How to Weave a Cultural Legacy Through Storytelling | Cohen Bradley | TED

I come from a culture of storytellers.

Our oldest legends stretch back to a time of the supernatural.

They're so ancient, they begin long ago,

before time began,

when the world was both light and dark.

So I thought we could discuss the story of story itself, of legacy.

In a Western sense,

legacy is the mark a person leaves on history.

Statues are raised for the heroes, for those that are revered.

In my culture, we see it a bit differently.

(Speaking Haida)

I am Taaydal.

It's closest, direct translation is "coming in big."

(Laughter)

I come from Haida Gwaii,

an archipelago off the northwest coast of British Columbia,

where, on a clear day, you could paint the shores

of the Alaskan panhandle from our northern beaches.

Our legacy or the stories told about us, at least internationally,

is of our monumental Haida art,

our intricate 40-foot story poles,

our longhouses and canoes and our dance masks,

which are all internationally renowned and collected.

It is, however, our weaving that, in my opinion, is the unsung hero.

I dare say our entire culture and society was supported by our weaving,

be it the clothing we wore or the rope for our fishermen

or the baskets we wove to collect and store our food for winter.

When you weave a cedar basket, you have your warps,

which cascade down your form,

and you have your weft, which spirals continuously around it,

incorporating itself over and under your warps to create your basket.

We are, I think, the weft,

trying to find our way around the form,

being careful not to miss a step or make a mistake,

or for some of us, trying not to unravel altogether.

That's how I think of legacy,

as the weaving together of our stories passed on as a whole.

And it may seem a little esoteric, but I'd love to give you an example.

250 years ago,

approximately 20,000 Haidas thrived on the shores of Haida Gwaii.

Less than 600 remained at the end of the 19th century.

So it was 250 years ago that an explorer arrived,

sailing on the ship, "Santiago,"

the first European to do so.

So what was his legacy?

Was it the inlet that's named after him on Haida Gwaii?

Or what I assume were the unintended consequences

of smallpox and tuberculosis,

our potlatch bans, residential schools,

the burning of our masks and poles as firewood,

or the collectors who came and ransacked the villages

that we were forced to abandon?

That is the colonial legacy.

Our legacy is of those 600 Haidas

who stood against the well-oiled machinery of an empire that sought to destroy them.

And though they have no inlets that bear their names,

their legacy can be seen every time we stand up

and say, “We are the Haida nation.”

Their legacy was on display last fall when my clan, the K’ayaahl Laanas,

the sea lion town people,

descended from those born at K’ay Llnagaay, Ts’aahl Llnagaay,

Xaayna, Kaysuun and Niisii, held a potlatch.

A potlatch is when clans and nations come together

for the purposes of feasting and conducting business

like a chief being inaugurated,

or a person receiving a name or a death or a marriage.

We witness these business transactions to support

or even to defend them if necessary.

Our potlatch was memorial pole raising, honoring our late Chief Gaahlaay.

A memorial pole is, in and of itself,

a symbol of wealth and status, much like a statue.

Where they differ is in the rings that are carved up the pole,

each one representing a potlatch,

the real measure of wealth for a chief,

marking each occasion that a chief and his clan came together

and they redistributed their wealth beyond their needs

to ensure that other clans and nations could survive the winter as well.

My piece of the story began on a beautiful fall afternoon.

The type of day you would take a jacket with you

and only ever end up carrying it around everywhere you go.

I had no sooner landed in Haida Gwaii than I was in a speedboat,

skimming across the inlet to our traditional village site

of Xaayna Llnagaay, or Sunshine Town.

And as I leapt off the bow onto the shore,

I was told that we just missed the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,

or Mounties,

who had come over on their speedboat to sleuth out the cause of the smoke

that was billowing into the sky.

They wanted to make sure that Maude Island wasn't on fire.

You see, there was a bonfire going on the beach,

and we were burning the branches from trees

that we had been removing to unveil big rectangles of sunken earth

where our longhouses once stood.

And for me, the smoke was a bat signal in the sky.

The K’ayaahl Laanas have returned home.

Shortly after arriving,

I was six feet deep in the Earth and working to reach seven.

I'd arrived late to the digging party,

but it was my honor to complete the final foot necessary

so that the pole we would be raising in a few days' time

was seated deep enough in the Earth

that the greatest winds of Haida Gwaii wouldn't topple it.

What made the moment even more powerful were the treasures we found

during the initial digging:

a portion of a carved stone bowl,

blue and red glass trade beads that came by way of Russian traders

all the way from Bohemia.

In a way, we were reawakening the spirits

that were held in the land

where external forces once drove us to abandon those shores,

now we were coming home, and they were there waiting for us.

Hundreds of fellow community members,

clans and relatives from our other nations

came together to help us raise the pole.

It began with an offering of food burned in the fire,

a gift to our ancestors.

The drum sounded, announcing a canoe coming ashore,

carrying the carvers of the pole,

the current Chief Gaahlaay

and the daughter of our late chief, Gwaaganad.

The wild man of the woods was drummed through the village

to clear out any unwelcome spirits.

And the pole, which at the time lay on the forest floor,

was cleansed with cedar boughs

dipped in ocean water and brushed along its length.

And new offerings of glass beads were placed into the hole.

So that centuries from now,

long after this pole has decayed and returned to the Earth,

they would find those treasures from us

when the next pole was raised in its place.

Thick ropes that were tied around the midsection of the pole

were stretched down the beach to the water's edge,

and all those who were able found a place along it.

And from that first instruction to pull,

it took only moments for the pole to rise up

and become a permanent beacon for the next 200 years,

that this place is Xaayna Llnagaay

and it remains the village of the K’ayaahl Laanas Xaaydagaay.

Over this two-day event of feasting and raising the pole,

I stood in the role of master of ceremony alongside my clan brother, Gaagwiis.

It's a role I inherited from

and share with my maternal uncle Kilslaay Kaadjii Sdin.

And during our potlatch, we shared in our songs and our stories,

in our language and in our art,

in our traditions and in our deep relationship with our lands and waters.

That is true legacy.

That is the warps that make up my basket.

And I am the weft that weaves myself through them to become a basket,

that everything else I learn and do in my life

can be collected in to pass on.

That day I received this copper shield alongside of the name Taaydal.

Perhaps you've had the same name since birth

and will continue to have the same name until you die.

Well, in my culture,

we are often the caretakers of multiple names over our lifetime.

Last year, I would have first introduced myself as Gidin Kuns.

Now I am Taaydal,

but I do continue to hold the name Gidin Kuns

until such a time as my sister has a child and I can pass the name on to them.

It is our duty to build on the wealth and status of our names,

not just ourselves.

This shield is a witness to the creation of that wealth and status.

It is present at significant occasions:

as I received my name,

it was there at my wedding,

and tonight it is here, witnessing me speaking to all of you.

Each of these occasions becomes tied to it,

and one day when I pass on the name of Taaydal,

I will recount all that the shield has witnessed

and ensure that those stories are carried on with it.

It's a concept I encourage each of you to borrow in your own unique way.

The decisions we make today will make the difference

on whether or not our descendants will have all the warps in place

to weave their own basket,

to collect new knowledge and stories in.

We must not allow our environment to continue to worsen

to a point where none of us can carry on our cultures.

We must be willing to do our business in the light.

Make decisions in which we can proudly celebrate with our families

and our communities or even our constituents.

Mark individual achievement,

but celebrate our collective well-being.

And build up our names so we are proud to pass them on.

Personal legacy is inevitable, as unavoidable as the passage of time.

And while you may want to prioritize your personal legacy

to be the one with statues erected in your honor

or an inlet that bears your name,

I ask you to consider

the collective legacy of those unnamed 600.

They're the only reason that I'm standing here today.

Will future generations look back at us in gratitude

for all of the gifts we have left them?

I would hate for them to look back at me and all they could say is,

"Wow, he must have been pretty impressive.

He even got a statue."

Háw'aa, merci, thank you.

(Applause)