Exploring Archived Traditions

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One of the amazing treasures of archival folklore in Ireland is the so-called Schools Collection. A rich and varied stockpile of handwritten notations of folklore collected in 1937 and 1938, the collection was produced by school children interviewing their parents, elder relatives and neighbors to find out what traditions, beliefs, customs, or narratives were known at the time in their locales. The resulting collection contains, according to the Irish National Folklore Collection website, a mind-bogglingly massive  250,452 stories.

In a learned and weighty dissertation written by Mícheál Briody (whom I had the good fortune to get to know many years ago, when I was studying at the University of Helsinki!) you can read about the Schools’ Collection and other ambitious projects of the Irish Folklore Commission, the organization that undertook the project with the cooperation of schoolteachers from across Ireland and the avid participation of children aged 11 to 14 in fifth and sixth grade.


If you are a student of Irish folk culture of any kind, or you are interested in the sometimes grand collecting projects that took place in the early decades of the twentieth century in Ireland as well as the United States, you should read Mícheál’s fine book, which is available for download.

Bríody, Mícheál. 2016. The Irish Folklore Commission  1935-1970: History, Ideology, Methodology.  Studia Fennica Folkloristica 17. Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society.  

Section on Schools Collection: 260-270.

Of the Schools Collection of 1937-38, Bríody writes:

Each week the teacher would chose a particular heading from [Sean] Ó Súilleabháin’s booklet, reading out the questions under that heading and transcribing them on the blackboard. The children would copy these questions ‘and then when they went home they would question their people or the neighbours’ about these matters, writing down in their jotters the traditions or information they could obtain. On ‘composition day’ in school, they would write down in their copybooks ‘in the form of a composition the customs, beliefs, and tales which they had collected.’ Subsequently, the teacher would get ‘the best children in the school, the best at writing and spelling, to transfer this material into the standard notebook which the department issued to each school.’ (264)

This work took the place of language arts class in all Irish schools for the two-year period of the project and was seen as a national duty and exciting local project.

At a site called Meitheal Dúchas.ie, the Irish National Folklore Collection has now made available as digital pdfs every page of this rich and varied collection. They are also soliciting volunteer help in transcribing the pages from English or Irish. Here is what NFC writes about Crowd-sourcing the transcription:

“About the Meitheal

We are inviting users of the site to transcribe, on a voluntary basis, the stories that were collected as part of the Schools’ Collection. We hope that this work will increase community participation in the project and that it will improve accessibility of the material as well.

This will also result in the ability to search the text of transcribed stories in their entirety as opposed to viewing the manuscripts as images only.

Crowdsourced transcription is a recognised approach that helps digital humanities projects to make valuable archive material more accessible to the public. As a result of the Meitheal’s efforts these texts will become available to researchers and others across the globe in a fully searchable format. Crowdsourced transcription is a team effort and Meitheal members will be working together to open up this treasure trove of folklore. Participants will be able to access each others’ work, and improve it if appropriate, while there will also be opportunities to discuss aspects of the project on social media. The Irish Folkore Commission was reliant on the goodwill and generosity of the public while the Schools’ Collection and others were being compiled. Meitheal Dúchas.ie continues that tradition.”

I wanted to give my students—”researchers and others across the globe”—a chance to explore these archival materials, and also to gain some experience in the sometimes frustrating but often thoroughly engrossing process of transcription. Students in my course on Irish and Irish American folklore have to contribute to the crowd-sourced transcription process. And then they have to use what they learned from the experience to write a short digital essay on the topic.

The following is an example of what a student might learn from doing such work. I present just a short exploration of the writings of one boy, interviewing one man of the townland of Skiddernagh in the vicinity of the village of Manulla in the County Mayo (The Schools’ Collection, Volume 0095, Page 233ff). A young Michael Armstrong reports on stories and lore he has gained from an elder member of his family, James Armstrong, aged 50 at the time. Perhaps James is his father, but the notebook does not supply those details. The fascinating site Irishgraveyards.ie indicates that in one of the several graveyards used by the people of Skiddernagh—Elmhall—there is a gravestone for a James Armstrong who died at the age of 72 in 1954, and that a Michael Armstrong is buried next to him. Michael died in 1996 at the age of 75, making him 16 in 1937, the year of the Schools’ Collection. Michael is the last member of the family buried in the plot that contains mostly older relatives who died in the 1950s, including a Margaret Armstrong who also (like James) died in 1954. Her age at death is listed as 65, and perhaps she was James’s wife and Michael’s mother. It is chilling that one of the items of local lore James reported to Michael in the Schools’ Collection was the hesitance of local people to use this new graveyard at Elmhall. “The new grave yard is in not in use in Elmhall is [sic] because there is an old belief that the first corps that goes in to a new grave will be follow by five of his relations.”  In June of 1954, seventeen years after the Schools’ Collection, when James was interred at Elmhall, he followed his brother William, who had been buried in 1949. Margaret was buried in July of 1954, just a month after James.  Perhaps a mourning Michael remembered this piece of local lore as he visited the family plot at that time.

All of the reports Michael submitted for the collection came from James, as one can learn from looking at a tabulation of Michael’s contributions, automatically generated by the software that manages the Meitheal. The elder Armstrong supplied the pupil with examples of old sayings, noting, among other pieces of wisdom, that one should “never sell your hen on a wet day,” something which, in an Irish context where most days are wet,  means that selling hens must have been pretty rare in the County Mayo at the time. James also declares: “Never send a pup on a dog’s message,” an interesting piece of wisdom given the fact that the Schools’ Collection scheme did just that: making pups carry the messages of their older and wiser relatives. It is interesting to think about the power dynamics of the project: of young people coming home each day with new questions for their elders to answer, all couched in the nostalgic discourse of “past beliefs and practices.”

James was clearly a hard-working farmer, and he provided Michael with a detailed account of how to plant and tend potatoes as well as how to plant and grow oats. There are clear details for how to plough, harrow, manure, and lime in order to get a good crop. But there are also items of custom or belief mixed in: The account of potato planting states: “People say Friday is a lucky day for sowing lea land.” And we read of seasonal customs that tie the potato harvest to St. John’s night, Midsummer (June 24):

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“Early in June when the stalks appear above the ground the potatoes are moulded, and fresh soil is put around them. The first of the new potatoes are dug on St. John’s day. On St. John’s night a coal from the bonfire is thrown into every potato garden. They say this coal keeps away blight and disease from the potatoes.”

Of the 218 accounts of customs performed on St. John’s night visible and transcribed so far in the Collection (57 of which come from the County Mayo), one can find other notations of throwing coals to the potatoes, as in Mary T. Gallagher’s account from Dooleg, Ballina. Many of these accounts are still untranscribed, making it exciting to see how common this custom will prove once all the texts have been made machine-readable through transcription.

Similarly, James details the process of butter churning, including enumeration of the forms and terms of butter churns used in the village, but also noting in passing the actions one should take in order to ensure good butter and good neighbor relations. While explaining the meaning of the term “joggler,” for instance, James notes:

“If you go into a house, whilst a person in churning, it is not right to go without taking a while of the churn. When people have churned they make the sign of the cross with the churn-dash over the lid. People go out of a May morning before the sun rises to get a new handle for the churn dash. If you get a drink of milk in a house it is right to say “God bless the cows.”

In addition to telling Michael about  graveyards in the vicinity, and details of wearing or not wearing shoes, James describes the form and characteristics of housing in the locale. James’s account oscillates between details of “long ago”—when houses were of stone, thatch, and mud—and the present. He begins his account: “Long ago people used never make houses out of cement but always out of stone,” a detail that tells us that concrete housing had become established in Manulla by this time. He admits to knowing of old beliefs, like that of the cailleach, a supernatural hag that inhabits the house: “There was always a cailleach in the old houses.” And he knows of making windows out of sheep’s skin, and bringing cows indoors to help warm a house in winter. But he always describes such details as belonging to the past. In a collecting scheme focused on finding remnants of a vanishing past, James seems intent on distinguishing this past from the thoroughly modern present that he shares with young Michael.

At the same time, when it comes to discussion of  fairy forts, James’s accounts seem less remote. He tells of a fort on the road leaving Skiddernagh and headed for Belcarra. Of it, he writes:


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“There is a high bank around the fort because in the olden times these high banks prevented the enemy from going in. There are three ways going in. On top of the bank there are a lot of bushes. In the middle of the fort there is a cave. Long ago this cave was closed because the man who owns it was afraid his sheep would go down in it. One day two men were working with a horse in the field where the fort is. The horse saw something in the fort. The horse got frightened and Ran away. The two men were hurt and when they got up they could see nothing.”

For an American, this is interesting information, but it it also pretty distant. What was Manulla like, and how far of a walk was it for schoolchildren headed to the school in Manulla from the townland of Skiddernagh? Mary Gavin, interviewing Thomas Gavin (aged 56) notes that there were some 17 houses in Skiddernagh at the time.  Thinking of the fort described by James and Michael, what is the road like from Skiddernagh toward Balcarra nowadays,  and can we still see that fabled fort today?  Well, that is where Google maps comes in. It turns out, Manulla is not far from Skiddernagh at all:

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(image courtesy Google maps)

And if one looks at the road that leaves Skiddernagh and heads south to Balcarra, one can plainly see along the road a site that is probably the fairy fort Michael and James discussed.

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(image courtesy Google maps)

The ring of trees and bushes lies right alongside the road.

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(image courtesy Google maps)

And if one switches to “street view” it is even possible to get a glimpse of the place, still covered with lots of bushes, and still surrounded by a productive farm field.

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(image courtesy Google maps)

That’s pretty amazing. Of course, we don’t know from this material what locals say about that “fort” today, or whether they point out the ring of trees and bushes to visitors who pass through. Is it still a place horses take fright at? (How many horses are there in the locale these days?)  Or more to the point, is it still a place that people tell stories of horses taking fright at? Is it still a place children dare each other to visit and explore and farmers endeavor to close off? In James and Michael’s account, we are not told whether either of them explicitly believed in the notion of fairies residing in this place, although other accounts from Michael’s classmates show that encounters with fairies were explicitly connected with the fort.  John McDonagh, interviewing Walter McDonagh (aged 50), recounts the story of an unfortunate man who was lured into the fort one night and ended up leaving the next morning with an extra lump on his back. But the story that James and Michael record is more guarded: they knew stories about mysterious things that continued to happen at the fort, and it is clear that they know that these mysteries have been accounted for in the past through reference to fairies, but they refrain themselves from attributing the occurrences to the fairies.

The archived material, and its digitized shadows, open the door to understandings as they existed in Skiddernagh and Manulla in 1937 and call out to us to investigate what they mean to local people today.  That would be the task for on-the-ground fieldwork of the very sort that the Schools’ Collection was meant to facilitate in the ongoing and important exploration of tradition as lived and shared in the Irish countryside. The digitized Schools’ Collection provides a window into a rich jumble of traditions and ideas, all captured as a snapshot in the midst of the profound social, economic, and cultural changes that characterized Ireland in the late 1930s.




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Two Films about Place

I am fortunate this term to be teaching seminar called “Folklore Goes to the Movies.” In it, we are exploring the ways in which folklorists can and do approach films. In planning the course, I could have focused on the most obvious way—i.e., the making and use of ethnographic films—as I explored in the seminar “Transposing Experiences” last fall. But this term, we are looking at films that describe themselves as fictional and that seek not so much to edify or inform as to entertain. My examples are all recent films from the Nordic and Celtic regions.


To get the course rolling, I selected two classic films that each engage with well-known cycles of legends and use these as the basis for spinning a narrative of a character’s growth and search for belonging. The two films are Nils Gaup’s 1987 Ofelaš (Pathfinder) and John Sayles’s 1994 The Secret of Roan Inish.


Legend is a term that folklorists use for stories told as true, i.e., stories that people believe did happen, or could have happened, sometime in the past. Sometimes they seem unlikely, or uncanny, or just plain unbelievable, yet often aspects of the visible world seem to confirm to listeners or tellers of legends that they are true. Gaup draws on a set of legends widespread in Sámi culture about roving marauders known as čuđit. In variants of the legends classified by folklorists as ML8000, an outnumbered and unlikely hero—sometimes a boy, sometimes a lone man, sometimes an old woman—manages to defeat powerful enemies by tricking them to their deaths. At a place called Ruostefielbmá on the Deatnu (Tana) river in Northern Norway, for instance, a Sámi convinces the čuđit to follow his torch as he supposedly leads them to a village located alongside the river. When he reaches the top of high precipice above the river—the cliffs that tower over the east side of the river just north of the village, now also above the highway 890—he throws his torch down, leading the čuđit to run forward over the side of the cliff and to plummet to their deaths below. The stones of the place are said to have gotten their rust-red hue due to the blood strewn as a result.




Drawing on Rosalie K. Fry’s 1959 children’s novel The Secret of Ron Mor Skerry, Sayles adapts Scottish legends of seal-human hybrid beings—the selkies—a tradition known in Irish, Scottish, and North Atlantic Nordic legendry.  There are both male and female selkies and in either case, their beauty when in human form is said to fill beguile or entrance all who see them. In a widespread legend, a human man manages to get hold of the discarded seal skin of a female selkie when he finds her sunbathing on the shore. For reasons seldom clear in the legends, the man stores the skin in a chest or attic or other hiding place, while the transformed selkie becomes his loving and submissive wife. But at some moment years later, the selkie happens to find the hidden skin, immediately pulls it back on, and makes her joyful escape, to live out the rest of her days in the sea, albeit with some sadness toward the household of human children she leaves behind. In Roan Inish, the Conneelly family is said to have a selkie in their past, and this fact links them with the local seal population that saves or abducts the infant Jamie and eventually returns him once the family agrees to settle again on the island that they had long made their home.


There are many ways in which these two films can be compared, but one that jumped out at me watching them this time was the notion of place and home and the longing to protect and sustain it.  In Ofelaš, the intricacies of the local landscape combine with a spirit being—who takes the form of a reindeer bull—to save both the place and the community from the marauders’ attack. Gaup introduces elements of Sámi noaidevuohtá (shamanism) into his film’s narrative, making a mysterious reindeer the trusted advisor and apparently the spirit helper of both the community’s present noaidi (shaman) Raste, and his eventual successor Aigin. The details of shamanism are not spelled out in the film, although Raste’s use of his drum for divinatory purposes is depicted in connection with the community’s ritual bear hunt. Nature and its often unseen spirit emissaries side with the Sámi against an encroaching enemy bent on stealing and destroying what belonged to the place before.  In Gaup’s film it is not difficult to see the čuđit as stand-ins for the rapacious agents of what Kristina Sehlin MacNeill, in her important 2017 dissertation, calls “extractive violence”—forces aimed at clearing people off the landscape of Sápmi (or Australia) so that the places can be exploited for minerals, hydroelectric power, ski slopes, or other commodities in a process of colonization that continues to the present.


The background story for the narrative of Roan Inish, as reworked by John Sayles, is the historical evacuation of islanders from remote western islands of Ireland like the Blaskets in the late 1940s and 50s. The “plight” of villagers in places like Bun a’ Bhaile on Great Blasket became known to the Irish government when villagers themselves wrote to Taoiseach Éamon de Valera in April 1947, pleading for help in the aftermath of a devastating storm. De Valera, himself a transplanted Irishman who’d been born in NYC , set in motion a process of “evacuation” that would resettle the islanders on the mainland in government-built homes, “saving” them from the way of life that had sustained them on the islands for generations. A wider world public became aware of the situation through a syndicated newspaper story written by Liam Robinson and photographer Donal MacMonagle in the winter of 1948. Entitled “The Loneliest Boy in the World,” the story focused on an 18-month old Gearóid Cheaist Ó Catháin, the sole young person living at the time in the village of Bun a’ Bhaile.



In a fascinating memoir written by an adult Ó Catháin with the assistance of Patricia Ahern, and ably reviewed in a 2014 piece by Áilin Quinlan in the Irish Examiner,  Gearóid notes that his life on Great Blasket was anything but lonely: as a young child he was surrounded by adult and elderly islanders who included him in all the activities and adventures and struggles of daily life. But the notion of Gearóid as the world’s “loneliest child” seized the popular imagination across the world, and masses of toys and other gifts poured in to cheer him up.  A wealthy man in Minnesota sought to adopt the boy, and a couple in Iowa offered to import the entire family to work in a grain elevator operation. In the imaginings of the postwar West, in Ireland or the United States, nothing could seem more tragic than living a life lived in the rural hinterlands, far away from the comforts of modern technology, modern schooling and easy access to shopping and church. Any acts to save a child from such an existence—even if they entailed a wrenching relocation and cultural reeducation—were seemingly morally justified. In 1953, Gearóid’s family was among the first to accept the government’s offer of resettlement to the village of Dún Chaoin on the mainland, where Gearóid’s other siblings were eventually born and where all the rest of the Blasket islanders came to live from then on. Gearóid eventually went to school in Kilkenny and now lives in a suburb of Cork, far away from an abandoned island that he still fondly remembers but seldom visits.

Stories like Gearóid’s and others like it elsewhere in the British Isles became the basis of Rosalie K. Fry’s 1959 novel, originally published by E.P. Dutton but recently reissued in a new edition by Nook Books. In Fry’s novel, the character Fiona is not a Conneelly but a McConville, and she has been resettled not from an Irish island but from one of the Scottish Western Isles onto the Scottish mainland. In other respects, the screenplay for the film, written by John Sayles himself, is much as in the book. Fiona, failing to thrive in the city, is sent back to her grandparents’ home on the coast, where, together with her cousin Rory (Éamonn in the film) she must work to convince the family’s elders that the seals will return the missing child Jamie, whom they have lovingly reared for several years, if the family resettles on the islet of Ron Mor (Great Seal) from which they had been evacuated. That Sayles relocates the story to Ireland probably has much to do with his own identity as an Irish American.

I had the good fortune to drive through the Varangerhalvøja nasjonalpark between Vardø and Hamningberg with Harald Gaski and Britt Rajala in the summer of 2013.



The village of Hamningberg is today connected to the rest of Norway by a one-lane road that hugs the coast, crossing a dramatic landscape of steep cliffs and jagged rocks that Gaup used as the actual backdrop for his film.


Around 1900, the village was home to some 250 people, mostly Norwegian and Russian fishermen using the place as a base for their work. The village was so remote, however, that even the retreating Germans at the end of WWII did not bother to burn it down, meaning that it preserves in its 65-odd houses many examples of North Norway’s earlier architecture that was completely obliterated elsewhere by the Germans’ scorched earth tactic at the end of the war.




When the Fv341 roadway was opened in the postwar era, Britt tells me that the village nearly immediately depopulated: people had been waiting, it seems, all along to escape the village and make it to the world outside.  By 1964, Hamingberg was entirely abandoned as a permanent dwelling place: it had become a spot only for summer vacation dwellers and a destination for campers and tourists, much like the Blaskets.


My grandmother Amanda Bourque Dubois was born in 1900 in Québec near the shores of Lac Noir, a deep lake some 3 km long and 1.5 km wide that was so surrounded by hills and forest that its waters looked black. When asbestos was discovered by the lake in 1890, the mining industry took interest in the little francophone village. By 1905, the nearby village of Kingsville had been renamed Thetford Mines, and a mining boom was on. Lac Noir, renamed Black Lake in 1908, was drained and destroyed. Today there is a gigantic, canyon-like crater where my grandmother’s home place once stood. She carried memories of the lost lake all her life, just as she carried with her the asbestosis that plagued her with endless hours of coughing throughout her life, leading directly to the painful lung cancer that finally killed her at the age of 70.


My grandmother Nora Lyne O’Connor was born in  Ballinskelligs (Baile ‘n Sceilg) in western Ireland in the County Kerry. She eventually married my grandfather Denis O’Conor from near Cahersiveen. My grandmother’s home place by the sea was bought by a wealthy Dublin attorney when my great Uncle Michael was resettled by the government on a larger piece of land in County Meath, near the village of Trim. In a book I wrote about song traditions in northern Europe, I wrote about my Uncle Mick’s songs, nearly all of which spoke longingly of the Kerry he’d left behind. He loved his farm in Meath, with its 60-odd acres and lots of cattle, but he missed the land and sea and language of his youth in Kerry.



With its two world wars and massive technological transformations, the twentieth century was a time of immense change in small communities. People moved or were moved, villages came and went, lakes disappeared, places depopulated. Both these films in some ways grapple with that process, holding out happy narratives of places that managed to survive through a mysterious coalition of natural place, supernatural help, and willing young people. That is perhaps what makes both films so alluring for viewers today: they offer narratives of communities still connected squarely to their lands and waters and to the wider network of forces and beings that sustain places over time. They make staying put into a heroic act as they lay bare the villainous, or at least heartless, characteristics of the systems that would uproot them.

Of course, film and other media are not entirely lacking in culpability in all this history. It was a newspaper story that made a young Gearóid into the “loneliest child in the world,” and it was probably more newsreel and entertainment films than actual travel that caused the exodus predicted in Sophie Tucker’s 1919 song “How Ya Gonna Keep ‘Em Down On the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree?” People traded in lived realities for imagined adventures, headed for the coasts or the cities, and left once vibrant communities behind to become half-forgotten “fly-over zones.”

It’s interesting to wonder how much movies have convinced us collectively to leave our Hamningberg villages behind for the siren’s song of life in a bigger or better place, convinced that the life available to us there was too small, too remote, too lonely, too lacking. Did we learn to leave our Tatooine or Shire behind in order to find “true” adventure? And after we had packed our boat or station wagon and headed away, what happened to the place and the people we left behind?  Were they swept away in the interest of hidden minerals, repackaged as vacation components and tourist attractions? Did we bother to care? Or did we only realize what was lost when we saw it on the big screen half a lifetime later?





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Turi and Mountain Wolf Woman


Part of the challenge for me in developing a seminar that would speak to both Americanist folklorists and to rising scholars of Scandinavian Studies was the pairing of works. In the seminar, students read one or the other of pairs of texts, depending on their interests and career goals. In Week 6 of the course, entitled “The Other Talks” they could read either my translation of Johan Turi’s immensely important Muitalus Sámiid birra (An Account of the Sámi) from 1910, or the equally mesmerizing, collaboratively produced autobiography of Ho-Chunk elder Mountain Wolf Woman, published by fellow Wisconsinite Nancy Oestreich Lurie in 1961.


Even in its title—Mountain Wolf Woman, Sister of Crashing Thunder: The Autobiography of a Winnebago Indianthe latter text makes reference to yet another work, the very problematic collaborative autobiography of a prominent Ho-Chunk man produced by the anthropologist Paul Radin in his Crashing Thunder: The Autobiography of an American Indian, first published in 1926. Oestreich’s introduction to her work describes this intertextual, interpersonal relation in great detail, and much of the initial criticism about her publication tends to reduce her remarkable and valuable presentation of Mountain Wolf Woman’s life to a kind of footnote to the Radin text.

But looking at Mountain Wolf Woman’s account of her life and culture alongside Johan Turi’s account brings out different elements. For one thing, both narrators emphasize not cultural stasis and continuity so much as the immense amount of cultural change and destruction they are facing in their respective contexts. We see the devastating effects of forced relocations, of border closures, of state regulations that hinder and hamper traditional livelihoods. We see indigenous communities figuring out innovative ways to earn a living in the face of colonialism–selling natural products they have harvested, engaging in a cash economy alongside one of subsistence. And we see their negotiation of complex processes of religious change, as new forms of Christianity, particularly the North Nordic Sámi-influenced Laestadianism and the Native American Church rise in prominence in their personal lives and communities alongside continuities of older supernatural traditions which neither narrator completely abandons.  At times both narrators are vehement in their expressions of frustration or anger at the colonial processes unfolding around them. But also, both narrators emphasize a sense of agency and autonomy for themselves and their communities: despite everything that is happening, people are working out viable strategies for living life and making it worthwhile.

What also comes out in both texts is the interesting, very personal aspects of the relationships that underlie the creation of these two texts. In Turi, an intensely engaged and frustrated Sámi intellectual is struggling to convey to Swedish authorities the beauty and validity of Sámi culture so as to stave off the state’s assimilative policies. He is aided in this work by a young and idealistic Emilie Demant (later Demant Hatt), who helps him produce his text in various ways, creates the first translation of it into a language of state power (Danish), and then helps facilitate its publication, a process chronicled in detail by Kristin Kuutma. In all sorts of ways, one gets the feeling when reading Turi closely (as I got to do when translating it into American English), that Turi is speaking directly to Emilie for her personal benefit, explaining the details of childbirth so that she can know what may eventually face her, intimating the nature of people who tend to see or hear the subterreanean spirit beings known as the  Ulddat (as Emilie had), etc. These textual elements take on new meaning when one reads them in relation to yet another text, Emilie Demant Hatt’s own account of Sámi life, With the Lapps in the High Mountainsnow ably translated from Danish by Barbara Sjoholm. The same thing holds true for elements of Mountain Wolf Woman’s stories: we see her speaking patiently and yet pointedly to her adopted niece Nancy, explaining what Ho-Chunk women traditionally did when first getting their period, something that Nancy wouldn’t have experienced given that she was adopted only in adulthood. Like the good-natured aunt and elder she is at this point in her life, Mountain Wolf Woman describes for Nancy effective food gathering and cooking traditions, while detailing with candor and humor her different views of the men she married.

Perhaps these personal aspects of both Turi and Mountain Wolf Woman are best glimpsed by looking at the photograph that long served as the cover image of Mountain Wolf Woman’s autobiography, as you can note above.  Compare that cropped facial image with the original photograph preserved in the archives of the Wisconsin Historical Society and viewable here. In the original 1907 photograph, you can see  a Mountain Wolf Woman, Stella Blowsnake Whitepine Stacy (HayAhChoWinKah) seated and holding her two daughters, Josephine Whitepine Mike (AhHooGeNaWinKah) and Lena Whitepine Shegonee (HaCheDayWinKah). The seeming exoticism of her attire and adornment is evident around the face, but when you get down to her lap and to her two daughters seated there, one’s attention is drawn more to her motherhood and kinship relationships than to her seeming representativeness of something past or primitive.  It is encouraging to note that the most recent editions of this text published by the University of Michigan Press replace this youthful image of Mountain Wolf Woman’s face with a photograph taken at the time when the text was written, at the outset of the 1960s. There we see a confident Ho-Chunk elder, her hair cropped short and her smile broad. She is smiling for her adopted niece at the end of a long process of building a book.


These are aspects that link these texts in marvelously interesting ways, and that transform them into products much different from the supposedly objective outsider-dominated ethnographic texts of male Lappologists and anthropologists of the twentieth century.

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Sagard and Schefferus




In the second week of our seminar, we read portions of two works, Gabriel Sagard-Théodat‘s 1632 The Long Journey to the Country of the Hurons,  and Johannes  Schefferus‘s 1673 LapponiaBoth works are similar in presenting a decidedly Christian, unmistakably exoticized view of a foreign other, the Wendat/Wyandot people of what is today Ontario, and the Sámi people of today’s Sweden and Finland. Both writers dwell on religious traditions and discuss foodways.  Both evince a fascination with the cultural traditions they describe. But they also differ in interesting ways.  For Sagard, huddled with his fellow Recollect missionaries in a leaky hut furnished him by kindhearted Wendat neighbors, the Wendat world is in striking flux: settlements are growing, dividing, relocating, coming into conflict; the economic norms of the region are rapidly changing; and Sagard seems intent on painting just a single point in a huge and complex mosaic that he sees around him.  For Schefferus, ensconced in the comfort of his study far away from Sápmi at the University of Uppsala, the Sámi world is both more seemingly complete and more certainly static.  Learning about Sámi culture second- and third-hand from the reports of others and the testimonies of divinity students spending time in Uppsala, Schefferus imagines a Sámi culture that has particular characteristics and particular tendencies. Despite all the evidence of considerable variation from one Sámi community to the next, Schefferus seems intent on constructing the kind of singular Other that will eventually become the norm for colonial representations of the peoples controlled and cultures suppressed in colonial “encounters.” Perhaps this was one of the first of Western academe’s many and multifarious contributions to colonialism: the ability to reduce cultural and social complexity—the messy and muddy world that Sagard tells us about as he dreams of converting the Wendat to Christianity—to the simple images of cultural inferiority and need of colonial supplantation that Schefferus so matter-of-factly delivers. Perhaps it was that authoritative tone that made Schefferus’s work such a best seller of its time, finding near immediate translation from Latin into French, English, German, and Dutch.

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Transposing Experiences


I am teaching a seminar in the fall of 2016 on the ways in which folklorists and others have represented the cultural products of other people.  That is a very complicated way to say that I hope we’ll explore what people say about other people.  The seminar topic is informed, of course, by the seminal works of the Writing Culture scholars in Anthropology (led by James Clifford and George Marcus), but Folklore Studies is a much older discipline than American anthropology, and in the seminar we’ll be reaching back into medieval and Enlightenment materials and moving forward from there.  Both in Europe and the United States, further, folklore has been used to assert or bolster ideas of national identity, not just exotic otherness,  and we will examine those aspects of the materials we look at as well. And we will look at the effects that medium has on such representations–i.e., what happens when a representation of another’s culture is not a text but rather a film, or website, or computer game?

Students in the seminar will be posting their own responses to the materials we discuss, but I will try to share my views via this blog for folks who want to join in the conversation, or just listen in….

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Taphrina betulina

Taphrina betulina

Taphrina betulina induced twig growth, birch tree, Abisko National Park, Sweden, June 2011.

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May 7, 2013 · 3:42 am