My parents got me a journal. A brand-new, totally beautiful composition notebook. The artwork on the cover is of a young bronze-skinned girl in a black leotard, standing at the barre in a ballet studio. She looks like she’s about to begin a warm-up combination; there is a window by her, filled with golden light, and the reaching, bright green branches of a tree.
It might be the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I tell them, “I love it.” I tell them, “I love it so much. Thank you.”
I hug the journal against my chest. Mom and Jack both wrap their arms around me. Connor swoops in too, burrowing his way into the group hug.
Then the ferry dislodges from the pier. It’s so smooth, so effortless, it takes us all a moment to realize we’re moving. We all giggle and break apart. We stand at the green railing and watch our surroundings change together.
And I keep hugging my notebook. I keep looking at my family. And I think of the stories they’ve told me. Stories of resistance and triumph and joy from our little corner of the world. Stories of loss and tragedy, and how people overcome losses and tragedies. And who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll write a story about all of that. Maybe I’ll start planting the seeds of it right here in this journal.
It’s impossible to know what the future will bring.
But right now, I choose onward. And my family and I are finally going to see the restored Elwha River. I bet the land around it will be green and blooming; I bet the water will be clear and rushing.
I bet it will be beautiful.
Author’s Note
On May 17, 1999, members of the Makah Nation hunted a gray whale. This was not the first time the Makahs hunted a whale, but it was the first time they were filmed by news helicopters. It was the first time their traditions were discussed and debated and sensationalized by the public.
I was six years old when the Hummingbird set out into those choppy Pacific waters. When Theron Parker struck the whale with his harpoon, he led his crew of Makah men in prayer as she died. They prayed to thank the whale for offering herself to the Makahs. She was the first one the tribe had hunted in over seventy years; they had stopped exercising this treaty right after non-Native commercial whaling drove gray whales to the brink of extinction. For decades, the Makahs refrained from this ancient tradition, waiting for the whale populations to grow and stabilize again; they only sought permission to resume a limited number of these hunts after gray whales were removed from the endangered species list in 1994.
The female whale’s death brought the Makah community together and inspired a festive gathering with tribal citizens from around the world. A potluck in honor of the whale was held at Neah Bay, with prominent leaders from the Northwestern Coast and Coast Salish regions, as well as honored guests from across North America, the Pacific Islands, and Africa. Throughout the feast, these leaders spoke about the importance of pursuing cultural revitalization and protecting treaty rights.
However, despite the celebration and success of this whale hunt, the Makahs soon faced violent opposition. Protestors anchored their boats along the coastlines of Neah Bay. Hundreds of death threats were called in to the Makah tribal offices. Bomb threats were issued to schools on the reservation. One man wrote a letter to the editor of the Seattle Times, asking, “I am anxious to know where I may apply for a license to kill Indians. My forefathers helped settle the west and it was their tradition to kill every Redskin they saw. ‘The only good Indian was a dead Indian,’ they believed. I also want to keep with the faith of my ancestors.” In response to this turbulent violence, the National Guard was deployed to Neah Bay to protect the People of the Cape.
Let’s circle back to the fact that I was six years old while all of this was happening. I mostly didn’t understand it, since I was young and safe in my own little media bubble, which revolved around reruns on the Disney Channel. And because I was raised in the Seattle suburbs, far away from my Native relatives and the tight-knit world of Indian Country.
But here’s the thing about bubbles: they pop. It’s inevitable.
When I was a graduate student at the University of Washington, my mentor shared some interview footage with me from the first International Salish Wool Weavers Symposium of 2016. At the time, I was crafting my own thesis on Coast Salish weaving traditions and learning more about our regional histories and cultural traditions. A Suquamish/Makah Elder was among the interviewees. I listened to her speak about her life, soft-voiced and smiling as she recalled fond memories. Her words stayed with me. And as I watched her footage, I remembered the whale hunt and was struck by an unexpected realization:
Even though I wasn’t there, and I had been young, and the exact details of this historic event were foggy in my mind, I remembered what that time was like for me. I remembered how it felt. I remembered what it was like to be a young girl, overhearing all the noise and chaos and vehemence of the adult world. I remembered what it was like to feel small and confused and frustrated by circumstances I was powerless to change. I remembered how difficult it was to articulate my response to everything that was happening.
As an adult, I learned some of this history in earnest for the first time, and I sat with the memory of my own discomfort and disillusionment. Through this reflective experience, Maisie came to me. Her voice, her experiences, her ancestry.
She was Makah from the very beginning, but her father’s Piscataway background came later. It was a question I’d been pondering for months; I knew her father’s story, that he had served and died in Afghanistan. But I didn’t know where he was from. To me, it made sense that he wouldn’t have been from Washington State. Enlistment in the military typically guarantees relocation. I liked the idea of him coming from the East Coast, because tribal nations are often rendered invisible in these territories, and I wanted to push back against those false assumptions. I wanted to remind my readers that Natives were there before this region became known as the Thirteen Colonies. And more important, I wanted to make it clear that Native people continue to live there, in modern urban areas. That they never faded into the past, like the textbooks and monuments and historic battleground sites might suggest.
The answer came to me as I flew into Baltimore for a convention. The Piscataway are known as the People Where the Rivers Blend, and as we descended over the landscape, toward the Baltimore/Washington airport, I could see why. The vast network of rivers and tributaries took my breath away. I was reminded of the Elwha River. And I was reminded of how deeply connected Native people and communities have always been, no matter the physical distance between them.
On the topic of geography, I’d like to discuss some of the settings found within this book.
Astute readers might have noticed the titles of Chapters 13 and 15. In Chapter 13, Maisie and her family cross the Puget Sound on the Seattle— Bainbridge Island ferry. This chapter is titled “Little Crossing-Over Place” for two reasons: First, because this is the name that Duwamish and other Lushootseed speakers historically used, in reference to the modern city of Seattle. Second, prior to the “founding” of the city, this name was also used to describe a specific lagoon, where at least eight longhouses once stood. (Only the ruins of one longhouse remained there when the Denny Party migrated into the area in 1852.) The location originally known and inhabited as the Little Crossing-Over Place is currently known as the Pioneer Square neighborhood of downtown Seattle. And the Seattle Ferry Terminal is located in this exact area.
In Chapter 15, Maisie and her family arrive in Port Angeles. This chapter is titled “Tse-Whit-Zen” (pronounced ch-WHEET-son), which is an Anglicized spelling for an ancient Klallam village located in what is currently known as Port Angeles. In August 2003, ancient artifacts and human remains were unearthed near the base of Ediz Hook after Washington State Department of Transportation workers began construction on a bridge development. The construction halted, and the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe worked with a team of archaeologists to recover the rema
ins and artifacts. Through this process, Tse-Whit-Zen became the largest pre-European contact site excavated in Washington State. Over 100,000 artifacts were recovered from the area. The earliest confirmed settlement at Tse-Whit-Zen dates back to about 750 B.C.E.—approximately the same time Rome was founded.
There is another significant excavation site located on the Olympic Peninsula. Among archaeologists, the Ozette site is known as “America’s Pompeii,” probably because the artifacts recovered from the site of the historic mudslide—which Maisie’s mother mentions in Chapter 26—were mostly intact and well-preserved. The excavation lasted eleven years, and produced over 55,000 artifacts. All these materials were kept as property of the Makah Nation and held at the Makah Cultural and Research Center in Neah Bay.
Throughout the process of writing this book, I was deeply inspired by the rich histories of these places. But I was also equally inspired by the restoration of the Elwha River. So far, this is the largest dam removal project in history. Prior to the construction of the Elwha and Glines Canyon Dams, several species of trout and salmon had annual runs of about 400,000 fish in the early 1900s. After the dams’ construction blocked the Elwha River, these annual runs lowered to about 3,000 total fish per year. This was the main motivation for the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe’s advocacy for the removal of these dams. After both dams were removed in 2014, the entire ecosystem and regional tidelands experienced epic rebounds. The salmon are returning, along with other species of wildlife. The coastline also changed dramatically, as the river moved sediments that had been blocked by the dams for an entire century.
In essence, the river roared back to life after these dams were removed.
Scientists continue to research and monitor the progress, as revegetation efforts and wildlife tracking continue along the river, led by the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe and workers from the Olympic National Park. And as these lessons from the river continue to teach us about the resilience of nature and the role humans play in our own environments, I’m eager to see what future generations will work toward and accomplish together.
I bet it will be beautiful.
Acknowledgments
You are truly a thorough reader, if you’re here with me in the Acknowledgments section. And I love that, which is why I’m acknowledging you first, the person currently reading this book from cover to cover: I see you. I appreciate you. I hope you’ll find a lucky penny today.
To Rosemary Brosnan: Thank you for guiding me, for believing in me, and for workshopping this book with me from the very beginning. I’m so proud of everything we’ve accomplished together, and I’m so grateful for the opportunity to keep working with you. You brighten my entire world. You are such a positive, creative force in my life. And I treasure our friendship.
To the folks behind Heartdrum, the shiny new imprint at HarperCollins dedicated to Native stories and storytellers! Woohoo! Cynthia Leitich Smith, you are the type of person and professional that I aspire to be. You do so much for so many people. I am grateful for your kind and generous spirit, as well as your sharp editorial eye and creative feedback. Mvto! Rosemary Brosnan (yes, I’m thanking you twice), and Courtney Stevenson, thanks for everything you do. And as the president and publisher of HarperCollins Children’s Books, Suzanne Murphy also deserves heaps of recognition. Suzanne, thank you for helping to create this space for Native writers. I raise my hands to you in gratitude.
I need to give broad but heartfelt thanks to the rest of the HarperCollins family. To the school and library marketing team, as well as the sales, trade marketing, and publicity folks: I am grateful for every opportunity you give me. Thank you for helping my books find their audience. To the production process team: My books quite literally wouldn’t exist without you. Thank you for all of your hard work. To the art department: You take my breath away. Catherine San Juan, thank you for your exquisite design work on this book. It is so absurdly beautiful. And to the warehouse workers, mail carriers, and other folks along the way who transport and deliver my books to my readers: Thank you so much.
To Michaela Goade (Tlingit): You bewilder me. This cover resonates with Maisie’s story perfectly, and I’m entranced by your attention to detail: the dusting of snow on her clothes, the sheepskin lining of her boots, how the sea is swallowed by a bright white fog. It all feels so potent and meaningful. When I look at this cover, I feel an ache in my heart for Maisie, and yet, there is still endless beauty in her journey and her surroundings. I’m grateful to know you, and I feel so lucky to have your beautiful work paired with mine. Gunalchéesh!
To Suzie Townsend: Thank you for always having my back, for helping me plan and pursue my biggest publishing dreams, and for working so tirelessly on my behalf. You are a marvel. And whenever I start to feel antsy, or overwhelmed, like I’m falling behind on some imaginary schedule I’ve set for myself—you always remind me that publishing is a marathon, not a sprint. I’m grateful for your realism, your compassion, and your business savvy. I’m also grateful for your friendship and laughter.
To Dani Segelbaum: Thank you for “circling back” and “looping me in” to so many email chains. And thank you for being so patient and understanding with me, when I get busy and neglect my inbox. I hope you know how much I appreciate you, and how reassuring your organized, attentive presence is to me. (I’m sure Suzie will agree!)
And to the other incredible folks at New Leaf Literary and Media, thank you for everything you do for your clients. I truly believe that New Leaf is the best agency in the business. No one can convince me otherwise.
To the folks at Hedgebrook, who hosted me on Whidbey Island for the inaugural “Young Adult Authors Week” residency in December, 2019: Thank you for your radical hospitality, for the delicious foods shared around your farmhouse table, and for preserving the wild beauty of the lands you reside on. Thank you for the land acknowledgment you shared, which recognized the island as Tscha-Kole-Chy, a traditional territory of the Lower Skagit, Swinomish, Suquamish, and Snohomish tribes. I also need to specifically thank Evie Lindbloom, the Hedgebrook librarian, for being so generous with her time and enthusiasm. Nancy Nordhoff deserves recognition as well, since her vision, philanthropy, and steadfast commitment to raising women’s voices are the reasons why Hedgebrook exists. And I need to acknowledge my friends, Linda and David Wilson, who first introduced me to Hedgebrook.
To the Hedgewitches: Sherri L. Smith, Nidhi Chanani, Brandy Colbert, Stacey Lee, Laura Ruby, and Kip Wilson. The week we spent together at Hedgebrook was such a gift. You were some of the first people to hear snippets of Maisie’s story, and your kind words boosted my confidence in a story that was very difficult to write. I will always cherish those nights we spent drinking tea in the farmhouse living room, and the days we spent going on nature walks together. Thank you for being there as I wrote the final few chapters of The Sea in Winter. And thank you for staying in touch and celebrating my other projects, all these months later. Your friendships continue to inspire and uplift me.
To Traci Sorell: You are a pillar in the Native kid-lit community, and you are also a dear and supportive friend. Thank you for sharing your thoughtful and thorough newsletters, and for being such a bright and delightful person. I’m grateful for all the work you do. And I’m grateful to know you. Wado!
To Hayley Chewins: You are such a dear long-distance friend and writing peer. I cherish our conversations about craft, which always leave me feeling so motivated and energized. I hope we will get the chance to meet in person someday.
Many thanks to the folks behind the Makah Indian Nation, Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe, and Piscataway-Conoy Tribe’s websites. You provided so many great resources, including treaty transcripts (which Jack accesses on his phone in Chapter 17), historical timelines, and language recordings (“See-yah” is an English spelling of the Klallam word for grandparent; a recording of this term can be found on the “Human Relations” list of the online Klallam dictionary). I also need to recognize Dr. Joshua L. Reid, who wrote The Sea is M
y Country: The Maritime World of the Makahs, which helped me gain a better understanding of the 1999 whale hunt. And I would like to acknowledge the folks at the Suquamish Museum, who organized an exhibit on the Elwha River restoration project, which inspired me and led me to do more of my own research on this topic.
To the kid-lit gatekeepers: Teachers, parents, librarians, booksellers, etc. Thank you for supporting me and my work. Thank you for connecting my words with the young readers in your communities. When I Can Make This Promise first came out, I didn’t expect much. In fact, I didn’t expect anything. I was fully prepared to watch Edie fly under the radar, but thanks to your enthusiasm, she took off and soared instead. My quiet, personal little book. I still can’t believe it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To my young readers: From the outgoing kids who run up to me during school visits, to the shy kids who want to become writers someday, to the kids who ask questions that make me pause and think. You are all so bright and capable and inquisitive. You are the best part of this whole gig. Thank you for everything.
To my friends and family: My parents, my sister, my in-laws, the extended members of my far-reaching family tree, and the dear friends who have grown and changed with me over the years. You already know how much I love and appreciate you all. Regardless of whether or not you read my books. Regardless of whether or not we agree on certain things. No matter what, I am grateful to have you in my life.
To Mazen: My best friend, my life partner, my love. We’ve been together for over ten years now. An entire decade of joy, laughter, and growth. I can’t wait to see what the upcoming years and decades will have in store for us. You are the sun in the solar system of my life. Thank you for loving me and supporting me in everything that I do.
To my firstborn: By the time this book comes out, you will be about two months old. You are going to irrevocably change my life, and even though no one is ever “ready” for parenthood, I am so ready to finally meet you. To hold you and watch you grow. To nurture you and guide you, to the best of my ability. I don’t know what the future holds, but I promise you this: I will love you unconditionally. Always.
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