A former Dubliner strikes up tribal band
Dane Stickney, Midlands News Service
Nebraska, November 18, 2008 --
The story is at South West Iowa News.Com
John Mangan has music in his hands.
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The slight Irishman with brown-red hair and an oversized suit jacket is conducting a makeshift band of 17 American Indian kids. Making an OK sign with his fingers, he tosses his hand back and forth, up and down. With each motion, saxophones toot, clarinets honk, trumpets blast, drums pound.
Mangan mouths each note, his lips bouncing amid a gray beard. His head bobs like a metronome. Then, with a twist of his wrists, it's as if he turns off a spigot of sound.
Silence. But not for long.
"Oh, yeah!'' he yells, lifting a knee and punching the air. "You be jammin', baby. You be jammin'.''
The band -- fifth-graders through 12th-graders from the Omaha Nation School in Macy, Neb. -- barely reacts to the teacher's antics. They are used to the animated support from the fiery Irish immigrant, whom many call Grandpa. And most of them are more concerned with the free spaghetti lunch that awaits them in the lobby of the Wayne State College Student Center.
The musicians traveled for an hour recently to perform during a luncheon at the annual Native American Education Symposium. Mangan never turns down a gig, a chance to put his band's hard work on display. His kids have overcome long odds to be playing Queen's "We Will Rock You,''
classical pieces and traditional native tunes in the conference room at Wayne.
They share worn-out instruments. Some of the saxes are 25 years old. Almost all of the students had never played music before they met Mangan. He hasn't the time to give them individual lessons or the resources to let them take instruments home.
Because tardiness and absenteeism run high at the reservation school, Mangan's morning band classes often are less than half full. Of the 40-some students eager to perform, Mangan could bring only 17 to Wayne because everyone else was failing at least one class.
Mangan, 63, has had quite a journey too. He's a former big-city boy whom the Omaha have come to embrace as one of their own. Born in Dublin, he immigrated with his family to New York City in 1957. He went to high school in Brooklyn and college in Queens. At first he thought about using his English degree to get into publishing, but all he could find was a proofreading job. He wanted something more exciting than commas.
So he enlisted in the National Teacher Corps -- a now-defunct organization similar to Teach for America -- in which he could take a job at a rural or inner-city school, teach for two years and get a free master's of education out of the deal. Since he'd done the inner-city thing in New York, he checked the rural box on his application.
In 1967, he was on his way to middle-of-nowhere Nebraska and a gig on the Omaha Nation reservation. After his two years with the corps ended, the school offered him a full-time job, and he took it.
Soon after, he used his musical background -- he had played in a couple of rock bands in New York -- to start a group in the school. They played rock music with a couple of guitars, bass and drums. A little later, Mangan picked up a used $35 trumpet. Then a $65 sax.
He liked it. The kids liked it. And parents really liked the creative outlet previously unheard of on the reservation.
By 1973, Mangan saw a chance for the band to be a big part of the kids' lives. It taught them responsibility and teamwork. It reinforced tribal values of family and community. So he asked school officials to give him some cash to do it right. He wanted clarinets, flutes and more trumpets and saxes.
Officials scraped together what they could, and Mangan's band grew. Every time the school got a new instrument, Mangan taught himself to play it before he taught his students. He's learned almost exclusively through experience. To this day, he is endorsed to teach elementary school, not band.
In 1975, a boy from a family of powwow dancers manned the drums. He had uncanny rhythm and took a quick liking to Mangan. The boy's family invited Mangan to dinner. The boy and his brothers began referring to Mangan as their brother. The matriarch of the family told Mangan that because the boys embraced him, she would adopt him as a grandson.
It was a humbling honor for an outsider. The tribe values family immensely, and their adoption wasn't a token offer.
Since then, the man who still speaks with a slight Irish brogue has been a member of the Omaha Tribe. He eventually married a Cherokee woman who'd moved to Macy to teach. They formally adopted three Omaha boys before she died, but because of his earlier acceptance into the tribe, Mangan is spiritually related to everyone.
A little drummer in Mangan's band is his nephew on one side and uncle on another. One of his top saxophone players is his granddaughter. When in doubt, Mangan's musicians just call him Grandpa.
It's rare for the tribe to adopt outsiders the way they have Mangan, said Omaha Nation High School Principal David Friedli. In 10 years on the reservations, he said, he's seen a similar acceptance only once before. The tribe has particular ways to honor family and ancestors, he said, and Mangan has instinctively understood it.
"People saw in John the qualities that they believe the Omaha Tribe, the Omaha culture, is made of,'' Friedli said. "He's embraced it. He understands it.''
Mangan is something of a reservation celebrity. He's brought a new brand of music, a new experience, to the tribe. Some families have three generations of Mangan students.
Shariah Parker's dad played in Mangan's band. Now the 14-year-old eighth grader is one of the key saxophone players. She enjoys being in the band because it is well respected in the school, across the reservation and beyond.
On the reservation, the poverty rate is more than five times that of Nebraska's urban areas. Unemployment is seven times higher. Median household income is about half that of white urbanites'. Broken families and alcoholism are common.
Having a band is something special. To Mangan's knowledge, his is the only intact school band at a Nebraska reservation school. He's taken his musicians to Lincoln, South Dakota and other spots to share their sound.
He takes groups of students to play taps at area cemeteries on Memorial Day. He requests that his musicians gather in the band room before home basketball games. If enough show up, they'll play "Eye of the Tiger'' in the stands.
That makes the students feel important. Plus, Mangan makes it entertaining. Almost everything he does involves high energy, lots of positive reinforcement and plenty of dramatic flair.
"He's nice,'' Shariah said. "And fun.''
Back in the conference room at Wayne, 400 Nebraska educators are staring at Mangan's band between bites of breadsticks and sips of iced tea. Mangan signals a flute player to blow the first notes of "Grandfather Spirit,'' a tune he and his students wrote to honor the Omaha chief Standing Bear at a reception in the State Capitol earlier this year.
The light, haunting sound of the flute leads the way for the rest of the band. Near the end, Mangan furiously signals for the drummer to pound harder. The song closes to applause.
A saxophone player looks worried. She apologizes for missing a note.
Mangan smiles.
"It's OK, love. I still love you.''
He touches his heart, lightly pounding his chest.
"A lot of love.''
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