The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  One morning toward the end of July, Sallie cornered her husband over breakfast. George Wilkins was out at work and Adele was at a charity meeting, leaving Sallie and Truman alone. Pouring Truman’s coffee, Sallie begged her husband to take her out. She looked so sad that Truman found it impossible to say no. He would pick her up at eight. She should wear the new evening gown he had bought her. He was taking her somewhere special.

  Truman arrived home early. He found Sallie sitting at the dressing table in her pale pink gown, with her hair up, just a few wisps curling around her face. She looked ravishing. Truman strode over to her and, bending down, kissed her passionately. She tilted her head back and pressed her lips firmly against his. After they parted, Truman told her to close her eyes. Then he put his hand inside his jacket pocket, produced a long, slim box tied with red ribbon, and placed it in her hands. Opening the box, she gasped. Diamonds sparkled in the glow of the lamp. She threw her arms around Truman, smothering him in kisses.

  Truman took the necklace and fastened it around Sallie’s neck. Standing back to admire her, he told his wife he had never seen her look more beautiful. Her face flushed as she scolded her husband for spoiling her. He was always buying her gifts. Truman promised Sallie that he was going to make up for neglecting her that night. He was taking her to New York’s smartest restaurant. After that they would go on to the opening night of a new club. It was by invitation only. An associate from the Elks had gotten him on the guest list. Sallie clapped her hands with joy. She had some news to tell Truman, and she wanted to pick a special moment to do it.

  The next morning Truman woke up with a pounding headache. He’d drunk a lot of champagne and had very little sleep. His brain began slowly processing the events of the previous night. Had Sallie really told him what he thought she did? Or had he dreamed it? Sallie yawned and rolled over to face him. She gazed at him lovingly. Then, propping herself up on her elbow she leaned over and trilled, Good morning, Daddy, before kissing him deeply. Sallie was too happy to notice that her husband wasn’t smiling. She leaned back against a pile of pillows and, resting her hands on her belly, begged Truman to stay in bed awhile. He could go to work late—surely they could manage without him for a few hours. Truman sat up with his back to her. He thought of the last time someone had called him “Daddy.”

  The showman stood up suddenly. He had a publicity stunt to get working on. He would tell Sallie all about it that night. He left without taking breakfast.

  Over at Luna Park, Truman called in to see Thompson. Every summer Thompson traveled to Europe to comb the fairs, exhibitions, and amusement parks for innovative new acts and exhibits. He’d recently returned from such a trip, and had brought several acts back with him to give Luna Park a midseason boost. They included an acrobatic dog act (he was already imagining the headlines about the encounters they might have with the Igorrotes) and the celebrated father, mother, and daughter contortionist act the Pantzer Trio.

  The pickings had been slim this time around, Thompson said. Truman should get a group of Igorrotes together to take over there. They would love them in London and Paris. It was an off-the-cuff remark, but Truman took note. Coney Island was just the beginning for the Igorrotes. Maybe he could get Thompson to put up the money for a European tour.

  Speaking of the Igorrotes, Thompson had heard from Dundy that there was some trouble in the village while he was away. Truman laughed and explained that there had been something of a power struggle between the tribe and Fomoaley, whom they’d elected to be their leader. Fomoaley had been throwing his weight around and the rest of the tribe, growing tired of his iron rule, had begun to rebel. Fomoaley had been accused of letting his newfound power and fame go to his head. While some of the tribe had stood by their leader, a majority had demanded the selection of a new chief. Fearing the disagreement could turn violent, Truman had intervened, insisting the tribe adopt an American custom and settle their dispute at the ballot box. Reluctantly the tribesmen had been persuaded to put down their arms and cast their votes. With fifty tribespeople living in the village, Feloa had received thirty-two of their votes and was duly elected the new tribal chief.8

  At the same time, the tribespeople had voted for a “mother” of the tribe. As the wife of Truman’s assistant, Maria was not eligible for the role, though she performed it unofficially. In her place, the tribe selected a popular young woman named Langasa to the position with thirty-five votes, making her a clear winner over her nearest rival, Gumay.9 Thompson wished all his concession managers took so much trouble to keep their attractions fresh. He could do with a few more men of Truman’s caliber. He told him to keep up the good work.

  Truman had an idea for a new stunt that he wanted to run by Thompson, involving Judy, Dundy’s favorite elephant. Thompson smiled as the Igorrote manager described his plan. Thompson loved it and told Truman to go and speak to Barlow, the elephant handler. He should tell him he had Thompson’s approval.

  Over at the elephant stables, the showman outlined his scheme to Barlow. Judy had a canine companion, a plump little terrier by the name of Howard, who followed her everywhere and slept with her in her straw bed at night. What if the Igorrotes tried to steal Howard for one of their dog feasts and Judy went on the rampage through the Igorrote Village? Barlow smiled. What did he need to do?

  Truman sent Feloa and Dengay to the elephant stables. There they were instructed to grab Howard. The park wasn’t open yet, so Truman took care of the rest. It wasn’t necessary to have Judy destroy the Igorrote Village, but there was no harm in Truman and Callahan tearing it up a bit to give the impression that Judy had wreaked havoc. Once they were finished, Truman invited the press to come and inspect the damage for themselves.

  He showed the reporters around the village, and described how, spying Howard about to be thrown into the Igorrote cooking pot, Judy had wrenched herself free of the iron shackles that secured her hind feet and “let out a trumpet note of rage and grief”10 as she rushed into the Igorrote village like a “terrifying avenger,”11 sending the tribe running for cover. But Feloa was too slow. Judy had tossed him in the air and the Filipino landed on the porch of Truman’s bungalow, narrowly escaping death. Sensing that Judy wasn’t done with him yet, Feloa had jumped down the back of Truman’s quarters and hidden in the horse stables. Judy then “started on a career of destruction.”12 She’d bulldozed Feloa’s house to the ground, torn pieces from three other huts and ripped through Truman’s bungalow, pulling down the porch and kitchen. All the while Howard was standing at her side, barking encouragement.

  By the time Judy was finished, “the camp of the brown savages from Luzon looked as if it had gone through fire and wreck and battle and murder and sudden death. Judy had gone about the rescue of her friend from the stewing pot in a manner prompt and cataclysmic.”13 None of this was true, of course, but the press loved it. So too did the public, who came in their thousands to watch the tribespeople put their homes back together again.

  It had been some time since an exhibit at Luna Park had generated so much excitement. The Igorrotes had been everything Thompson and Dundy had wished for and more. Thompson recognized in Truman a kindred spirit. Truman was a born salesman—there were some things you couldn’t teach.

  In Washington, DC, 230 miles away, a clerk in the government’s Bureau of Insular Affairs was reading about the escapades of Judy the elephant and the Igorrotes as he ate breakfast. Unlike most readers, he was not amused. He had encountered the tribespeople while working as a law clerk in Manila and he found it vexing and distasteful that an indigenous tribe should be exhibited in such a way. What was worse, he knew that the American authorities in the Philippines had given permission for the tribe to be put on show. The clerk pointed the article out to his wife, then kissed her good-bye and left for the office.

  Interest in the Igorrotes was not confined to the popular press. The Independent, a learned journal “Devoted to the Consideration of Politics, Social and Economic Tendencies, History, Literature, and
the Arts,” also sent a writer along to meet the tribe. Clarence W. Bowen, the paper’s editor, didn’t go in for the kind of sensationalist stories found in many of the city’s newspapers, but he had a long-standing interest in the Philippines and felt certain the journal’s educated, politically aware readers would enjoy reading an informative piece about the tribespeople who were living in their midst. Maybe they could interview the tribal chief about his impressions of America.

  Truman was delighted when the Independent’s man came calling.14 It wasn’t every day he and his Filipino charges received a visit from a representative of such a distinguished publication, he gushed to the reporter.

  Truman introduced the man to Julio and Fomoaley. Though Feloa was now their chief, Truman didn’t entirely trust the young man and felt he could rely on Fomoaley to give a better interview. Truman told Fomoaley the man wanted to know all about life in Bontoc and what he and the others thought about America. The showman and Julio would translate. Never one to shy away from the limelight, Fomoaley nodded his approval. The journalist eyed him. In his notebook, he scribbled his first impressions of the leader, who was “a large, plump Filipino whose age was probably forty-eight. He was clad in two necklaces, two bracelets, some tattoo marks and a loin cloth.”15

  The journalist looked up from his notebook and asked his first question: Why did you come to Coney Island? “I have come here with my people in order to show the white people our civilization. [Truman] the white man that lives in our town asked me to come, and said that Americans were anxious to see us. Since we have been here great crowds of white people have come and watched us, and they seem pleased.”16

  Why, the reporter asked, did so many Igorrotes want to come to America? Fomoaley replied that it was because of the stories the tribespeople who had been exhibited at St. Louis told. “When they came back they had so many wonders to tell us that it took six of them three days and three nights, standing up before our people talking all the time,” he said.

  The reporter turned next to the question on every American’s lips. Why do you hunt heads? “Among our people a young man must have taken a head before he is made a warrior. Our young women will not marry a man unless he has taken a head. We take the heads of our enemies. Sometimes these are the people of some other Igorrote town, sometimes they are the little black people [members of other tribes] who shoot with poisoned arrows, sometimes it may be some family that lives close by and has taken a head from your family . . . The Americans don’t like us to take heads, but what can we do? Other people take heads from us. We have always done it. The women won’t marry our men if they do not take heads.”

  Fingering the beads of his necklaces, Fomoaley described the first head he ever took. He had been walking beside a spring when he noticed a man in the distance walking toward him, as if coming over to get a drink of water. Fomoaley shouted at the man, who then shot an arrow at him. The Igorrote chief raised his shield and ran toward him, “then I speared him and cut off his head with my bolo. When I returned to my town I went straight to the house where the girl [who I wanted to marry] lived, but she would not look at me till I showed her [the] head. That pleased her very much, because it showed that I was a warrior and could kill enemies. So we were married.”

  Truman interjected, explaining to the reporter that the Igorrotes regarded head-hunting in much the same way as Americans viewed sports, as an enjoyable leisure activity and a good way to expend excess energy. Head-hunting, the showman added, allowed the tribespeople to relieve the boredom of their routine rural existence, for every head hunt was celebrated with an elaborate feast, a high point in the Igorrote social diary.

  The man from the Independent asked Fomoaley how the tribe felt about the Americans coming to live in their country. Truman indicated to Julio that he would translate the answer. “The American people are our friends and want to learn our civilization . . . Our civilization is so much older than theirs that it is no wonder if they do not know some things.”

  What do you mean? asked the reporter.

  Fomoaley grew suddenly animated and began to wax lyrical, with a little help from Truman. “We are the oldest people in the world. All others come from us. The first man and women—there were two women—lived on our mountains and their children lived there after them, till they grew bad and God sent a great flood that drowned them, all except seven, who escaped in a canoes and landed, after the flood went down, on a high mountain . . . The white men have some stories, too, like that. Perhaps they have heard them from one of us.

  “Our God is the great God who lives in the sky and shines through the sun. He makes our rice and sugar cane grow and looks out for us—he gives us the heads of our enemies. We have heard of the white man’s God, but ours is better.” Fomoaley told the reporter about a priest who had come to Bontoc, years earlier when the Philippine Islands were under Spanish rule, to try and convert the Igorrotes. “That man told us that God had a son who died for us, and that we ought to leave our God and go to him. But our Chief said: ‘We did not want him to die for us. We can die for ourselves.’ No, we will be true to our own God, who has always been good to us. We never give him anything. How could a man give anything to God? [The priest] told us that if we were very good and did what he said, we would go to the white man’s heaven, up in the sky. He said that people there could fly like birds, but that they spent all their time singing praises of the white man’s God. We did not think we’d care to go there. Our own heaven, where the fruit is always ripe and the game is plenty, suits us far better.”17

  Why, the reporter asked, does the tribe eat dog? “We eat dogs when we are going to war because they make us fierce and help us to hear, see and smell well.”

  The chief was enjoying himself. He began to describe the many incredible inventions he had seen since his arrival. “The most wonderful thing that I have seen here is the stick that you talk in and another man hears your voice a day’s journey away [a telephone]. I have walked all around and looked at the back, but I can’t see how it does it. But we don’t need that [in Bontoc]; we can call as far as we want to by pounding on a hollow tree with a club.”

  The reporter wanted to know what Fomoaley thought of the American people. Truman translated, putting his own imaginative spin on the chief’s answer. “They are good people, but they do not look well. They all wear clothes, even the children. It is bad that any one should wear clothes, but much worse for the children. We pity them. They cannot be well, unless they leave their clothes off and let the wind and the sun get to their skins. Perhaps they are ashamed because they don’t look well with their clothes off. They are thin and stooping and pale. That is because they work so much. It is very foolish to work. Men who work hard do not live long. Everything we want grows in the forest; we make our houses out of cane, rattan and leaves, our women weave our loin cloths, and we get our food from the trees and from the fields of rice and sweet potatoes and sugar cane. Why cannot the Americans live like that? I would tell them about our ways if I could because I feel sorry for them.”

  The man from the Independent raised his eyebrows. He had come expecting to hear the tribe marvel at the wonders of American life, not to talk of the ways the colonizers could learn from them. This would make for a most interesting and controversial article, the sort that readers had come to enjoy and expect from the Independent.

  The interview was published under the headline VIEWS OF AN IGORROTE CHIEF and ran to six pages with three photographs of the tribespeople posing in “American” and “savage costume,” holding spears and native musical instruments and poised as if about to start dancing. The same issue of the journal included articles on subjects ranging from Cuba’s political quarrels to the separation of Norway and Sweden, and the need of leadership in America’s labor unions.

  That week’s Independent also featured a page-long article describing a speech given by Secretary Taft on his return to America following a visit to the Philippines. It read: “Conditions there, he said, were not entir
ely satisfactory, but evidence of progress was to be seen in a more efficient Government, the elimination of inefficient men, economy, and the substitution of Filipinos for Americans in the public service . . . Some young men of education had been advocating immediate independence. Therefore, it was necessary to declare the policy of the Administration and to point out that independence was not possible for a generation. The Secretary heartily commended the self-restraint and moderation of the Democratic members of the party [traveling with him], who patriotically agreed to refrain from political argument and to leave all statements of policy to himself, as the representative of the Administration. Senator Patterson, one of the Democrats, says the gulf between Americans and Filipinos is widening. He fears the Philippines are a smoldering volcano.”18

  A few short months earlier, most Americans had had no idea what Igorrotes were. Since then the word Igorrote had entered the American language as shorthand for a naive, savage human being. The Filipino tribespeople had become a regular feature in newspaper cartoons and editorials. They appeared everywhere from fashion magazines to advertising campaigns. Everyone had an opinion on the tribe.

  Americans couldn’t decide if they pitied or envied them. The New York Morning Telegraph printed a poem reflecting that the simple life of an Igorrote was preferable to that of a magnate:

  I fain would be an Igorrote,

  Without a stitch of clothes,

  And dwell upon the sandy beach

  Where the cooling sea-breeze blows.

  Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed,

  I would walk—would almost fly,

  Catch the stray dog by the hair,

  And work him over into pie.

  There I’d live the life idyllic,

  Caring naught for Summer suns,

  Caring naught for scorching cities,