Early Indigenous Literatures

A dispersed self in Wassaja

At the Newberry Library, Wassaja caught my eye because of its striking image that runs across the top of the page, a Native American man trapped under a tree that had been chopped off. “Indian Bureau” is written provocatively across the severed tree trunk. Upon first glance at this image, my discussion partner expressed confusion about whether the Wassaja was “pro or anti-Native American.” The confusion might further bring attention to the provocative stance of the newsletter, especially if and when non-Indigenous viewers conflate “Indian” person and “Indian Bureau.” In picking its opposition as the Indian Bureau, the Wassaja is not so much interested in speaking with a white audience. It centers its political battle within the Indigenous people—what must be done to mobilize our community? The man trapped under the tree has one arm bent and the other stretched out as though he is trying to lift his upper body to turn and face backwards all the while stuck under the tree. A wide ray of light stretches out from far behind him (the direction he is trying to face towards), and across the beam are the words “WASSAJA” in capital letters. The image also has included his feet which, unlike the dynamic position of his upper body, look small and limp behind the tree. Below the image is another title, “FREEDOM’S SIGNAL FOR THE INDIANS.” 

Wassaja was a monthly newspaper published between 1916 and 1922. Wassaja translates roughly to the Apache word for “signalling” or “beckoning” but also is the moniker of Carlos Montezuma, the creator behind the newsletter.

While all writing must be done with the audience in mind at all times, the newsletter, I would argue, is a genre especially keen to who it’s audience is. In other words, its production process—both graphic design and copy—is constantly thinking: Who am I talking to? What are their assumptions? What am I asking of them? For example, Wassaja consistently employs different typeface—bolding, font size, font change, italics—that guide the eye around the spread. There are rarely pages that are filled only with words, all of the same font, on both left and right columns. It is clear that, Wassaja, like all other newsletters, is picking, imagining, and waging its own specific battles. Unlike all other newsletters, however, one notices a particular urgency to Wassaja. This isn’t the time to beat around the bush. It wants its political stance to be loud and clear. The second page of the newsletter often begins with an announcement written in bold. Under a box entitled “Wassaja” (again), it lists necessary descriptions: the volume number, date, information about subscription and address. At the middle of this box, in bold font, is written three words aligned to the center: “No advertisements accepted.” The statement can be read as both a political stance and financial decision. Such a statement feels all the more significant as the material of the paper and production quality fluctuate throughout time from glossy and thin white paper to darker and thicker paper. 

As a newsletter run by one man, Wassaja treats the object of self very carefully. In the newsletter, Montezuma can also go by Wassaja or Julius. The multiplicity of names might index the dispersed Indigenous self under settler colonialism—kidnapped, adopted, assimilated, re-invented by and through whiteness. However, as the newsletter makes clear, this does not lead to the disappearance of an Indigenous self. Montezuma is a polyvocal subject who treats the self as both author and audience of the newsletter. He writes: “Wassaja appears in its tone as though it is very disloyal to the United States Government and very unappreciative for tuning on the Indian Bureau…For forty years the writer has been silent. He is a man and a citizen. He would be unworthy of his country were he to remain dumb.” Unlike the bold and confrontational approach of the newsletter’s design and images, the content of the newspaper can at times turn meditative. It anticipates criticism (“Wassaja appears…very disloyal…very unappreciative”), and uses the genre of newsletter and its supposed proximity to journalistic objectivity and its commitment to the public good to protect himself too. “Let all those who read this little pamphlet be touched, that it may be so very soon,” he writes, “you may ask what you can do to help the coming of that day…It is your work as well as ours.” With these words, Montezuma refuses to consign himself to the position of author, native informant, partaking in resistance alone, but invites the reader to “be touched” and contemplate one’s own responsibilities.  
 

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