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Tminum Yaku‧編織‧我 | Tminum Yaku • Weaving • Me

A Truku writer on his relationship with his tribe’s traditional craft

By Apyang Imiq
Translated from Chinese by brenda Lin

This essay is part of Transpacific Literary Project’s monthly column.


繁體中文
English

Tminum Yaku‧編織‧我

我側過身把手放在他的胸膛上,羽毛落在鬆軟棉被中,輕輕慢慢地,怕吵醒他,可又矛盾的想讓他透過胸膛肌膚感受我的手掌溫度;下巴倚著他厚實的肩膀,仔細聽他的鼻息聲,舒緩又有規律,跟窗外傳來的蟲鳴聲一樣,風從山的方向吹進室內,到了房間裡面跟著頭頂上的電風扇不停旋轉,我也一起旋轉,看著桌上那塊織布,此時此刻,在不完整的黑覷中,感到完整。

先在心裡想一個畫面,垂直的和水平的Waray(線)交錯構成,經線和緯線採灰白色,像是苧麻用木炭灰染浸過,灰白色做純淨的底,做Dowriq(眼睛:菱形紋)挑緯線可以很自由,Payi們用過各種鮮亮的色彩,螢光的綠色、鮮紅的血色、桃紅的唇色……

心裡直覺一個畫面,眼睛睜開剎那,看到Rudan從木瓜溪翻越幾個山頭來到支亞干部落。他們原來的部落叫做Qutuw Pais(敵人的頭顱),靠著征討敵人的領地得名,現在他們繼續往南邊的方向前進,每一個勇猛的獵人身著Payi織做的 Lukus(衣服),Lukus上面一個個侵略的眼睛……我打開螢幕中的Excel,調整方格尺寸試圖爬格子,但Payi們不需要紙筆構圖,更不可能用手操控滑鼠記錄心中圖譜,一種極度矛盾爬滿皮膚。

「督……這個我可以!」Watan把眼睛瞇成一條線,眼球移到他正白眼眶的最角落,我扯開笑聲,高分貝回:「是不是,他很帥,而且他很會做,我好累呀!」

「你的腳好會開呀!難怪你剛剛走路怪怪的,我可以Cover你呀!」

我推他的頭說走開了啦。

和Watan分享男友照片時,先是照慣例他對臉蛋身材和技巧評頭論足,接著理性分析我和這個男人的未來發展,我們很熟練這種討論男人的SOP,心裡有一張評核表,原住民打勾、有穩定收入打勾、家中獨子打叉、容易融入原民圈打勾、熱愛原住民文化打大勾,我男友在那次的評核表,驕傲地拿了七至八個漂亮的勾。

Tminum,T-e、M-i、Nu-m,轉換成漢語是織布,喜歡念在嘴裡三個音節的感受,重音放在倒數第二個音節的mi,我問Payi你會織布嗎?Payi 笑著看我:「Kla ku bi tminum o!」(我很會織布喔!)

我注意那個有點拉長又上揚的mi,很像小時睡前偷吃廚房櫃子裡方糖的竊喜感,發掘一道親切的祕密,似乎世界上本該描述太魯閣族的織布只能有Tminum,用織布不對,用英文的weaving 不對,獨一無二佇立白石聖山上的Tminum。

我們跟著Payi到苧麻田,她說苧麻叫Nuqih,好用的苧麻葉片翻過來雪白色,長得很高很直,叫做Nuqih balay(真的苧麻),不好的苧麻葉片翻過來青色,長得也比較矮小,叫做Nuqih buyu(野苧麻)。

我內心小劇場持續膨脹,竊笑這種為我族獨尊的虛榮感。連續幾天Payi帶我們去葉、去皮、取纖維、浸泡、敲打、晾乾,每一個讓Nuqih接近成為Waray(線)的身體動作辛苦又費時,很長的時間裡面大家安靜做,Payi不斷稱讚說:「Balay bi laqi Truku o!」(真的是太魯閣族的孩子),汗流滿全身也感覺滿足。但有個疑問我不敢開口,怕繼續往深處揭開這個重大的祕密,就永遠被排除,Tminum會用力把我舉起往白石山下扔。

「Payi, Yaku ka snaw o, duwa tminum huwa?」(我是男人,我可以織布嗎?)

Bubu和Tama知道我喜歡的是男人了。Bubu先是歇斯底里咆哮說不可以,聲音淒厲又悠遠,我下意識思考的不是不可以,是隔著我房間這個加蓋鐵皮二樓外,隔壁的阿姨是不是聽到了,明天和好幾個明天,全部落都會知道Tama的兒子是Hagay(漢語再次造成翻譯的困擾:同性戀、娘娘腔或是更難聽的死娘炮),也許她們還會知道我和Watan的檢核表,大肆批鬥我們不該把臉蛋和身材擺在最前面,分明是穩定收入才對……

Bubu開始流淚,Tama則是雙手抱胸安靜地坐在一旁,我不敢抬頭看他的眼睛,雖然他只有十二歲時候跟著Baki(祖父)上山打獵一次,可是我堅信他不是用獵槍打死那頭朝他衝來的水鹿而是那雙凜冽的眼睛。「《聖經》不允許,你不會和我們一起進入應許之地。」

那個我靈魂發白的炎夏午後只記得Bubu說的這句話,一個一個的漢字堆疊成一個有底的山窟,把我封起來,Bubu和Tama用聖水倒滿山窟,溺斃在裡面的我,跟著後院雞舍的小雞,在強烈颱風過境後死在泥濘中。

我在深深的黑夜哭泣,不斷撫摸Payi(曾外祖母)留下的Qabang(織布做成的棉被),Qabang顏色很豐富,線材是柔軟的棉線,過去美援的年代,傳教士不斷在教會發放物資,一件件毛衣送到家裡。Payi們想都不想適合套在哪一個家人身上,她們興奮撥弄,用銳利的眼睛找出毛衣線頭,拆成一條條色彩繽紛的完整Waray,這是好珍貴的Waray呢!各個太魯閣族的部落開始出現有別以往顏色的織品,用現代漢語說法:「實在太有創意了!」

Payi用阿美利嘉(泛稱白皮膚金頭髮的外國人)傳教士送來的毛衣,製成這條柔軟的棉被,媽媽收藏在櫃子最裡面,我翻到時跟獼猴一樣跳來跳去,興奮無比。它開啟我對Payi的思念,還有對Payi織做的無限想像。

那麼多件不同的毛衣,她怎麼挑上這個顏色?她的身體坐在Ubung(織布機)前想的是什麼?她有覺得自己將要完成的這件棉被和過去的傳統不一樣,Utux(祖靈)會接納她嗎?還是Utux也會跟媽媽一樣用可怕的語氣說:「你沒辦法走過 Hakaw Utux(靈橋)!」

「你不能碰Ubung喔!」一個學習編織好一段時間的部落姊姊對我說,她的口氣和Bubu說我不能進入應許之地很接近,我說為什麼?她說這是Gaya1Gaya 是一組複雜的詞, 簡單地來說是規範也是禁忌.,男人就是不能碰女生的織布機。

可是好矛盾,我和朋友到另一個部落的時候,有一個Payi想要示範Tminum給我們看,她用很溫柔的口氣說:「來,幫我搬出來,我的腰有點痛!」,有幾秒我愣住了,以為她在叫其他同行的女生,這是太魯閣族的Gaya,身為一個男人的我不能碰她的織布機,所以我也不該彎下腰幫忙把織布機抬出來,我好慌亂,就站在Ubung的旁邊,卻不能幫忙Payi搬動。

Payi把手搭在我的肩膀示意,我的雙手小心地撐住Ubung,學螞蟻的動作輕輕抬,移動幾個腳步再緩慢的放下。

「我碰到Ubung 了,我碰到Ubung了……」我在心裡吶喊。

「督……好美喔,你真的可以嫁了!但是Dowriq(菱形)的排列太密集,感覺很像符咒!」Watan把我織完的織帶拿在手上把玩,仔細看完正面和背面下了這個結論。

雖然我不是很喜歡他有時候過於展示輕率的態度,在我們討論任何事物的起頭總是按照慣例先下幾句嘲弄對方的話,但我知道他是真的認同我,認同我也能和Tminum一起。我們會在白石山上開派對,把一件件織好的Qabang拿出來,按照顏色憑著美感放在青翠的草地上,拼成心中的彩虹模樣,我們要坐在Qabang上,拿高腳杯喝保力達三合一(保力達加國農鮮奶加伯朗咖啡)。

「你知道Hagay原來的意思嗎?Hagay是指擁有兩種靈魂的人,分別是男性和女性的靈魂,在過去的部落裡面,Hagay通常扮演巫師,可以與Utux對話。」一個部落的哥哥告訴我和Watan。

我和Watan會當巫師,會和部落一個操作巫術的Payi一樣,念著咒語,轉動手中的竹子,當竹子黏在手上怎麼都甩不掉的時候,神氣地告訴來詢問的人:「你家裡的誰在外面玩女人吼?」「你是不是上山的時候說了難聽的話……」Watan:「我當巫師一定很漂亮,因為你會幫我織傳統服。」 

我:「我還不會用Ubung,因為我只能碰跟紐西蘭進口的簡易織帶機,不能用Ubung。」

Watan:「你現在是Hagay了!」

小的時候,我Payi(祖母)還沒去山上種地瓜2太魯閣族稱人死亡是先回山上種地瓜.前,有一次拿出她母親織的衣服讓我看,皎潔的灰白色上一顆顆閃耀的Dowriq,上面好幾個不同形狀的Dowriq,Payi說不知道圖紋的意思,只知道凌晨天還未亮,她的母親就會坐在Ubung前織布,她好幾次被「咚」、「咚」……的撞擊聲吵醒,以前覺得好吵,長大後卻是對母親織布重要的回憶。母親幫家裡的每一個小孩都做了衣服,還留下很多Qabang給她作嫁妝。

Payi看我興奮的眼神,問我要不要穿,我點頭說好,袖套從右手穿到左手,片裙圍在腰際再綁上繽紛毛線纏繞成的腰帶。裙子的長度超過膝蓋,我走起來好彆扭,Payi笑著說好好看,我慢慢地用打結的雙腳走到門口,爸爸和媽媽正好從外面走回來,陽光灑在我的臉上辨識不出他們的表情,我只記得Payi的笑聲和衣服貼在我皮膚上的感覺。

有一天我會真正的觸摸Ubung,和她對話,告訴她我是Hagay,跟她介紹我的男人,我們一起來幫他Tminum,好嗎?

“Tminum Yaku‧編織‧我 (Tminum Yaku • Weaving • Me)” received first place in the essay category of the Taiwan Indigenous Peoples Literature Award in 2015 and was first published in the collected works of awarded pieces that same year. The essay is included in Apyang Imiq’s book of essays, Growing Up in a Tree Hollow and reprinted with permission from the author. 


Tminum Yaku • Weaving • Me

I turn to my side and put my hand on his chest, slowly, lightly, not wanting to wake him, but wanting him to feel the warmth of my palm against the skin of his chest. Feathers fall softly within the blanket. My chin against his thick and sturdy shoulder, I listen intently to the sound of his breathing, smooth and rhythmic, like the sounds of insects outside the window. Wind from the mountains blows into the room, turning the ceiling fan above my head, around and around, and I spin along with it, looking at the piece of weaving on the desk, in the incomplete, watchful darkness, feeling complete.  

First, I think of vertical and horizontal Waray (threads) in an intersecting grid, gray-and-white warp and weft, ramie plant fibers soaked in charcoal dye, the pale gray a simple background for the weft threads for the Dowriq (eyes: diamond pattern). In this, the Payis3Truku, grandmother/female elder have a lot of freedom to choose all manner of bright colors—neon green, bright bloodred, the red of magenta lips…

Image courtesy of the author.

An intuited image in my mind, I open my eyes and see Rudan4Truku, original ancestors emerging from Papaya Creek, climbing over several mountains to arrive here in Ciyakang tribal village. Their original tribe was called Qutuw Pais (skull of the enemy), who came to fame by conquering enemy territory. Now they continue to advance southward, every brave hunter wearing Lukus (clothing) woven by the Payis, the Lukus decorated with many aggressive-looking eyes… 

I open an Excel sheet on my computer, adjusting the size of the square cells, trying to climb the grid, but the Payis never need pen or paper to draft designs, much less a computer mouse to record the atlas of designs they are conjuring. A kind of extreme ambivalence crawls over my skin.  


“See… I can get behind this one!” Watan squinted his eyes into a thin line, looking out the very corner of his eyes. 

My laughter tore from my open mouth, and I returned in a high pitch, “Right? He’s so good-looking! And he’s so good at doing it, I’m so tired!”

“Your legs can spread apart really wide—no wonder you’ve been walking strange! I can cover for you!”  

I pushed his head and told him to go away.  

When I shared photos of my boyfriend with Watan, he started, as usual, with comments about his face, his physique, and his technique, then rationally dissected whether I had a future with this man. We have an SOP for this kind of passionate discussion about men, going down our internal checklist—check mark for being Indigenous, check mark for having a steady income, X for being the only son in the family, check mark for easily integrating into Indigenous social circles, big check mark for a love of Indigenous culture. During this assessment of my boyfriend, he came away with seven to eight beautiful checks.  


Image courtesy of the author.

Tminum—T-e, M-I, Nu-m—translates into Chinese as to weave. I like the way the three syllables feel in my mouth, placing the emphasis on the second syllable, mi

I asked a Payi, “Do you know how to weave?” 

She laughed and looked at me, “Kla ku bi tminum o! (I love to weave!)”

I noted the elongated and slightly upturned mi, like the stolen joy of sneaking in candy from the kitchen cabinet right before bedtime when I was little or like uncovering an intimate secret. The only word in the world to describe Truku weaving is Tminum. The Chinese equivalent isn’t right, and neither is the English weaving. Tminum is the only word that stands still on the holy mountain of White Rock5According to legend, the Truku people were born from the large stone pillars on White Rock Mountain of the Central Mountain Range in Taiwan.

Once, we followed a Payi to the ramie plant fields. She said ramie is called Nuqih. Ramie leaves that are good to use for weaving are snow-white on the underside and stand very tall and very straight and are called Nuqih balay (true ramie). Ramie leaves that are no good are green on the underside and shorter in stature; they are called Nuqih buyu (wild ramie).

My heart continued to swell, laughing in my sleeve at the honor bestowed exclusively upon my tribe. Over many days, the Payi led us in the practice of discarding leaves, peeling off the skin, extracting the fibers, soaking, threshing, drying. Every physical action that brings Nuqih closer to becoming Waray is challenging and time-consuming. We all worked in silence over long periods of time, with Payi continuously complimenting, “Balay bi laqi Truku o! (You truly are children of Truku!),” the deep satisfaction of my body drenched with sweat. But I had a question I was afraid to ask, afraid that if I continued to unravel this heavy secret, I would forever be expelled and Tminum would throw me down White Rock Mountain.  

“Payi, Yaku ka snaw o, duwa timinum huwa? (I’m a man—may I weave?)” 


Bubu6Truku, mother and Tama7Truku, father know that I like men. At first, Bubu shrieked hysterically, I won’t allow this, her voice terrifying and distant. Subconsciously, I realized it wasn’t that she wouldn’t allow it, it’s that maybe the auntie next door would hear us through the corrugated iron wall of my haphazardly added second-floor room—so that tomorrow, and so many tomorrows afterward, the entire tribe would know that Tama’s son is Hagay (here, Chinese is again causing translation trouble: gay, effeminate, or worse, motherfucker). Maybe they might even find out about the checklist that Watan and I use and scold us that we shouldn’t rate face and body first, that obviously, having a steady income is the most important factor…

Bubu started to cry, and Tama crossed his arms across his chest and quietly sat to the side. I was afraid to lift my head to meet his eyes. Even though he went into the mountains with Baki (Grandpa) once when he was twelve to hunt, I refused to believe that he used the gun to shoot at the sambar deer that charged at him. I believed that he killed the deer with his cold eyes. 

“The Bible doesn’t allow this. You won’t be able to enter the promised land with us,” said Bubu. My soul turned pale on that blazing hot summer afternoon, as if these Chinese characters piled one atop another were sealing a mountain cave with me stuck inside, while Bubu and Tama filled the cave with holy water, drowning me inside, like the little chicks in our backyard chicken coops, dead in the mud after a typhoon had swept through.  

I cried in the dark of night, caressing the Qabang (a blanket made from woven cloth) that my Payi, my great grandmother, had left for me. This Qabang had vibrant colors and was made of soft cotton threads from the era of U.S. aid, when the missionaries would dole out material donations, sending us home with sweaters. Payis didn’t know who should actually get to wear these sweaters, so they fiddled around excitedly and used their razor-sharp eyes to find the loose threads of the sweaters and unraveled them into threads upon threads of radiant colors, transforming them into the most valuable Waray! Truku villages began to produce woven textiles that had different colors from before. To borrow a modern phrase from Chinese, “It was quite a display of creativity!”

My Payi used the sweaters donated by the Ah-mei-li-jia8Phonetic translation of America (a reference to any pale-skinned, blonde-haired foreigner) missionaries and transformed them into this soft blanket. Bubu kept it in the innermost corners of the cabinet, and when I found it, I jumped around excitedly like a macaque. The blanket made me miss my Payi and the limitless imagination of her weaving.

With so many different sweaters to choose from, how did she choose this color? When she sat in front of the Ubung (loom), what was she thinking? Did she sense that the blanket she was about to weave was different from the traditional blankets she’d woven before? Would Utux (our ancestral spirits) accept her? Or would Utux say angrily, as Bubu had, “You won’t be able to cross the Hakaw utux (spiritual bridge)!”

“You may not touch the Ubung!” an older tribal sister who was an experienced weaver told me. Her tone was not unlike the tone Bubu used when she said I would not be able to enter the promised land. I asked why not. She said it was Gaya9Gaya is a difficult term, but simply put, it refers to rules, as well as taboos, that men aren’t supposed to touch women’s looms.  

But it’s so confusing. When a friend and I visited another tribal village and a Payi wanted to demonstrate Tminum, she said to us gently, “Come help me bring out my loom, my back hurts!” For a few seconds, I froze, thinking she was soliciting help from some of our female companions because this was a Truku Gaya. I knew that as a man, I was not allowed to touch her loom, so I should not bend over and help her bring it out. I was so anxious standing right next to the Ubung, yet I could not help the Payi move it.  

The Payi put her hand on my shoulder as a signal, and my hands gingerly cradled the Ubung. Like an ant, I moved it a few steps, then placed it gently on the floor.  

“I touched an Ubung, I touched an Ubung…” I was screaming inside.  


Image courtesy of the author.

“See… it’s so beautiful, you can get married now! But these Dowriq (diamond shapes) are placed too close together, feels like a curse!” Watan had taken the strap I finished weaving, studied its front and back.  

Even though I didn’t always like his reckless attitude—the way he started any discussion by making fun of the other person—I knew that he truly accepted me and that I can be with Tminum. We will have a party on White Rock Mountain, bring out each woven Qabang, organize them by color according to our own aesthetics, place them on the green grass, and piece them into our imagined rainbow. Then we will sit on the Qabang and drink from goblets of Paolyta10Paolyta is a medicinal tonic made with traditional Chinese herbs (with 8 percent alcohol content) popular in Taiwan three-in-one—Paolyta, farm fresh milk, and Mr. Brown Coffee.


“Do you know the original meaning of Hagay?” an older tribal brother asked me and Watan. “Hagay refers to someone who has two kinds of spirits—both male and female spirits. In the past, Hagay often played the role of sorcerers and could communicate with Utux.”

Watan and I can be sorcerers, like the Payi in our village who can use witchcraft and cast spells. She moves the bamboo stick in her hands, and when it sticks to her hand and can’t be shaken off, she replies with an air of authority when someone comes asking for advice, “Who in your family has been unfaithful? Did you say something you shouldn’t have said when you were up in the mountains?”  

Watan says, “If I am a sorcerer, I will be beautiful, because you will weave the traditional costume for me.”  

I say, “I still don’t know how to use Ubung, because I can only touch the simple loom imported from New Zealand, and can’t use a real Ubung.”  

Watan, “You’re a Hagay now!”


When I was little, before my Payi went up the mountain to plant sweet potatoes11When Truku refer to someone who has passed, we say that they have gone back up the mountain to plant sweet potatoes, she showed me an article of clothing that her mother had woven. On the bright plain of the gray-white textile were multiple dazzling Dowriq, each of them a different shape. Payi said she didn’t know the meaning behind these symbols, only that her mother would sit in front of the Ubung before the sun rose, and that she would often be awakened by the dong, dong of the loom shaft hitting against the frame. She used to think the noise was so loud and bothersome, but now it has become an important part of her memory of her mother. Her mother made everything that she and her siblings wore, and left many Qabang for her to use as her dowry.  

Payi noted the excitement in my eyes and asked if I wanted to wear it. I nodded and said yes. The sleeves went into my right arm and then the left, the paneled skirt was tied around my waist and then wrapped by a belt made from vibrant threads. The skirt went past my knees, and when I walked, I felt awkward. Payi laughed and said it looked great. My knotted legs slowly made their way to the doorway, where Tama and Bubu were just coming in from outside. The sun blanketed my face so that I could not make out their expressions—I only remember Payi’s laughter and the feeling of the clothing against my skin.  

One day, I will really touch an Ubung and converse with her, tell her that I am Hagay, introduce her to my man. “Shall we Tminum something for him together?”