N. Scott Momaday: An Introduction

"The Bear Comes Forth"

by Gloria Cahill and Chad Galts

Scott Momaday's participation in the Poetics and Politics reading series was very much in keeping with the stature he has so frequently been assigned as the "father" of the Native American literary renaissance. There was, as perhaps there always is, a very mixed reaction to Momaday's presence--a mixing which runs the gamut from reverence to resistence, and which inevitably reveals quite a bit more about his readers than it does about Momaday himself. If he is a kind of "father" to this generation of Native American artists, it is in the style of Isak Dinesen: always eloquent, magnanimous, and charming--and always a chameleon.

To introduce a transcript of the voice of N. Scott Momaday is to realize, or concede a kind of failure. His fluent and articulate nature speaks for itself; but the quality of his performance, the sound of his deep, powerful, and robust voice is something which we wish to mention--even within the necessarily limited confines of the written word. In some way, Scott Momaday managed to answer impromptu questions as though he had thoroughly rehearsed the responses. Always "made of words," the combination of his oratorical skill and profoundly moving voice seems to operate as a expertly crafted novel, poem, or painting. The sometimes equivocal, or multivocal nature of his work as a writer mirrors the enigmatic quality of his capacities as a performer.

In our seminar room, Scott Momaday seemed at ease and accustomed to the spotlight, rather like an internationally famous singer at a press conference of his own calling. His hair was slicked back in a demure pony-tail, and he wore a pair of half concealing opaque glasses. On the table in front of him was a bottle of Evian water which he carefully, with very deliberate motion, poured for himself. His composure and performance involved every element of his presence.

One of the few un-documented, un-taped, un-filmed parts of this series was the walk to the brown bag lunch at the inter-tribal graduate center. Since we were unable to have dinner with Scott Momaday, this was our only opportunity to talk to him in a more personal context. He was, as always, very gracious and charming. On the way to lunch we talked about his books, literary theory, the Stanford baseball game, autobiography, Spring Fling, and his athletic experiences fencing, and playing basketball and baseball.

During the brown-bag lunch Momaday resumed his center-stage position, and fielded questions while eating cheese, grapes, and a hard-boiled egg. He handled both the egg and the questions with equal aplomb and deftness, never spitting out anything that wasn't carefully calculated. Much of the discussion illustrated the diversity of Momaday's background, focussing on both his academic and tribal influences. He discussed his interest and studies in oral traditions, and told a story about a trip to New England to visit Emily Dickinson's old house, and see some of her original manuscripts.

Perhaps more interesting was on the walk back from the graduate center. Scott Momaday really does exude an aura of steadiness and composure, but being alone with two graduate students, after three long hours as the center of attention, he was perhaps growing a little less guarded. When Gloria asked him about a review of The Ancient Child that was hardly generous, and hardly in tune with the book, he growled in a deep rumbling baritone and said, "Another person who's unhappy because I didn't write the book he wanted to read!" At that moment he seemed to hunch forward a little, squint with a hint of ferocity, and grip his hands. It's a very strange and powerful thing to see a man turn into a bear. That transformation was only one of many.

When Momaday arrived for the reading, he had foregone the dark glasses and casual attire of his classroom and graduate center visits. Momaday the professor and Momaday the "father" of the renaissance had made way for Momaday the performer. For those familiar with his reverence for the oral tradition, it was indeed gratifying to see that tradition come vividly to life before a crowd of more than 600 listeners. Despite the impersonal overhead lighting, he managed to create an intimate atmosphere in which many had the feeling that he was speaking directly to them. Momaday's choice of reading material seemed to be a gift to the class. He chose pieces, whether deliberately or not, that had been the focus of discussion during the class session. Momaday selected two passages from The Ancient Child. The first was the chapter entitled, "He expounds: God's boredom is infinite," which deals with the problematic nature of the relationship between the writer and his audience. The section ended with his injunction to "Imagine a bear proceeding from the hands of God!" He whispered this sentence and his whisper reverberated throughout the room, leaving many with the sense that he was, indeed, talking to them alone.

This section was followed by "She draws lines on the red earth," which features a dialogue between the Kaitsenko warrior Set-Angya, and Billy the Kid. Moving deftly between the voices of impartial narrator, aged warrior and young outlaw, Momaday again demonstrated the resonance and versatility of his voice.

In keeping with his commitment to story, Momaday preceded each of his selections with an introductory anecdote revealing something of its inception or inspiration. For example, the evening began with a series of epigrams which were the creative offspring of hours spent fighting the boredom of swimming laps in Tucson's summer heat. His poems, many of which may appear somber on the page, were injected with new vitality as he set them within the framework of their often humorous origins. A moving tribute to Georgia O'Keefe was preceded with a riotous story of their first meeting--a meeting which was highlighted by her dismantling the door to her kitchen pantry in her determination to play the role of the proper hostess and serve her guest a scotch and soda. Momaday's rendering of the story revealed a balance between his reverence for O'Keefe as an artist and his sheer joy at the friendship that he shared with her. It was with uncharacteristic humility that he shared his sense of gratitude at being able to read that poem as a public tribute to her on the night of her death.

Momaday ended his reading with a new piece that he had never read before an audience. It was a stunning conclusion, linking the fictional with the profoundly personal. The poem, entitled "At Risk," echoed concerns raised in the opening selection from The Ancient Child, in which he writes of Set, "At forty, he was in the first rank of American artists, and he was in danger of losing his soul." In the poem, he writes of his own experience as the artist and says,

My soul was at risk.
I struggled
Towards hurt,
Towards healing,
Towards passion,
Towards peace.

The poem had an painful quality which produced a momentary silence which was broken only by a delayed explosion of applause that culminated with a standing ovation.

Scott Momaday has spent the last twenty-three years in the spotlight of a certain kind of attention. The implications of this spotlight, which mirror to some extent the implications of having a reading series of this nature, are various and would seem to have both positive and negative qualities. We asked Scott Momaday to appear in a setting that is almost necessarily akin to an interrogation, and we asked him to appear "as" someone. The superlative quality of his performance reminds us of all the expectations of the spotlight, and the necessary response to these expectations. Because he responds so well we are reminded again of "At Risk" which ends with a reference to the "mirror of masks"--a mirror in which his myriad reflections seem to come together in a complex kaleidescope of selves.