I had no idea how we Unangan people—who had lived for two hundred years on these remote islands, under colonial governments, never being allowed to make decisions for ourselves until the early 1970s, with no money, no savings from our low-paying seasonal work, and having lived mostly on traditional foods—could make it in a city. I knew that, if forced to evacuate, our people would be in a whole world of hurt and many would not make it.
We had to succeed. Failure was not an option.
I stoked up my courage to speak. “We have to give hope to our people, even if we don’t have the answers now,” I said matter-of-factly. “The one thing that kept our people together is that we did things together, as a people. We should have a parade; get all the people out, show everyone that we are in this together and we will stick together no matter what.”
“What do we have to celebrate anyway? The government pulling out? I don’t think it’s right,” Sam stated, with the strain of the year obvious in his voice. I heard the uncertainty and the fear that we all felt.
“Sam is right! We can’t celebrate. We can’t celebrate a disaster!” Jimmie7 said angrily.
“Well, maybe you are right, we have nothing to celebrate,” I replied. “But, how about honoring our ancestors who went through really tough times and still made it? We could say that this parade is to remember that Unangan are strong people when we stick together like our ancestors did. They went through worse times than we did.”
Silence.
Then Mike spoke up. “Well, maybe we could do that.” The decision was made. We would have a parade to commemorate and honor the will and courage of our ancestors who went through times that would try the best of human spirit and—somehow—prevailed. I was to write up something for a plaque, to be dedicated next to the symbol of government control, the large government house where the agents had lived as overlords since the late 1800s. We would parade through the village, beginning at the government machine shop in the industrial section of town at 11:00 the next morning.
I arrived at the appointed hour at the appointed place. We had announced the parade on the VHF radio. I invited Tony Smith, our lawyer, and a reporter from the New York Times to ride with me in the parade. Tony, a former Navy Seal who had served in Vietnam, had been our attorney for a decade. He was a brilliant strategist and lobbyist, qualities that proved immensely valuable later on in our efforts to secure our future. We had become best friends, having worked together in the 1970s in a derivative stockholder lawsuit I launched against my regional corporation, an entity created by Congress from the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act of 1971. With Tony’s help and at great risk to his legal career, we uncovered corruption and prevailed in the lawsuit that went all the way to the State Supreme Court.
I felt apprehensive, however, not knowing whether this parade would work or not. Overnight I had worked with Widdy Shreves, an employee hired from off island to work with us, on words for the plaque to be placed on a large stone in front of the old government house. It seemed appropriate to dedicate a plaque next to this symbol of oppression, honoring our ancestors whose courage and will to live allowed us to be here today.
We waited an hour for others to join us in the mobile commemoration. My heart sank as I realized no one was coming. Nevertheless, as a community leader, I felt I had to show courage. Come hell or high water, I was going to go through with the parade, even if it was a one-vehicle parade! Just as I decided this, I watched Anthony Melovidov walk down the road toward us. We affectionately called him Antooney.
“I’m going to get the fire truck out for the parade,” he said nonchalantly. I was elated and relieved that I would not be the only one fool enough to go through with this. We waited another half hour hoping, in vain, that more would join. No one did. I gave the signal to go, and Antooney fired up the old red fire truck, complete with siren and flashing red lights. What the heck, two cars can be a parade, especially if one is an “official” vehicle!
An eighth of a mile into the parade, we were joined by another car, then a motorcycle, then another truck. My spirits rose. This might work! I thought to myself. Then another car, a four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle, another, and another until anything that could move on two, three, or four wheels joined in the parade. Horns blared, people shouted.
Unbeknownst to us, the high school students had made up placards with slogans like “Aleuts Are Survivors!!!”; “Aleuts Are Strong”; “Aleuts Are Forever!”; and “Remember Our Ancestors!” The students were on back of pickup trucks. I knew that Edna Philemonof, my cousin, had put the students up to this, bless her heart.
Then the most powerful and poignant moment, in this drama filled with poignant moments, told me that we would make it and that nothing could stop us. The Elders in the community were waving white dishcloths and banging pots and pans, hollering “Homer Gone! Homer Gone!” Inexplicably, all the Elders in the village did the same thing without talking with one another. These beautiful and wise people who had suffered greatly in their lifetimes were showing us the reason for hope. Everyone on the island understood the symbolism of the white dishcloths, banging pots and pans, and shouting “Homer Gone!” These Elders had resurrected an annual ritual performed in the 1920s by Pribilof Unangan people: When the loathed federal agent would leave on a government vessel, called Homer, at the end of the sealing season, not to return until May or June of the following year, everyone celebrated by banging pots and pans, waving white dishcloths, and hollering “Homer gone! Homer gone!” My heart was bursting with joy and pride. I felt so proud of the people on that fateful day.
At the end of the parade, we gathered in the yard of the government house, in front of a large basalt boulder I arranged to have placed there. Attached to the boulder was the plaque fashioned the night before, with words honoring our ancestors. It was a powerful moment—the mansion symbolized the yoke of bondage placed on our people by the U.S. government over a hundred years before. We prayed and read the words on the plaque:
Unangan Wayaamulux Ngan Kayutuugan Ixtakun (Unangan Must Be Strong for the Future)
Let it be known to all, after 196 years of valiant struggle, through periods of slavery, genocide, disease, abject poverty, and outside control, conditions which challenged the strongest of human spirits, the Unangan dream of Unangan control over Unangan destiny became a reality October 28, 1983.
In commemoration of this historic occasion, we honor the will and spirit of all Unangan people whose survival on St. Paul served as inspiration to each generation of leaders, which carried on the struggle from the shores of St. Paul to the steps of our nation’s capital.
As a further testament to the strength, courage, and wisdom of my people, they decided that October 28 would be celebrated as Unangan Independence Day. The people of Saint Paul Island, taking a dark day and transforming it into something positive, celebrate this day every year.
This part of the story would not be complete without acknowledging the leaders who were involved in decision-making during this period of our history on Saint Paul, including Mike Zacharof, John R. Merculief,8 Victor Merculief, Anthony Philemonoff, Alexander Galanin, Douglas Melovidov, and our revered Elder, the Right Reverend Father Michael Lestenkof. All of these men demonstrated courage and wisdom under incredibly trying circumstances.
Chapter 20
Another Kind of Death
One of the most emotionally powerful years of my life was 1984. It began on New Year’s Day when my Aachaa, my Unangan mentor, one of the most important men in my life, lay dying in his home, and I walked into my Auntie and Aachaa’s house with my wife, Phyllis, who loved this man as much as I did. I had been truly dreading this moment, feeling my chest tighten up and my breath shorten. I didn’t know what to expect. The entire extended family, including his wife—my aunt, Sophie—were on a death vigil at his bedside. This formerly vital, strong, wise, kind, and intelligent man lay on his bed unconscious after days of terrible pain and wasting away from stomach cancer. I saw him lying there thin an
d frail on the bed, his face locked in an awful grimace. I gasped and felt utter shock and profound grief. I stole quickly into the bathroom and sobbed, my body shaking uncontrollably. Just a week ago he had been up and around taking pictures at the community Christmas program. My Aachaa loved to take pictures of children in their Christmas costumes, and he had done it every year since I could remember.
My Auntie was strangely peaceful after he passed away. I guess I could understand after having seen him suffer so. They loved each other fully in their marriage of over forty years. In fact, at times I was amazed at how they still played with and teased each other throughout their entire marriage like newlyweds. They were truly beautiful and deeply loving people. My aunt told me of one scene that occurred in the final week of his life.
“I had to help him go to the bathroom a lot of times,” she said. “But last week he couldn’t even walk, and so we crawled to the bathroom. Then he started laughing halfway up the hallway to the bathroom, and I couldn’t help myself and I laughed too!” He said in Unangan Tunuu “Aiyakaax, I can’t even help you help me anymore!” and laughed some more. “We laughed so hard.”
I looked into the incredibly beautiful face of my aunt, Sophie, and saw her smiling and yet sad eyes as she visualized this deeply private moment of incredible dignity and love they shared. They found strength in a time of utter pain through humor and surrender to the reality of what was happening.
I will always remember the last sight of him before he died, as Phyllis just sat beside his bed to hold his hand. She held his hand until he died hours later.
After my Aachaa’s death I thought about everyone I knew who was dead. There was “Old Man,” Alex Melovidov, one of my dad’s best friends, a charismatic leader, captain in the National Guard, and father of six children. There was my uncle, Iliodor, or Eddie, who along with all the other great men in the 1950s, had the courage to lead our people through their fight for independence and freedom from servitude. And so many of my people I knew, now gone, who lived through times of great hardship, many of whom were graced with English or Unangan nicknames:
“Half Can”; Poopoochee; Perscodia; Pinky; Apaloon; “Snuff Can”; Elary Gromoff Sr.; “Tweet”; “Kusukux”; “Cowax”; my uncle, George Zacharof, who fell off a fishing vessel and drowned; my uncle, Isaac Philemonof; “Andeethah”; “Yakuu”; Aggie Galationoff, a very wise Elder; Victor Misikin, who had the tough job of being the government foreman for decades; “Totskootchah”; Joe Melovidov; “Coffee Dan”; Zachar, who died from overdosing on cough medicine; Jacob Pletnikof, who had killed himself the previous year; Johnny Krukoff, who was murdered; Metrofan; Leonty; Ya Top; Useenewyax; Iliodor Kozloff and his wife Virginia; John Hapoff; and Maxim Buterin. I especially remembered those I loved so much—my mother, Stefanida; my dad, John Paul Merculieff; my Aachaa, Nick Stepetin, and my aunt, Sophie; my uncle, Sergie Shiashnikoff, and his wife; my godmother, Nadesda, who always took me out camping, on picnics, or berry picking; my grandfather, Paul Merculieff, who always had good words for all his grandchildren; and all the other aunts and uncles I came to know. Most of these adults had treated me as if I were their own child and always greeted me on the street with a smile and words of praise or acknowledgment.
My Aachaa’s death, which struck me so very hard, was a dark omen of what was in store for me that year. This man meant the world to me and I loved him deeply.
I was still recovering from the horrendous year of the federal government pullout and grieving the loss of my Aachaa when, a month later, my wife told me that she was leaving me. My heart began to break.
Less than a week later, Phyllis left, taking our two young daughters with her. The house no longer had the sounds of children or my wife doing things. It felt empty and stone-cold dead. Though I felt emotionally stunned, I managed to head in to work the next day. As president of the village corporation, I had to attend to many pressing items and issues. I walked into the office, closed my office door and just stood there shaking. The emotional pain I felt seemed bigger than life. I left to return to my house.
Three days later the phone rang. I picked it up. It was a member of the village corporation’s board of directors. “Larry, the board of directors are worried about you and wonder if you can still lead the corporation. They want to come up there to meet with you.” I was completely stunned and still emotionally broken. Twenty minutes later five members of the board arrived.
Only Johnny spoke. Johnny was the spokesperson and leader of the group. The others looked down at the floor. “Larry, it seems you are no longer able to lead the corporation, and the board wants me to take over,” he said.
The village’s population is very small, so every one of these men knew what I was going through. And, I could see clearly that there were some very political motives involved. I felt angry that these fellow Unangan would make such a move at a time of great personal pain. And I felt defiant. I told them I would be fine and be back on the job a few days later.
I did return to work that Monday, but I was a shattered man. Sensing that I no longer had the confidence that kept me a leader in this village for fifteen years, my political opponents in the corporation made their move to take over control. I was told I would no longer be president.
I had lost my family, lost one of the most important men in my life, and now lost my job. I was the business manager for the corporation for three years and was its president for six years after that. I had built the businesses that became the cornerstone of its financial success for years to come. I had poured my heart and soul into this work because I was dedicated to my people, and this was my way of giving to them. Now that too was gone.
During this time my seven-year-old daughter Leatha decided she wanted to live with me. Leatha’s presence in the household forced me to stay anchored and centered when everything seemed to be coming apart inside and out. Life went well for a while. I cooked all her favorite foods, bought her a rabbit, and took her to a ski resort south of Anchorage. However, soon after we returned to Saint Paul, several strong March storms blew across the island. My furnace broke down one day, and the pipes froze before I could have repairs done. Then a seventy-mile-per-hour storm blew off a section of my roof. I still remember snow piling up in the living room. Leatha and I started wearing winter clothes to bed. Then one night I heard Leatha crying in her room. I walked in and saw her standing in a corner of the room weeping.
At that moment, what was left of my heart shattered into a million pieces. The pain of this wonderful child was overwhelming. I knew she would be much better off living again with her mother and sister.
I dropped Leatha off at Phyllis’s house around midnight. I felt sick to my stomach and was filled with guilt, anger, and an extreme sense of loss. My mind spun as I thought how I could not be there for my daughter when she needed me. My life seemed like a furious storm. I had lost my family, lost my Aachaa, lost my job, and lost all my credit. And now I had lost my desire to live. I pulled away from Phyllis’s house and drove through the dark empty night.
I’m not sure how long I sat in my truck out at North Point. I don’t remember hearing anything until I reached over the seat to pick up my revolver. Then, a fox’s voice called out in the distance. I recognized the sound of the lonely arctic blue fox instantly, with its high-pitched, nighttime call that comes in rapid, short bursts. “Yip. Yip.” It was the call of a lone fox. At night, the fox’s voice always made me feel alone and strangely melancholy. Tonight the effect was even more profound.
I turned toward the sound, but all I could see was a bank of fog below North Hill. Fog on that cold winter night was strange enough, but a single fog bank on a clear night with no other fog in sight was extremely unusual. This particular bank seemed to be emanating fluorescent silver colors just like the clouds in the moonlit sky.
The fox’s call continued. Suddenly, the fog bank began moving toward me, with the fox’s voice coming squarely from the middle of the bank. The fog moved rapidly in my direction, to within
an eighth of a mile of me, and the fox’s call got louder and louder and louder.
“Now I know I am losing it!” I said out loud, reaching for the comfort of a familiar sound, even if only my own voice.
Suddenly, the fox’s call changed into a human voice: “Go back! Go back!” it screamed.
Goose bumps rose quickly on my arms and my hair stood on end. Terrified, I jumped into my truck and raced back to the village, driving what must have been sixty to seventy miles per hour on the precarious and winding volcanic road. I had asked for a sign and I had received one! I couldn’t even think about what had just happened; I was in a state of shock. That night I slept the sleep of the dead. I don’t remember any dreams, just a deep and dark silence of mind.
The next morning I awoke a completely changed human being. I felt a lightness of being beyond anything I had ever experienced, even as a child. Colors were more intense and I could see objects and people as if I had more than perfect vision. I could distinguish the slightest of smells in the air and felt life in everything: the rocks, the sleeping winter grasses, the wind, the sky, the clouds—everything! And, I realized, I feared nothing, not death, not loss of loved ones, not friends, not financial insecurity, nothing! The loss of all my fears made me feel as light as if I could walk on clouds. It was as if my old mind had simply disappeared and a completely new one had been put in its place, free of attachments of any kind. I was beyond myself with sheer jubilation.
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