“I was raped last night!” Louise said, choking out the words.
“Oh, my god!” I exclaimed, feeling as if I just been hit by a ton of bricks. “Who did it? We’ll have him arrested and put in jail right now! How are you doing? Did he do anything else to hurt you?” I blurted out in rapid succession, not giving her time to respond.
“No, no, I’m okay, don’t worry, I’m okay!” she said, looking directly at me. “I’m not going to tell you his name, and I am not going to press charges because I don’t want my husband to know. He has enough to deal with right now!”
I was once again astounded and awed at finding this incredible beauty and courage where I least expected to find it—in two very troubled people who had lived most of their lives as alcoholics. Their love was so deep that even in experiencing their own personal tragedies and pain-filled dramas, they thought not of themselves but of the well-being of each other.
“I want to go out to detox too, so I can be sober and help my husband be sober after he gets out of treatment. That’s why I’m here,” she said in a strained voice. “But I don’t have the money to. Can the city pay for me to go?”
I stared at her, not knowing what to say in the moment. But I knew I had to support her just as I had pledged to her husband I would. But she wasn’t even a city employee. Oh, boy, my political detractors are really going to have it with me now, I thought. This is really going to stretch the rules. “Okay, sure. The city will pay for it, and we will help you set it up right away if possible. Are you sure you won’t reconsider telling me who this S.O.B. is so we can put him away?”
“Please, please don’t,” she said in a voice that indicated her final decision.
And so, I arranged for Louise to leave that week to enter the same detox center that her husband was in. I didn’t know if that would help, but I knew if I were in the same situation, I would want to be with my spouse, regardless of the circumstances. Surprisingly, no one in the city challenged my decision. Perhaps they felt it was useless once I had made up my mind. Whatever the case, I was relieved not to have to deal with that too.
Louise and Bucky Boy both completed their detox programs. Bucky Boy stayed in Anchorage until Louise was finished so they could come home together. It was only later that I found out that Louise had also been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had a few months to live. I watched them walking hand-in-hand, sober and happy, almost every day for the next two months until Bucky Boy died. Two months after Bucky Boy’s death, Louise died.
I will always remember their profound love for each other, their courage, and their inner beauty that outshined the ugliness they experienced in their lives. They taught me another powerful lesson about “not judging the book by its cover” and the deep beauty of my people that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
Chapter 28
A Yupik Election
The Alaska Native Elders—be they Tlingit, Haida, Athabascan, Unangan, Tsimpshian, Inupiat, Yupik, Eyak, or Supiaiq—call mainstream society the “reverse society” or the “inside-out society” because we used to teach how to live; now we teach how to make a living. We used to contemplate the mystery of death; now we contemplate the mystery of life. Our heart used to tell the mind what to do; now our mind tells the heart what to do. We used to honor the Elders who were visible at every gathering—we listened to them; now we put them in “pioneer” or “senior” homes where they are not to be seen or heard. Women and the feminine were considered sacred; now we defile the sacredness of all things feminine, such as Mother Earth, Mother Earth–based cultures, and women.
I marvel at the wisdom contained in all the Alaska Native cultures whose Elders still teach the “way of the real human being.” Our own cultural names for ourselves mean the “human being,” the “real human being,” or “the people.” Real human beings, in the understanding of the Elders, are experts in resolving conflict, a necessary life skill and wisdom because Alaska Native people used to live in small nomadic bands. Today they live in small villages with populations ranging from thirty to eight hundred. Conflict in such an intimate setting can create incredible disharmony, even violence.
One morning I received a phone call from an intermediary, at the request of some Yupik Elders in Southwest Alaska.10 The Elders were inviting me to witness the election of a prime chief for several villages in the region. I immediately agreed to come, knowing that, when the Elders asked me to be somewhere, it was to learn something. When I arrived at the regional hub, I was met by another intermediary, again on behalf of the Elders, who would take me to the school gymnasium where the people had gathered to listen to and vote for their favorite candidate.
My guide filled me in on the situation. “The election for prime chief was splitting up the communities in our area because of two men who have been spouting bad stuff about each other,” he said. “These two men are the main candidates. One of them will probably be the prime chief. People have been taking sides, and now friends who chose different sides are not talking with each other. Even family members and whole communities are doing this!” exclaimed my guide, incredulously. “It’s gotten so that it is disturbing good relations between people and villages, so the Elders have declared that they are taking over the election process. Now, you should understand that the Elders rarely interfere with anything political going on, but they are doing so now for the good of the people and our villages,” my guide explained. “The Elders have a lot of power, but they rarely use it. They are using it now. So, the Elders told everyone to come to this meeting place where we are going to hear the candidates speak. Other than that, I don’t know what the Elders have up their sleeves,” my guide said with a laugh. “But, whatever it is, it’s bound to be a doozy!” I laughed, too.
On our drive to the gymnasium we passed a few four-wheelers—small one- or two-person all-terrain vehicles, like a motorcycle with four wheels—on the bumpy gravel road. There were also more taxicabs than I had ever seen at one time, except in New York City and Washington, DC. The cabs seemed incongruent with the landscape—flat green, subalpine tundra for miles on one side and the Bering Sea on the other. Homes and businesses, mostly single-story, framed out of weathered wood, were sprinkled helter-skelter. Skiffs, outboards, and four-wheelers—the means to getting wild foods—sat in almost every backyard.
Alaska Native peoples depend more on wild foods than any other Indigenous group in the United States, consuming between three hundred and a thousand pounds per capita per year. As in most rural Alaskan communities, the people of the regional hub I was visiting depend heavily on bearded seal, walrus, salmon, halibut, wild berries, and migratory birds—their staples for thousands of years. Alaska Natives’ rights to have preference and access to these food sources are being challenged—by sport hunters, sport fishers, and the conservative state legislature.
The last major challenge to the subsistence use of fish came in 2001, when the state was considering an appeal of the so-called Katie John decision to the U.S. Supreme Court. The Federal Court of Appeals had sided with an Athabascan Elder named Katie John in her right to take fish from a river she and her ancestors had used for thousands of years. I was cochair of the We the People March, which included five thousand Alaskans of all colors. Through this march we succeeded in getting the governor not to appeal.
Then, in 2004, after a five-year battle that I led, Alaska Native peoples won recognition of their right to take halibut for subsistence purposes. This was accomplished through changes in the international treaty between Canada and the United States, which governs regulation of commercial halibut fishing, and through regulations promulgated by the North Pacific Fishery Management Council (NPFMC).11 Alaska Native leaders had accurately estimated that all the subsistence users of halibut combined took about one percent of the total halibut catch. The remaining 99 percent was taken by commercial and sport fishing boats. Even given the miniscule amount taken by Alaska Native peoples, gaining the legal recognition of their right to take and use ha
libut as they had done for thousands of years had been an uphill struggle. Sports and commercial fishing interests in Alaska are a powerful lobby and were concerned with the shrinking of their share of the pie to accommodate this one percent take. A member of the NPFMC expressed concern about what would happen if the Alaska Native population doubled in fifty years and thus needed two percent. One member of the NPFMC, appointed to represent sport fishing interests, asked the Alaska Native leaders where they thought the additional one percent would come from because it certainly wasn’t going to come from the sport fishermen he represented.
Alaska Native peoples are very concerned about the increasing competition between people who depend on fish and wildlife—for sustenance, nutrition, culture, spirituality, and community wellness—and the rapidly growing groups of sport hunters, sport fishers, and lodge owners coming from the big cities in Alaska and the lower 48 who know nothing about the Alaska Native ways of life that have persisted over hundreds of generations into modern times. Alaska Native peoples, led by their Elders, are very concerned about the noise and pollution caused by thousands of hunters and fishers coming into pristine areas in their planes and boats, and the stark insensitivity of the catch-and-release salmon fishery. The Alaska Native Elders are unreserved about characterizing the latter as “playing with your food, just for money or selfish pleasure.” The Elders have pointed out for years that the fish feel a great deal of pain when hooked by the lip or gullet—that this suffering is unnecessary and likely affects their health and ability to reproduce. It was only in the early 2000s that scientists affirmed this traditional knowledge in scientific reports, but, as is typical of such reports, made no mention of Alaska Native observations.
For decades, tribal leaders have fought for their peoples’ right to live as their ancestors had lived for thousands of years—in hearings, in the state and federal halls of government, in Congress, in the state legislature, and in the courts. The tribal chiefs are expected by their people to protect their ways of life. At stake is the ability for families to have food to eat throughout the year, the right to practice traditional ways of connection to, and harmony with, the Earth, and even the ability to sustain the language, which is rooted in traditional practices and the land. Loss of Indigenous rights and access to traditional foods would spell economic, nutritional, cultural, and spiritual catastrophe for Alaska Native peoples.12
Tribal chiefs are at the forefront of the battles to protect the Alaska Native ways of life. As such, whoever is elected and under what circumstances is of paramount importance, which is why the Elders chose to intervene in this election, for the good of the whole. They are not concerned about who gets elected, but how they are elected.
As we reached the school gymnasium, I calculated that some three hundred people had gathered to sit in the bleachers. At the center of the gym floor was a single microphone. Everyone was relaxed, laughing and joking with each other or greeting familiar faces, waving to friends and family. This is a familiar scene at any Alaska Native gathering, which has the feel of being “people-centered.” The gatherings are times to renew acquaintances and friendships, or simply to acknowledge each other by saying hello in a shared language, or teasing, or telling jokes. There is not a single Indigenous peoples’ gathering I have been to, in or out of Alaska, in which I didn’t feel that everyone was making genuine connection with everyone else. People are important in Indigenous cultures, and no one can be ignored. Everyone is made to feel acknowledged and welcomed. I love these gatherings, wherever I travel. This time was no exception.
An Elder stepped up to the microphone with a younger person who turned out to be an interpreter. The Elder had a dark brown, etched face and all-white hair. I love such Elders, always beaming youthfulness even though they may be in their seventies or even their eighties. Their eyes show a childlike innocence with the wisdom of someone who has lived and seen many things. “Camai,” (pronounced cha-my) the Elder greeted everyone and continued in the Yupik language, with the interpreter’s assistance for those who did not speak Yupik. “He says that they [the Elders] have taken over these elections because it has become too disruptive of the communities and community well-being. Here are the rules of this election as he has outlined them: Every candidate for prime chief will get a chance to talk before the crowd, but each candidate will not speak of themselves. Each candidate will speak about their opposing candidates. The speaker who can find the most things good and true about the other candidates will be the winner of this election.”
I could hear the large audience murmuring. “Now we are getting to the real stuff,” someone behind me said. “Good!” another, a Yupik woman, said. “This is the traditional way!”
“He says that they will pick the candidates who would speak about each other,” the interpreter said. The names were called out, and the two main candidates for prime chief were selected. These two candidates had said some harsh words about each other during their campaigns. It was these harsh words and the resulting hard or hurt feelings they stirred up that had divided the families and communities of the region.
All candidates also understood that, if they spoke of another candidate’s quality that was not true, the Elders would know it. And, therefore, the candidate who spoke ill would not only be likely to lose the election but, far worse, would be shamed in the eyes of his or her people. Such things are rarely forgotten, and it could take years to restore credibility in the eyes of the people. Each candidate, as a result, was very careful in choosing the words to describe the other.
I listened and watched, fascinated, as Charlie (one of the main candidates) got up to speak. “I know William. He is a good father and provider for his family. I see him pay attention to his children and teach them the traditional ways. He is very knowledgeable about our culture and shares his knowledge freely for anyone who asks. I know William to be a very good hunter and fisherman. He knows the lands and waters like our ancestors did. I see William attend tribal council meetings because I know he is concerned about our people and our way of life. William speaks the Yupik and English language very well, and so I know he can communicate to us and to the outsiders. I know William to be a man who can understand difficult things of the modern times.” Charlie paused for quite a while, then his voiced choked up with emotion. “I know William is a good man and he really does care about everyone, just like all of us who are running for the position of prime chief!” Tears started to well up in Charlie’s eyes as he struggled to talk on. “I have said some bad things about this man, and I am sorry I did. It was selfish of me, and I hope William will find room in his heart to forgive me.” Charlie sat down. The silence in the room was palpable. Then—suddenly—boisterous applause.
It was William’s turn to speak. “Thank you for such good words, Charlie. You are a good man and show courage in what you say. I accept your apology, and I feel I need to apologize too because what I’ve said about you was not good either. I regret this now, very much. You are a good man. We all know you are a good man. You are one of the best hunters in this area, and you conduct yourself good, so you are a good role model for our young men. I have seen you take care of and respect the animals that you hunt. You make sure the animal is killed quickly and so does not suffer. You do not waste anything of the animal and make sure all the other hunters get their fair share. You are a very fair man. And when you return to the village, you generously share what you got with the Elders, widows, and your extended family. You are a generous man. I see you always willing to help other hunters when they need to launch or retrieve their skiff in the water. I see you help other hunters cut up the seals and walrus, never complaining. Just like our fathers and ancestors have taught us. Charlie, you have learned our ways well and you are a good teacher, husband, and father. I feel you have the qualities necessary to be a good leader for our people. I ask for your forgiveness for the bad things I said about you. Please forgive me.” At this point, William teared up and walked toward Charlie. Charlie stood up and both
men, tears in their eyes, embraced each other.
Everyone in the room stood up, applauding. Many people were moved to tears; one Elder woman sobbed with joy at having witnessed such a great healing, not just of the two men but of everyone in the room and, indeed, of all the affected villages. The conflicts in the villages dissolved, and harmony was restored. The work of the Elders was complete.
It is such wisdom that has allowed the Yupik people, and all Alaska Native cultures, to survive and thrive. I felt privileged to have been invited to witness this living wisdom unfold. It is in stark contrast to what we normally see in our state and national elections, in which our leaders bash each other and talk openly about killing enemies. As the Elders teach, such words create nothing but divisiveness and strife. When an entire national citizenship and its leaders verbally fight each other, speaking openly of killing, I often wonder what messages are sent to our young people. I worry about what our young are taking in and how this will affect us in the future when it is their turn.
Chapter 29
The Heart of the Halibut: A Rite of Passage of an Unangan Boy
I knew the halibut on my hand-line was very large and must have weighed over 180 pounds. It is undoubtedly a female, I thought to myself as I carefully maintained a steady pressure on the cotton line, using every part of my body to hoist her to the surface. I could feel that she was hooked by the lip and likely to come off the line if I did not remain present in the moment, with its energy and every movement however subtle. Unangan people do not use gender to distinguish male from female halibut, but we would know.
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