize
Harrington's papers. "It's too hard to read his handwriting. Few people
can tolerate looking at it for long periods of time."

The significance of Harrington's work lies not in individual great
discoveries, but in the preservation of millions of words and customs.
His archive is a detailed inventory of the everyday.

He pumped his subjects — often the last speakers of their languages —
for everything they knew on topics ranging from astronomy to zoology.
His papers describe centuries-old ceremonies. Medicinal cures. Songs,
dances and games. Family histories. Even gossip.

"You've got a RICH lot of information there. Just record them all DRY
.
Get all that each one knows," Harrington wrote to one of the many
assistants he hired, often with his own money, to record Indian elders.
"Get all the old people, get ones I never heard of and all who are
about to die."

Consider the thousands of pages Harrington devoted to the Luiseño
Indians of Southern California. Some of the material, gathered in the
1930s, is straightforward. "Hu-ka-pish," reads one entry, "a pipe 

made of clay, and has no stem, it is necessary for a person to lie on
his back to smoke it."

More typical are the rambling, hard-to-read descriptions of games,
stories and sacred rites. One of Harrington's "informants," Maria
Omish, told him about two smallpox epidemics that ravaged the tribe.

"When the smallpox came 1st time," Harrington wrote, "the Inds. were
having a big fiesta at Sjc. [San Juan Capistrano], and a man came who
had smallpox, & the people were talking of making him go away, but he
threw a cloth that had small pox matter on it into the fire, & then all
of them got it, pretty near all of them died."

There's the description of a religious ceremony involving two men who
slowly dance while quickly playing flutes made from the shin bones of a
deer. The legend of a dying man who asks not to be buried and who
returns to life as an elk. The behavior of a particular black beetle
that crawls away quickly when placed in the hand of a generous man —
and plays dead in the hand of one who is stingy.

"For Harrington, it was all about getting the information down on paper,
and he lived in fear that he couldn't get it done in his lifetime,"
Macri said. "He wasn't heavy on analysis. His gift was to record what
he heard."

When Gloria Morgan, a member of the Tejon tribe in Kern County, read
that UC Davis was seeking Native Americans to help computerize
Harrington's work, she jumped at the chance. Morgan discovered that
Harrington had recorded her great-great-grandmother Angelita singing
songs in the Kitanemuk language, of which there are no fluent speakers
today.

"I didn't grow up exposed to my own culture, so this is such a huge
thing," said Morgan, 30, a 911 dispatcher. "I had never even heard of
Harrington before this."

Typing Harrington's notes into a spreadsheet is tedious work. But with
each page, Morgan has learned something. A description of a death
ceremony. How paint was made using deer marrow. That her ancestors had
words for 40 different native grasses but didn't know what a shark was.

"A hundred little things that wouldn't mean anything to anyone," Morgan
said. "Except if you're a Tejon."

Harrington, born in 1884 and raised in Santa Barbara, studied classical
languages and anthropology at Stanford University and graduated at the
top of his class in three years. He turned down a Rhodes scholarship
and studied anthropology and linguistics at universities in Europe.
Professors marveled at his flawless ear. He also had the ability to
write down every word said to him.

"He was able to take phonetic dictation at conversation speed, like a
court reporter," Golla said.

He returned to California to teach languages at Santa Ana High School.
But Harrington had a wanderlust. He wanted to follow the ethos of
anthropologist Franz Boas, who promoted the then-radical idea that
"primitive" societies were as complex as those in Europe. As modernity
overtook the West, advocates of Boas saw the preservation of Indian
cultures as nothing short of a rescue mission.

In 1915, Harrington landed a job as a field linguist for the
Smithsonian's Bureau of American Ethnology. Over the next 40 years his
travels took him from California and the Southwest to Canada and Alaska
as he immersed himself in a world that was evaporating before his eyes.

"I thought he was a little nuts at times. But I never met anybody who
was so devoted to his work," said Jack Marr, an 83-year-old retired
Fullerton engineer who worked for Harrington as an assistant, beginning
as a teenager. "He'd travel into a remote area by bus and get off and
walk miles by himself to a trading post and ask, 'Where can I find the
Indians?' "

Harrington was a recluse who didn't care about money, dressed in
tattered clothing and slept on the dirt floors of his interview
subjects' homes. He rented Marr's grandmother's home in Santa Ana and
used it as a base for several decades, turning it into a warren of
papers and boxes that left little room to walk. He had no phone and
would routinely not answer the door.

While in the field, Harrington routed letters to his bosses in
Washington, D.C., through Marr's mother, so they would bear a Santa Ana
postmark and would not reveal where he was. Marr was instructed never
to tell anyone where he or Harrington were going or what they were
doing.

In contrast to others in his field, Harrington was not the least bit
eager to publicize his discoveries. Quite the opposite. Marr said
Harrington once told him of a tribe in the Sierra that had discovered
the skeleton of a Spanish conquistador in full armor in a cave. Fearful
that the find would attract reporters and other anthropologists,
Harrington told Marr he had the Indians bury the body and swore them to
secrecy.

Harrington's life was full of contradictions. He was sensitive to the
nuances of native cultures but revealed himself in his private letters
as a fervent anti-Semite. He was a workaholic who never quite finished
a project. A social misfit who had no close friends but could charm
suspicious strangers into divulging their most profound secrets.

"He preached it to me over and over: If we didn't do this, nobody else
will, and these languages will be lost forever," said Marr, who hauled
a 35-pound recording machine powered by a car battery around the West
during the late 1930s and early 1940s, sometimes through mountains on
horseback. "We'd be gone for a month or two at a time, living off cases
of dried beef and chili and crackers
. It was quite an adventure for a
17-year-old guy."

When Marr took trips on his own, Harrington wrote long, rambling letters
exhorting him not to come back empty-handed. When one of his aged
subjects took ill, Harrington exhibited sheer panic.

"Tell him we'll give him five dollars an hour, it'll pay all his doctor
bills and his funeral and will leave his widow with a handsome
jackpot," he wrote Marr regarding a sickly Chinook Indian elder in
Washington state. "DON'T TAKE NO. Hound the life out of him, go back
again and again and again."

When another subject, a Chinook man nearly 100 years old, suffered a
stroke, Harrington was heartbroken — for himself.

"Have just gotten over crying 
 this is the worst thing that ever
happened to me," he wrote Marr. A few sentences later, though,
Harrington encouraged him to remain optimistic.

"You know, a paralysed person often GETS OVER the first stroke, it is
the third stroke that carries them off. And between strokes they get
well and sit up and talk."

Harrington was married once, to a linguistics student. He immediately
turned Carobeth Tucker into an assistant, dragging her from one dusty
outpost to another, even late in pregnancy and with their newborn
daughter in tow, she recalled in a 1975 memoir. She divorced him after
seven years and went on to become an accomplished linguist and
ethnographer.

Harrington's bosses at the Smithsonian accommodated his eccentricities
because of the quality of the reports he sent back.

It was only after his death that the extent of his material became
known.

It took the better part of the 1960s to bring most of the stuff
together. Managers of storage units shipped boxes of notes to the
Smithsonian seeking unpaid rent. Forgotten stockpiles turned up in post
offices that were about to be razed.

The material eventually filled two warehouses. In the mid-1970s, Gerald
R. Ford was president when work began to transfer the written
collection to 500 reels of microfilm. When the job was completed,
Ronald Reagan was leaving office.

The size of the archive makes a mockery of time. Spend a month plowing
through what took a lifetime to compile, and you haven't even scratched
the surface.

A Smithsonian editor who worked for years to commit the archive to
microfilm wrote, in a 10-volume overview of the collection: "One can
easily fall prey to the 'Harrington Curse': obsession."

After six months of separating Harrington's papers from his dirty
laundry, Catherine Callaghan had an epiphany.

"I could see myself becoming more and more like Harrington. I had wanted
to devote my life to pure research as he did," she said. "But I
realized I could not survive as a human being that way."

For a man who worked so desperately to save something, Harrington gave
surprisingly little thought to how his stuff would be used — or whether
it would, in its vastness, simply be admired.

"He thought these languages were dying off so rapidly that he could not
afford to take the time to publish any of his findings," said Macri of
UC Davis. "I don't think he envisioned [his archive] being used by
Indian people. I don't think he thought Indian people would be as
resilient as they've been."

Joyce Stanfield Perry, a Juaneño tribal leader in Orange County,
discovered the depth of Harrington's legacy in 1994 as she and others
searched the Smithsonian for documentation to support federal
recognition for their tribe.

On a dusty shelf, they found a box of recordings one of Harrington's
assistants made in the 1930s. On them was the voice of Anastacia de
Majel, a tribal elder then in her 70s and one of the last speakers of
the Juaneño language.

Her words were preserved as if in amber.

"We wept," Perry said. "It truly was like our ancestors were talking
directly to us."

Perry, who also runs a nonprofit Indian education and cultural
foundation, estimates that 10,000 pages of Harrington's notes refer to
her tribe. As they are entered into the database, a dictionary of her
native language is emerging. So far, it contains 1,200 words.

Through Harrington, Perry has made discoveries about her ancestors' way
of life that have affected her profoundly.

"I didn't know that animals would talk to my ancestors and that my
ancestors understood them. I didn't know that the stars communicated
with my ancestors or that when a crow flies overhead that I'm supposed
to say certain words to them," Perry said.

"It was humbling to acknowledge how much our ancestors knew."

Perry's backyard garden is full of rocks that represent people in her
life, a tradition she learned from Harrington's archive. Every room in
her house has something in it that her ancestors told Harrington it was
important to have — sacred items that Perry won't reveal to outsiders.

"Harrington is our hero," she said. "There's something magical about his
work
. It changed how I pray and how I see the world."