The Tattered Language

Not until I became an adult, did I have an interest to learn my ogwe'owe:kha:", my native language.  As kids, we heard our parents and grandparents speak the language to each other; but, most of those from the 60s generation were not engaged in daily conversation.  So, we grew up with the bits and pieces of tattered conversations overheard when the elders got together.

When my father passed in the early 70s, my no-yeh, began translating the New Testament into Seneca.  I suppose for her own peace of mind to carry her through her grief and loneliness.  For almost 20 years, she worked diligently, sometimes throughout the night on her old Smith Corona typewriter.  Those were the days of liquid white out and the old typing paper with the carbon copies.  I can still see her little lamp on in the middle of the night and hear the click-click-click of those black keys.

What started out as a hobby soon turned into something bigger than she ever could dream.  When people learned what she was doing, word began to spread and doors began to open up.  She was contacted to teach language classes at the local school, as well as the university.  Over the years, this woman of humble beginnings became well recognized by linguists around the country.  As she aged, we would often sit and discuss how her work could be improved.  Unfortunately, we never got that chance.

And, so I would be remiss if I did not give honor to my mother, Esther Blueye for the 1000s of hours she labored to keep the Seneca language alive for future generations.

no-yeh' (mother)
ogwe'owe"kha:' (Seneca language)
onodowa'ga:' (Seneca)