American Indian Representations of Totemism Today at Indian Summer Festival 2016

Indian Summer Festival, reportedly the largest such festival for Indian People, took place from September 9th to 11th at the Henry W. Maier Festival Park on Milwaukee's downtown lakefront. Indian Summer Festival presents a somewhat different view of American Indian life and culture compared to what I saw at the Shalom Wildlife Zoo. I was particularly gratified to see an explanation of Great Lakes Indian tribal organization that presented the structure, meaning, and history of Great Lakes Indian totemism. As an anthropologist, totemism is an important symbolic cultural system that is foundational to our field. It continually re-emerges as a pillar of anthropological insight because it links the domains of symbolic, social,animal, and material worlds. Indeed, it would seem that under American Indian clan organization, there is limited separation between the animal, material, and human worlds. They are interrelated in a symbolic social system. They were represented in a grassy knoll with installations by 'living cultures of the Great Lakes.'

At the Shalom Wildlife Zoo totemism was represented as a personal avatar. A sign near the beginning of the zoo trail explained that Indians chose a totem animal that they felt close to; then it explained that if visitors had an animal that they felt close to as a child, then that is the visitor's "true totem." The placard finishes by referencing the phenomenon in which dogs and their owners tend to look alike.

There is some reasonable truth in some of this explanation. Emile Durkheim established social anthropology with his study of totemism in the late 19th century. He explained that people do indeed have individual totems that may be animals.

But totemism as presented at Indian Summer Festival 2016 emphasizes the social and collective levels of totemism, which is also the focus of anthropological studies of totemism.

At Indian Summer Festival totemism is presented as a structure for organizing tribal society. The totemic animals symbolize the divisions within this system. More than one's name - let alone a personal totem - the presentation at Indian Summer Festival shows that the most important aspect of one's identity was once one's clan within the totemic system. "What clan are you from" one would ask, not 'what's your name?'

This explanation of the clan/totemic system explains that the totemic system and its clans define both the meaning and location of 'community' for Ho-Chunk, Oneida, and other Great Lakes Indians groups, but also the overarching structure into which these community elements fit. Totemism, then, provides a multi-level social order as well as a symbolic map for keeping that system straight in one's mind. Moreover, according to the display at Indian Summer Festival, social functions and values are connected with different clan totems.

 

This explanation of Great Lakes totemism and clan organization also accords with Carol Mason's account of Ho-Chunk (aka Winnebago) totemism. But what seems most illuminating here is the presentation of a historical representation of Great Lakes clan organization. In this image (below) we see multiple clans represented by their totem with lines connecting them through their eyes and hearts. Notice that all lines go into the crane and leave through the crane's eye as a single strand. The Cran Clan was tasked with leadership and external communication (see above). This image, then, is a pictorial representation of Chippewa (Ojibwe) tribal structure and authority. Here we might interpret this image to say that the leader of the Cran Clan - probably Oshcabawis of "Monomoneau, WI" - is the legitimate spokesperson of the Chippewa clans. We might also interpret the twin badger-like creatures as depictions of the moity system Mason attributes to Great Lakes tribes. The small badger-like creature may be an additional division - an anomaly to a perfect moiety system.

At the Indian Summer Festival Milwaukee's Indian Peoples both presented and explored the past and present of Great Lakes area tribes. Indeed, as I suggested in my Shalom Wildlife Zoo post, Indian People are plenty able to speak for themselves; and they do, for our collective benefit.

Cavia porcellus vs. Ursa pacificus (Part 1 of 3)

So, I tried to eat this cuy (Cavia porcellus or "guinea pig"). Let me explain...

Cavia porcellus, "cuy" or "guinea pig," served in the popular picante de cuy style

I became a vegetarian when I was 15 and I've really been very successful in practicing my philosophy since then, even when abroad. People always ask my whether it's hard to be vegetarian in Peru. Really, it isn't. Most of Peru is very agriculturally productive and produce-centric. Using a combination of knowledge about the cuisine, careful questions about dishes, and a bit of willful (and necessary) ignorance about what is being served, I've found that Peru is very vegetarian-friendly. This is to mention nothing of the specifically-vegetarian restaurants that are popping up around the country, including provincial Casma.

Some months ago, when my friend and colleague Jorge invited me to speak at his university in Huaraz, he also said that they would prepare me a traditional cuy. Cuyes have been raised in Peru for at least seven hundred years, as indicated by my own archaeological research. Other archaeologists no doubt have found even older remains. Cuyes are both ritual beings and foods for special events. Curanderos ("curers" or shamans) use cuyes to this day in cleansing rituals. I have found cuyes as ritual offerings in special buildings dating back to the 13th or 14th century.

Cuyes are also special for food because they're usually raised right in the back 'yard.' If there's a single food that you know has eaten clean, healthy food, it's the cuy. That's because you gave it to him. And what you gave him was green pasto, which seems to me to be weeds, or panca de maiz, which is to say, green corn stalks.

When Jorge said he planned for us to eat cuy, I thought about doing "the right thing." As a vegetarian traveling to another country (or another person's house), the right thing is to let everyone know way ahead of time that you're a vegetarian. For example, when I lived in the village of Mojeque in 2007, I spent a lot of time hanging around and meeting people ahead of time. By the time I stayed in town, it was old news that I was veg. And why not? Everyone always wonders what gringos eat ('everything's canned, right?'). So showing up as a vegetarian gringo probably didn't seem that unusual; because gringos are by nature unusual.

I thought about doing "the right thing." Then I thought about doing another thing: eating the cuy. I became a vegetarian as a sort of one-boy protest, as a boycott against the totally unnecessary consumption of meat in late 20th, early 21st century America. Over the years my engagement with the philosophy has shifted in depth, scope, and commitment. However, my practice has essentially never wavered.

I thought about eating the cuy because I am no longer sure that my vegetarian philosophy transcends the context in which it was first applied. In the Northeastern US today, there's really no reason for me to eat meat, and it's completely possible to live well while avoiding it. But in the Andes, maybe eating cuy isn't the same as eating commercial meat in the US.

Joseph Bastien, a missionary-turned-anthropologist wrote in Mountain of the Condor that lives on the mountain were eternally tied to the mountain itself. Bodies and beings (the latter being, perhaps, souls) were continually recycled by the river that ran down the mountain, and the mountain itself was a being with a head, torso, and feet. To die on the mountain was not only the best, but the only way to die; because only on the mountain could the being be returned to life by the river. When residents of the mountain die away from the mountain, they must be brought back for burial, so their 'souls' can be recycled by the river.

Accordingly, animals hunted on the mountain die only in a certain sense. Their body is damaged, but their inner being is recycled. Mountain of the Condor shows that the context in which death and the consumption of meat are intimately related to the philosophy and ethics of meat consumption.

In the context of Huaraz, maybe vegetarianism doesn't make sense - is literally absurd - compared to the context of the Northeastern US.

So, I tried to eat the cuy. I had prepared myself for this for months, and so I found it not particularly difficult to pick up the rodent and put it to my mouth. However, I found it quite difficult to actually eat. The difficulty arose from the fact that this was a rodent - an old rodent as it were - that was deep-fried. I poked the center of the belly area with a fork and then with my very sharp Opinel #8 pocket knife. Both rebounded like I was poking a wiffle ball. I asked Jorge where the meat was. He said it was there, everywhere. It's all meat. I just had to dig right in, bite right in there.

I gave it another shot. I picked up the stiff little guy, opened my mouth, and took a big bite. Well, a little bite. I got a little bit of crunchy skin. I'd say about one-half square centimeter. I repeated the process. It was...OK. Having removed a square centimeter of the hard skin, I dug into the 'meat' below it. Mostly rib meat, I was able to pull off about another square centimeter of the softer flesh below the crunchy skin. It took me a couple of tries to get this much off; but chewing and swallowing wasn't too hard.

Cuy sort of reminded me of tender, juicy, and dark poultry meat; though I haven't had any of that for over 18 years. The chewing and swallowing - once I got the meat free - wasn't as hard as I thought. In your mouth, with the jaw masticating away, it all becomes mush. I didn't particularly like the texture or the flavor, but the eating wasn't as much of a challenge as I had thought. I'm surprised by this, as - after some years - I had thought that I might be missing something by not eating meat. It turns out 'tastes' can be acquired and lost. Apparently I've lost my taste for meat, its textures and its flavors.

Nevertheless, I was keen to soldier on with the cuy, but my stomach couldn't handle it. It turns out that the influx of proteins, oils, and connective tissue really does have an effect on the un-familiar stomach. I began to feel a little nauseous. I did not want to feel that way, I wanted to eat this cuy. I wanted to be fully immersed in the authentically ancient and widely revered meat of the Andes. I simply could not.

I explained this to Jorge and he was incredibly gracious as a host. We ordered a big plate of yucca frita and some ensalada criolla (which is basically a lime-washed red onion salad) and he took over with the cuy.

Admittedly, he found it a bit difficult to eat, too. I had regrettably let it get a bit cold. But even so, this cuy was tough. A proclaimed lover of cuy, Jorge dug in like a champion and finished that beast. However, he noted that it was maybe a dinosaur of a cuy, or perhaps just died of old age. My first cuy was not the tender delicacy that I had hoped would help me experience the Andes more fully and challenge my own deep-seated philosophy. It was a methusalen sage, and I had failed to acquire its wisdom.

All that was for Jorge.

[Continue to Part 2 of 3 - Round 2: Dave vs. Duck]