FORUM Magazine | Winter 2023 by Alaska Humanities Forum

THE MAGAZINE OF THE ALASK A HUMANITIES FORUM

WINTER 2023

LETTER FROM THE CEO

Our Compass

421 W. 1st Ave., Suite 200, Anchorage, AK 99501 907-770-8400 www.akhf.org

BOARD OF DIRECTORS Ben Mallott, Chair, Anchorage Renee Wardlaw, Vice Chair, Anchorage Jeffrey Siemers, Treasurer, Soldotna

By Kameron Perez-Verdia

oday, the world—like Alaska—feels at once vast, intricately connected, and monumentally changeful. We stand at a confluence of transitions, shaped by climate upheaval, a dynamic economy, global turmoil, and a pandemic that redefined our sense of community. It’s an incredibly challenging time to navigate. I’m optimistic for the path ahead. The humanities serve as our compass. Introspective narrative, critical thinking, deep listening, close looking—the kinds of human activities you’ll read about in this issue of FORUM— guide us through the complexities of cultural identity, historical awareness, and ethical leadership. The humanities remind us that amid conflict, a common thread weaves us together—the enduring spirit of exploration, understanding, and resilience. The role of the humanities, and the Alaska Humanities Forum, is increasingly crucial. Our work is to connect Alaskans, from the youngest in our education programs, to the leaders driving change, to the Elders whose experience Amid conflict, informs our future. At the same time, we embrace our global citizenship and acknowledge the a common interconnectedness of our actions and their ripple effects beyond our state’s horizons. thread weaves Our work is made possible by the steadfast us together. support of our donors and the vision of bodies like the National Endowment for the Humanities. To each and every supporter, I extend a heartfelt thank you. Your support is more than a gift; it is a statement of faith in the power of the humanities to inspire and unite us. We’re inspired by the warmth of shared stories in our close-knit communities. We’re united by the whisper of the wind across our majestic landscapes. Alaska remains a symphony of diverse narratives. The Forum remains committed to the collective pursuit of knowledge, truth, understanding, and respect. Despite the distances that separate us, or perhaps because of them, there is immense value in creating and reinforcing these bonds. As we turn the pages of this issue together, let us also turn towards each other, ready to build, learn, and grow as one community under the vast Alaska sky. Warmly, Kameron Perez-Verdia President & CEO

Rachael “Ray” Ball, Secretary, Anchorage Jeannine Stafford-Jabaay, Member-At-Large, Hope Michael Angaiak, Fairbanks Miles Baker, Anchorage Stephen Qacung Blanchett, Juneau Yeidikook’áa (“Dionne”) Brady-Howard, Sitka Carmell Engebretson, Anchorage Kitty Farnham, Anchorage Charleen Fisher, Beaver Teresa Jacobsson, Anchorage Kristina Mason, Reno, Nevada Julia O’Malley, Anchorage Jayson Owens, Anchorage Lisa Parker, Soldotna Bob Sam, Sitka Carrie Jean Shephard, Anchorage Kristi Williams, Anchorage

STAFF Kameron Perez-Verdia, President & CEO Shoshi Bieler, Director of Regrants and Stories Programs Emily Brockman, Cross-Cultural Program Manager Polly Carr, Vice President of Programs Amanda Dale, Director of Cross-Cultural Programs Kim Fasbender, Operations Coordinator Kelly Forster, Youth Leadership Program Manager Gordon Iya, Cross-Cultural Program Coordinator Helen John, Cross-Cultural Program Coordinator Kari Lovett, Director of Operations Ryan Ossenkop, Vice President of Operations Eiden Pospisil, Youth Leadership Program Coordinator Julie Rowland, Cross-Cultural Program Manager Chuck Seaca, Director of Leadership Programs Taylor Strelevitz, Director of Conversation Programs Molissa Udevitz, Cross-Cultural Program Designer

FORUM MAGAZINE STAFF Shoshi Bieler, Publisher Bree Kessler, Editor Dean Potter, Art Director Contributors: Rachel Bishop, Britt’Nee Kivliqtaruq Brower Lydia Dirks, John Hagen, Jessica Hays, Mary Katzke, M.C. MoHagani Magnetek, Ruth Łchav’aya K’isen Miller, Hoa Nguyen, Elissa Opfer, Rosanne Pagano, Lynne Sauve, Erica Watson, Fawn Waterfield, Keema Waterfield

WINTER 2023

@SYDNEYAKAGIPHOTO

THE MAGA ZINE OF THE AL ASK A HUMANITIES FORUM

EDITOR’S NOTE

What the Objects Tell Us

Time Capsules

... in a world of disappearing digital evidence By Mary Katzke

Wooshinkindein Da.aat Lily Hope brings many to the path of a once-endangered artform By Rachel Bishop

By Bree Kessler

Weaving History with Intergrity

20 Running Towards Self in Wiseman, Alaska Roshier H. Creecy, material culture and individual anthropology By M.C. MoHagani Magnetek

What You See is What I Saw

John Hagen, expressionist and documentarian By Rosanne Pagano Photograph by John Hagen

26 Gaudiness and Grace

From Tautirut to Ch’dudnałyun

Growing a new instrument of healing By Ruth Łchav’aya K’isen Miller and Elissa Opfer; Photographs by Jessica Hays

A pasque flower almanac By Erica Watson KINDLING CONVERSATION

How Are You Creative?

PROGRAM NOTES

Introducing Leadership Anchorage 27

38 What Does Raven Feed Her Babies, Anyway? A storyteller’s initiation on the Alaska ferry By Keema Waterfield

AFTER IMAGE

Nuch’ishtunt (Wind Protected)

Ilakucaraq Program students make the Dena’ina language highly visible Photograph by Hoa Nguyen

Three artists share approaches to culture and creativity

FORUM is a publication of the Alaska Humanities Forum, supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities, with the purpose of increasing public

understanding of and participation in the humanities. The views expressed by contributors are not necessarily those of the editorial staff, the Alaska Humanities Forum, or the National Endowment for the Humanities. Subscriptions may be obtained by contributing to the Alaska Humanities Forum or by contacting the Forum. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission. Copyright 2023.

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EDITOR’S NOTE

What the Objects Tell Us

ON THE COVER : Between Worlds, a Chilkat robe woven by Wooshinkindein Da.aat Lily Hope. See page 18. @SYDNEYAKAGIPHOTO

LESSON PLANS You’ll see some QR codes at the ends of articles in this issue. These link to lesson plans developed by pre-service teachers in the education programs at Alaska Pacific University. Lessons are designed for K-8 classrooms; focus on differentiated and interdisciplinary instruction; and take one class period.

Dear Reader: I am a writer who doesn’t write. I’ve become deeply hesitant to tell the stories of others and prefer to create space for individuals to share the stories of their own lived experiences. This issue is holding space for those stories. The theme of this issue is “artifacts,” but not necessarily in the traditional sense of objects one would find behind a glass case in a museum. I think of artifacts as “the things left behind” or the “material culture” linked to a specific place. Material culture is a fascinating concept that helps us understand the world around us. At its core, material culture refers to all the physical things and objects that people create, use, and interact with in their daily lives. These objects can be as simple as a coffee mug, a piece of clothing, or a smartphone, and they can also include more complex items like artwork, buildings, and even archaeological artifacts from ancient civilizations. Yet, material culture isn’t just about the objects themselves; it’s about what these objects can tell us. These physical items carry with them stories, history, and insights into the people who made and used them. The stories in this issue grew from that idea of material culture (however defined by each author) to highlight the complex stories of life in Alaska. Additionally, these stories build on the last issue of FORUM, by continuing to amplify voices and narratives that have been historically underrepresented or even silenced in the Alaska media landscape and fostering an inclusive dialogue for readers. I also hope this magazine exists as a living document that readers interact with and question. To advance that mission, we have again partnered with teachers who have developed lesson plans to utilize in tandem with the articles in this issue. I strongly believe that these lesson plans empower readers to become active learners, enhance the educational value of the magazine, and contribute to the magazine’s goal of sharing knowledge, fostering curiosity, and centering the voices of underrepresented Alaskans. Enjoy this powerful issue, Bree Kessler Editor

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ARTIFACTS

Time Capsules ... in a world of disappearing digital evidence By Mary Katzke MAKE YOUR OWN TIME CAPSULE

was first introduced to the concept of time capsules by my father at our old farmhouse in Minnesota in the mid-’60s. I can’t even remember what we put in there but perhaps it was a local newspaper and a handful of photos? In 2003, when the plumbing burst through the wall in my first home in Anchorage, before the hole was plastered away, I was inspired to place a capsule in the wall with current family photos and newspaper headlines. Over ten years later, when the rain came running down the inside wall of our Potlatch Circle condo in Anchorage and another renovation was required, together my son and I gathered report cards and current utility bills and recipes we both loved, to curate yet another disaster-induced time capsule. I now face the blank canvas of our brand-new dream home in Homer, and wonder, without the pressure of a plumbing disaster, what artifacts to place in my newest capsule. Having learned the art of preserving memories from our father, I asked my siblings what they put in their time capsules. My sister, Sharon, said she couldn’t remember. “Probably a newspaper,” because she didn’t think anyone would ever find it. My brother, Dave, said he placed his capsule at work when they remodeled the factory where he was working at Jolly Green Giant in Blue Earth, Minnesota. He shared that they buried an antiquated piece of pea-sorting machinery. My friend Gwenette resides in Florida now but back when she was a kid in Apple Valley, Calif., buried a time capsule in her childhood home. “I only did one with my brother, Randy, after our parakeet, Petey, died,” recalls Gwenette. “I remember it well. I was five; Randy was 12. We put in the mirror from Petey’s aviary, one of his blue feathers, a drawing I made of Petey with our calico cat, a popsicle stick stained orange from my favorite flavor, a bottle of our Nana’s favorite bright red nail polish, Randy’s 7th-grade military school report card, a brass button from his school uniform, a pix of our “mommy” by a pool, a pix of Ran-

dy, me, and cousins Cheryl and Bob, with our Granddad and Aunt Vera (our very young stepgrandmother) on their farm by the pomegranates bushes, a rattlesnake skin from the farm, one of Granddad’s cigar stubs, and Aunt Vera’s recipe for dill rye bread. We wrapped it all in a kitchen towel embroidered by our Nana, put it in a 2-quart Mason jar, then buried it under my playhouse porch steps and made a secret map. We were going to dig it up on my 21st birthday but we sold the house and moved just a year later. Maybe it’s still there.” For me, this will likely be my last time capsule because this Homer house is my forever home. I began my process by adding objects that reflect the current moment we live in: a COVID test kit and mask; a newspaper with headlines about Ukraine, a chemical explosion in Illinois, and certain political figures. I also added empty boxes of current medications and photos of our family. I included DVDs of some of my work and a copy of my book, One Good Man. I wrote a letter about the house that explained how we’d come down to Homer for years loving the rush of driving up over the crest just before descending into this lovely seaside town and imagining living there. Then, after actively looking for five years, and balancing a wish list with a budget, we bought this land. I wrote about how the view and the copious sunshine had kept us coming back to this spot, and dreaming of the house that could stand there. What colors would it be? Where would the gardens go? I described a wild yard that would be filled with alder, birch, fireweed, Sitka roses, puschke, and blueberries. Maybe one day after I’m gone, the next homeowner will remodel the kitchen and find some delight in discovering my time capsule which captures this unique time in Homer’s history and my personal life. ■

Choose a location. This can be during new construction, repairs to your home, your backyard, or even a secret place recorded only by GPS coordinates. Choose your “container.” Your vessel could be an official style capsule, or Tupperware from your cupboard. The main consideration is moisture prevention. Select items that tell a story. Consider the purpose of creating this artifact. Is it to mark an event in history? Or a person’s life? Fill your capsule with items that give specific details to someone who might stumble upon your time capsule at a future time. Conceal or bury your capsule. Remember one more time that moisture is not your friend. Try to wrap items or preserve them by laminating them. Record the location of your capsule so that you don’t forget. Maybe even make a sign or create a treasure hunt so that a future Alaskan can find it.

LESSON PLAN

Mary Katzke is the founder of Affinityfilms, Inc. and the author of One Good Man, and numerous articles and commentaries on social issues. ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

DISPATCH FROM UGASHIK

What You See is What I Saw John Hagen, expressionist and documentarian By Rosanne Pagano

ine arts photographer John Hagen was maybe 10 or 11 when he entered his first contest, determined to take first prize with a picture of bald eagles that gather by the thousands every autumn north of Haines, the Southeast town where he grew up. He had a plastic point-and-shoot camera and encouragement from his father, the Inupiaq artist John G. Hagen, a master of Tlingit carving. The contest’s top prize: $100. “The local gift shop did photo processing and it had this bald eagle competition,” Hagen recalled. The memory still makes him smile. His photo didn’t win—“I think they gave me a free roll of film”—but he went home with more than cash. A photographer whose classically composed landscape photos have been exhibited in Anchorage, Homer, and Santa Fe, N.M., Hagen’s early effort revealed what it means to make art. “It’s all about trying and experimenting,” he said. He still has that camera. Hagen was in high school when he next tried photography. Arriving from Haines to take part in an Anchorage program for promising students in media, he watched as everyone was given a point-and-shoot camera, preloaded with black-and-white film. When it was his turn and no cameras were left, the instructor offered a fully manual, single-lens reflex model. He received a crash course: “Focus, match shutter speed and aperture, and here you go. It was five minutes.” From that roll, two pictures were in focus; they were enough. Later as a photojournalism student at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, assigned to cover sports for the campus newspaper, and then as a staff photographer from 2001 to 2007 with the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner, Hagen would go on to use his camera to tell stories to make people care. “It’s all about being there, bearing witness to events that happen,” he said. “I might move around, but mostly what you see is what I saw.” Which is why that white rectangular element is untouched in the middle of his photo, “Riley’s Cabin,” from Hagen’s Ugashik series completed in 2020. The central element—a disused four-wheel trailer—was neither excised with his computer nor hauled off before Hagen took the picture in the first place. “It stands out so much,” he says. “I like that it asks, ‘What is that?’ ” Now see the house in sunlight, the Bering Sea weather rolling in. Consider the waiting skiffs, the shoreland grass. Together and singly, every feature tells the story Hagen wants you to feel: Alaska is a tough place where the land doesn’t care about you. To collect as much information as possible, he typically shoots in color even if converting to black and white. “Riley’s Cabin” was made with a digital camera and a small wide-angle lens as Hagen stood about 100 feet away. His aunt says Riley is someone who used to live in Ugashik. More than that Hagen doesn’t know. After earning his bachelor of fine arts degree in new media from the Institute of American Indian Arts in 2011, Hagen, whose heritage is Iñupiaq and Aleut, returned to Alaska with an understanding of ways that fine art photography draws on aspects of traditional Indigenous art, especially its interest in freeing artists to express sentiment. He has applied this insight to his work since 2021 as curator for Indigenous art and initiatives at the Anchorage Museum. “I learned at IAIA that I wasn’t the only person like me out there,” he said. “Things that I was feeling about my Indigenous self were something I could talk about and create art around.” ■

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“Riley’s Cabin,” from John Hagen’s Ugashik series of photographs.

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FROM TAUTIRUT TO CH’DUDNAŁYUN Growing a new instrument of healing By Ruth Łchav’aya K’isen Miller and Elissa Opfer Photographs by Jessica Hays

“One thing I want to say about research is that there is a motive. I believe the reason is emotional because we feel. We feel because we are hungry, cold, afraid, brave, loving, or hateful. We do what we do for reasons, emotional reasons. That is the engine that drives us. That is the gift of the Creator of Life. Life feels... Feeling is connected to our intellect and we ignore, hide from, disguise, and suppress that feeling at our peril and at the peril of those around us. Emotionless, passionless, abstract, intellectual research is a goddamn lie, it does not exist. It is a lie to ourselves and a lie to other people. Humans—feeling, living, breathing, thinking humans—do research. When we try to cut ourselves off at the neck and pretend an objectivity that does not exist in the human world, we become dangerous, to ourselves first, and then to the people around us.” —Hampton (Chickasaw Tribe of Oklahoma) (1995)

Elissa Opfer, left, and Ruth Łchav’aya K’isen Miller, right, with their work in progress: the world’s first ch’dudnałyun.

n the summer of 2023, we—Ruth Łchav’aya K’isen Miller and Elissa Opfer—were each awarded an Artist Fellowship through the Creative Residency Program at Chulitna Lodge on the shores of Qizjeh Vena, or Lake Clark. Ruth is a Dena’ina activist, educator and artist whose ancestors are buried at Qizhjeh, or Kijik, about two miles along the shoreline from Chulitna Lodge, and she was the first Alaska Native artist to be awarded this Fellowship. Elissa is of German and English descent, a professional luthier with an archaeology background based in New Orleans, specializing in the repair and restoration of non-Western cultural instruments. We co-wrote this narrative to introduce a new artifact to the world—the ch’dudnałyun, the first string instrument to be made of fish skin—which grew from an initial clash of ideologies, a deep and vulnerable learning experience, and ulti-

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mately a beautiful friendship. This is the commentary of this instrument, the story through which the ch’dudnałyun has been brought to life. It exists within the emergent culture of our collaboration, between our two backgrounds, and in a culmination of our shared knowledge as luthier and Indigenous artist. This essay is not a trial for Elissa, but rather a vulnerable insight into the learning journey through which we accompanied one another, and the beautiful healing and creation that emerged from it, in hopes that it will embolden other brave conversations between readers around cultural appropriation, research practices, harvesting protocol, cross-cultural collaboration, and healing.

ELISSA

Ever since I began working with musical instruments, I have felt pulled towards the traditional side of the luthier craft: taking an old unplayable instrument and giving it the love it needs to make the sound it once sang years ago in its prime, or tending to an instrument of a musician who keeps the sounds of their ancestors alive. Traditional instruments and the music that they have made are the lifeblood of cultural expression. It is the voices of those who came before us, passed down through generations, singing the stories, the history, and feelings of love, pain, the purest joy, and the deepest sorrows. We can feel what our ancestors felt through the melodies and the unique sounds of the musical instruments that they created and cherished. Unfortunately, I have come to realize how rare are the luthiers who can care for these kinds of music-makers. As these instruments are important to our world, so too are those who make and preserve them for us. If traditional luthiers die out, the unfortunate reality is that the instruments will then also be lost. I have focused my own luthier practice around tending to these instruments, but at the same time, I have been working on formulating ways to help advocate for the preservation of the knowledge of the makers of these instruments. In this though, I have found that the instruments most in danger of being lost are those beyond mainstream music, and beyond classical and Western traditions. This is where this story of growth and understanding truly begins for me. In preparation for the Chulitna fellowship, I wanted to work with an instrument that was personal to Alaska, so that I might connect to it through being present on the

land. In my search for such an instrument, I first read the word ‘tautirut,’ also known as the lost Inuit violin. The instrument is thought to be already lost, and I was seduced by this challenge to reconstruct it and offer it to its cultural community. But then, a month into my research, I came to a crumbling realization that the tautirut wasn’t even from Alaska at all, but of the Inuit peoples of Baffin Island and Northern Quebec—the complete opposite side of the continent from Alaska! After time in contemplation of how to move forward with this new information, I decided that, though it was not of the land I would be on, the tautirut was still deserving of my efforts and I would continue my work.

RUTH

“Can you help her buy caribou sinew?” I was flooded with concern—who is this white woman who wants sinew and what for? Does she know what she’s dealing with? Can you even buy that? I don’t think anyone should be able to. I was instantly protective of our vejex (caribou), the Indigenous knowledge that was attempting to be accessed, and the spiritual protocol that is necessary to respect throughout working with traditional materials. But I bit back my instant reluctance and considered the social ramifications my anger might have on my own opportunities as an artist in this community we were about to share. “I am happy to be in touch with them via cellphone but I won’t be able to give contacts or resources that violate my cultural principles... But always room for kindness and exploration!” I opted to reply, only grating slightly against the need to police my tone. I was indeed triggered by the

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long history of outsiders coming into our communities, extracting knowledge and materials, and abusing them without ever engaging in Indigenous collaboration, protocols, or relationships. Elissa soon reached out with a respectful and self-aware message sharing about her vision to reconstruct the tautirut, an instrument tied to the Canadian Inuit community of Iqaluit and made of traditional Inuit materials. She proposed building the Canadian Inuit instrument on Dena’ina land while in Alaska. Through her words, I could feel her genuine eagerness to approach this work with respect and sensi-

tivity, and she invited my guidance. And yet, the more I read the more uncomfortable I became with her approach. This conversation on artifacts engaged a complex history of theft, misconstruction, appropriation, and violence. Indigenous peoples across the North suffered the destruction and attempted annihilation of our cultures and our peoples—only for our languages, cultural objects, practices, and regalia to be taken from us, exoticized in museums, and continually appropriated for profit. That violence is still very real today and both myself, along with other community members, are active in

conversations about repatriation, cultural knowledge, and curatorial practices that are necessary for healing. In my lengthy reply, we touched on many aspects: the requisite for permission from the community and what true consent means, the obligation for the inclusion of cultural context and commentary, and the cultural genealogy and spirit of such an instrument. It was important to me to emphasize that the idea that an object— that is somehow void of culture, singular, and only physical—is a Western ideology that excludes the basis of Indigenous being—relationship and reciprocity. Within

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our Indigenous cultures, our objects each are imbued with story and spirit, carrying the energy and thoughts of those who made it, the animals that gave materials, the ways it was used, and who has touched it. They have a life of their own that is spiritual, energetic, and can both be impacted and impactful— our cultures teach us approaches that align with this relationship; for instance, only thinking good thoughts when you are beading or tanning hides because those energies will go into the “object” you are making. Cultural objects have a life force that must be taken care of and respected. There is no cultural object that can be removed from the cultural context. However, the crux of my discomfort was the place where she proposed to create the tautirut—my Dena’ina homelands. This site is not just a lodge and an artist retreat, but a living land with 30,000 years of Dena’ina history and culture, so any materials sourced from there and from Alaska would be part of the story and part of the relationship with Iqaluit. A traditional teaching that I needed to voice was that the creation of any cultural object begins with the land that grew them with the animals and plants that trade their lives; it begins with prayer and permission from the nonhuman kin themselves and is reinforced with each step of the process. It is important to bring awareness to the intense and extremely laborious work that goes into making traditional materials such as hides, skins, and sinew. As a hunter, fisher, gatherer, and traditional hide-tanner myself, I can attest to how much time, energy, and labor goes into our traditional practices. For instance, faced with a simple question about sourcing caribou sinew—the creation of sinew is intense and I have not encountered anyone in the many communities here that I am a part of that continues to make it in a traditional way. You first hunt the animal and receive permission to take its life, then the sinew that is used is ligaments and tissue which you harvest and split, you then dry the sinew, and then split the fibers, and roll them together on your thighs until a thin rope is made, which takes quite some time. Elissa could not have made the tautirut technically the way it would have been made, and to build an instrument of foreign materials with some sort of scientific objectivity would have been facsimile, and would have ignored the subjective cultural implications of those choices.

I wanted to challenge her to reflect and comment on what it means to be a nonNative person doing this work and what that journey is for her personally, as that will be the story of any cultural object she engages with. I posed to her these questions: “In all, the core question for YOU to answer is, ‘Am I the right person to be making this object? Is this work that is mine to do?’ and along with that you must bring a willingness to potentially find a ‘no.’ Some other questions that are crucial are ‘What more can I do to contribute to a healing path for this object and the community I want to be in a relationship with?’ ‘What does this community mean to me?’” I concluded with sympathy that this is not easy, but the point is to create pause and reflect because the alternative is that this Indigenous knowledge continues being taken and exploited by non-Native people. There is an important role for Western researchers and outsiders as they step up as allies to our communities; collaboration is an infinite invitation for reflection, questioning, doubt, and trust-building. Growing and decolonizing means developing a tolerance for discomfort and questions that may not have easy answers. Lastly, I reminded her that this exchange was now part of the history of any instrument she chose to make for this fellowship and that if she moved forward with the tautirut, it would carry our words with it.

ELISSA

I felt immediately defensive. I didn’t know her, nor her me, yet her feelings were strong and powerful. Within me arose a mixture of pride, shame, disappointment, embarrassment, and yet, determination to understand. It took me days in deep contemplation to reflect, digest, and come to acknowledge her serious and valid concerns. I knew it was time to listen; I needed to grow in my understanding of what my role was and could be, to become an ally in the healing of the loss of this instrument’s tradition. I had been trying to recreate something that was already made, but without the ancestral knowledge, the cultural connection, or an understanding of the materials. I was prepared in a technical sense, but not in a relational sense. I realized that objectivity in cultural artifact work is false, and would have been ultimately unhelpful to the community of the tautirut because it would

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ELISSA AND RUTH’S RECOMMENDED READING LIST Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer Research is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods, Shawn Wilson Decolonizing Methodologies, Linda Tuhiwai Smith Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag Cross-Cultural Research Methods in Psychology, Fons J. R, Van de Vijver, edited by David Matsumoto Memory Comes Before Knowledge: Research May Improve if Researchers Remember their Motives, Eber Hampton

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have lacked the cultural aspect which is the whole point. It would have been empty, missing its heart, missing the people and their voice. So when I came to the conclusion that the research of the tautirut was not to be done on this land I realized that the work had found me after all: with my time at Chulitna, I would dedicate myself to reading, learning, and listening about Indigenous research methodologies and how I could be a stronger and more active ally and traditional instrument luthier. I learned that when it comes to being an outsider researching an Indigenous cultural item, there is so much to consider to ensure that what you are working towards will be genuinely helpful. It is crucial to acknowledge the difference in epistemologies between Indigenous and Western communities. I learned that if you are an outsider with hopes of helping another’s culture, the most important part is to build a relationship with that culture and the land and also be mindful of yourself and your own biases and how that might affect your service. Western researchers believe that the researcher can be completely objective, a feat no person can achieve, less so in a political, historical, and cultural craft. Indigenous research is approached through relationality. One day at Chulitna, I went to help fell dead trees to help provide firewood for the lodge, and I was taught how to harvest a tree. I took into consideration how connected Ruth’s people are to the land and the resources that the land provides–that to use them was not just a matter of need, but there was a deep respect for the trees, the fish, and the animals. I realized that by choosing a tree that spoke to me, cutting it down myself, and processing it by hand, I was building a connection to the woods in a whole new way. I spent time with this tree, as I slowly stripped its bark and came to realize all the different ways this one tree in its entirety could give. All of its parts were useful, gifts to be cherished. I did not yet know the use of this tree, but I knew it was not meant to be firewood. I was waiting for it to speak to me to tell me what it wanted to become. Soon, I was preparing my notes for my artist’s talk, at which I would present this journey thus far and describe my arc of learning—how the tautirut, Ruth’s instruction, and my research had led me to a beautiful deepening and budding relation-

Maybe together we could create a new instrument, one that was inspired by the land, by our individual relationships to the land, and our

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relationship to each other.

ship with place that I had not previously imagined. I was thinking of some of Ruth’s first words to me: she asked me to consider what it would mean for me to be on her ancestral homelands, and to use the resources that it blesses us with. Then the thought came to mind that maybe, just maybe, she would be interested in collaborating with me. Maybe together we could create a new instrument, one that was inspired by the land, by our individual relationships to the land, and our relationship to each other. I remember rushing immediately down the hill to the feeble wifi to send her a message asking if she would be interested in just that. And to my great joy, she was thrilled about the idea. I didn’t know what we would make together, but now my head was filled with ideas. I began my search for inspiration, by reading books I had brought on the sacred geometry of well-known instruments like the violin, as well as a book that is basically a dictionary of world instruments. I was contemplating how those who had come before us had ever invented a new instrument, what was important for it to function, and how instruments that had come before us, helped to inspire what we would make.

RUTH

When I arrived back at Chulitna Lodge at Qizhjeh Vena, it was time for fishing. Electricity hummed in the air and we rushed to mend nets and sharpen knives–it is the most exciting time of the year, and as a Dena’ina woman, I prepared to welcome our salmon relatives home. I had started my time at Chulitna in early June and offered our traditional ceremony for a safe and healthy salmon migration back to their natal streams. And now towards the end of the summer, I knew that I wanted to teach the family of Chulitna how reciprocity and prayer must be centered in fishing time. By this point, Elissa and I had grown to know one another as women and had become dear friends. In long conversations, I shared with her about how my people were related to the salmon, and how the art that I had brought to Chulitna for my residency was creating regalia for Salmon Woman who had come to me in dream world. As we fished, I introduced Elissa to our cultural protocol and we discussed the visions that we had of our new instrument.

CONSTRUCTION OF THE INSTRUMENT The neck is made of ch’vala—spruce tree— that was felled on Dena’ina lands by Elissa’s hands, which then designed and carved the body shape based on her knowledge and expertise with Western string instruments, but inspired by the shape of a Dena’ina baqay, or canoe. The skin that covers the spruce is a sockeye salmon, caught by Elissa and Ruth and prepared according to Ruth’s traditional Dena’ina teachings. The stitching and strings were braided using artificial sinew and as this instrument continues to evolve, they will be replaced by a caribou sinew string and a deer sinew string, to be prepared in the homes of Elissa and Ruth who grew up in a relationship to these animals. We have decided to shield the specifications of the instrument until a time when we may consider reproducing it—not all knowledge is for public consumption.

ELISSA

HEAR THE CH’DUDNAŁYUN

Watching Ruth in her element, pulling the fish from the lake, and treating them with respect, is when the vision of the instrument’s shape came to me. I asked her if she thought that there was any way that we could use a salmon skin to stretch over wood, something akin to how goat and sheep hide is used in banjos and ngonis. She thought for a moment and looked at me and said, we would have to skin it backward to keep the strongest part centered. I was amazed by her immediate insight and instincts. She asked me to go to the crate where the fish that had yet to be processed lay and asked me to pick a fish for our instrument. I brought it to her and watched her calculate in her head how to gut a fish backward to best preserve the skin. It came to her so naturally. That night she showed me how to scrape the skin and explained the process. I started the process that night for us and she

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

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took charge of the skin from there. Leaving me to be able to focus on the design and wooden elements of our instrument. Ruth has a natural connection to the salmon, and through carving this tree I honored my natural connection to wood, one that has been there as long as I can remember. Over days I slowly carved piece by piece of this wood letting the form appear, feeling with my hands and knowing when things felt right, and listened to that instinct.

solutions. I knew that the skin needed to have certain durable qualities that would preserve it, but also allow it to maintain tautness and resonate with vibration. The magic happened when the two were finally united. The salmon and spruce. If you look at the instrument now it’s truly amazing how perfectly the skin fits to the wooden body, any longer the salmon would not have been covered wholly, any shorter, and we would have had to cut down the salmon. It was a combination of our crafts, and a pairing of our difWitnessing Elissa’s dedi- ferent expertise that allowed this instrucation to the ch’bala, or ment to play. We braided the artificial spruce tree, was a healing experience for sinew together, adjusted the bridge and me and allowed me to fall deeper into pegbox, and decided on two strings: one trust in our work. I for each of us, a lower and shared with her how a higher. We soon heard every part of the spruce the first notes, plucked The magic and the salmon should with eager curiosity. The happened when the instrument sings beautibe valued, treated with fully, in haunting deep respect, and used or retwo were finally turned lovingly to the tones almost like a cello. united. The salmon land—Elissa immediFinally, with this instruately began exploring ment coming to life, we and spruce. It was the use of the sap for understood that our journey was a story that must resin; the bones of the a combination of be told, and protected. We fish and the fins soon our crafts, and have named this moment, became gifts; we shared this story, this instrument the meat of the fish as a pairing of our “ch’dudnałyun,” a Dena’ina a meal. phrase that translates to Additionally, we different expertise “it grew through it;” and discussed how our that allowed this we say nułyah (“it is growthoughts and conversations would go into this ing”) for all that is yet to instrument to play. instrument–a very imcome. portant Dena’ina culWe have created agreetural teaching. As we ments about the use and worked we had to understand that every role of the instrument; that it will never feeling and thought was like whispering be played for an audience without cona secret and that this instrument would text and explanation, that none other carry those stories forward. We were care- than us two will play it without mutual ful and protective of our work so that it consent, and that we will continue to would be clear and personal to our inten- tend to the nułyah and deepen our retional story. lationship with this new songmaker. We I was amazed at the dedication Elissa hope to compose a Dena’ina song that showed to the carving of the wood, how shares this story and can be played on each curve and shape was meticulous and the nułyah, as songs are our oldest form planned, based on both the needs of the of storytelling. Its use will be to carry on wood and her vast knowledge of existing the story of this healing journey– a story string instruments. In conversation, we of deepening allyship to Indigenous peoagreed that it should be shaped similarly ples’ sovereignty and traditional ecologito our baqay, or Dena’ina canoe, as we cal knowledge, a story of the Dena’ina were paddling forwards on a new journey land that shaped this instrument. It will together. As Elissa carved, I worked the sing a song of the healing necessary to skin, using traditional methods that were move through trauma, towards learning, taught to me by my Elder June Pardue, and and to brighter and more beautiful colconsidering and testing different tanning laboration yet to come. ■

RUTH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We extend our deepest gratitude to the family at Chulitna Lodge (chulitnalodge.com) who gave us invaluable support for our process of creation—Mara Bartlett Asenjo, Teon Reid, Coco Lloyd, and Adam Kappus, with a special big chin’an to Justin Richards for letting us tromp around his woodshop, and Em Black for her pure love of the fish. Elissa would like to give a special thanks to her supporters Marty and Rex Leatherbury, and James Douglas Hislop, for all their kindness and believing in the importance of this work. And to Gina Burgess for her insight and continued assistance in creating connections with the ancestral community of the tautirut. Ruth as well thanks her Elder June Pardue for her dedicated mentorship in passing along knowledge of fish skin tanning, as well as Melissa Shaginoff and Joel Isaak for their support and always being available for late-night questions. We thank Jessica Hays for her beautiful photography and documentation of our process. And ultimately, we thank the Dena’ina stewards of Qizhjeh Vena, both ancestral and contemporary, who have allowed us to love and grow on their lands.

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Weaving History with Integrity

Wooshinkindein Da.aat Lily Hope brings many to the path of a once-endangered artform By Rachel Bishop

ost people don’t quite know what to expect when they walk into the new Wooshinkindein Da.aat Lily Hope Weaver Studio. Wooshkindein Da.aat, Lily’s Tlingit name, means “walking together one behind another.” Located in downtown Juneau, the studio is in the perfect location to catch the eye of the wandering visitor. Window displays of woven jewelry, weaving kits, and photos of Chilkat blankets pique one’s curiosity. Renowned Chilkat weaver Lily Hope beckons to the hesitators, encouraging any patron to come and learn about this once endangered artform. Before they know it, they are drawn into the beauty of Chilkat as they handle a tuft of mountain goat wool and watch Lily skillfully fingertwine the yarns into a story of spirit and community. Lily, Tlingit, Raven T’aḵdeintaan, was born in 1980 in Juneau to full-time artist parents. Her father, Bill Hudson, is a painter and multimedia artist. Her mother, the late Clarissa Rizal, was a multimedia artist and Chilkat weaver who studied alongside master Chilkat weaver, Jennie Thlunaut. Lily grew up in Juneau and remembers watching her mother’s hands constantly at work while she was encour-

aged to help. She would help lay out mother-ofpearl buttons, stir the dye pot, or wind yarns, and thigh-spin warp. Given her parentage, it’s no surprise that Lily was destined to become one of the most renowned Chilkat weavers of her generation, but if you ask her, she will clarify that she didn’t always recognize herself as a weaver. Chilkat is a woven art form practiced by Tlingit, Haida, Tsimshian, and other Northwest Coast peoples of the US and Canada. The Chilkat ceremonial robes are commissioned by clan leaders or given as gifts to be danced during cultural ceremonies and are coveted by museums and fine art collectors. Historically, the robes were twined on a warp of thigh-spun mountain goat wool and cedar bark, but in the present day, Merino wool is used as it is easier to obtain. The Merino weft yarns can be dyed with natural materials like hemlock and wolf moss. A full-size ceremonial blanket is time- and labor-intensive. It can take up to 2,500 hours of labor, not only due to the finger-twining and braiding of the pat-

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tern, but also because a weaver will invest several hundred hours in material prep or purchasing prepared materials (which can cost upwards of $7,000) before they even begin warping up the loom. The designs come from the Northwest Coast art style, Formline, and are adapted to work within the twining techniques. The designs record history that calls on ancestors when the robe is danced, the fringe swaying out from the wearer to the witnesses in threads of connection. It’s a magical experience that Lily likens to “watching a child take their first steps.” Traditionally, knowledge is passed from one family member to another. In the last 120 years, there have been fewer than a dozen Chilkat weavers capable of weaving full-size ceremonial regalia. Lily recalls the realization she had about her mother teaching her to weave.“I was a storyteller, actor, and teacher. My mother was the weaver. It wasn’t until after her passing that I realized how sneaky she was when she was teaching me how to weave. But now I know she was always preparing me for this life and now she’s on the other side of the veil guiding me on this path.” For Lily, it’s not just about creating art.

Lily Hope weaves on Between Worlds, a Chilkat robe commissioned by and living permanently at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. The completed robe is seen dancing on the cover of this issue. If you’d like to learn more about Lily, please visit lilyhope.com or you can follow her on Instagram, @lilyhopeweaver. Search for “Chilkat Dancing of the Robes Ceremony” on YouTube to view the largest known collection of childsize Chilkat robes being danced for the first time earlier this year. PHOTO BY @SYDNEYAKAGIPHOTO

“The goal is global recognition of these amazing woven beings.”

LESSON PLAN

It’s about sharing the story behind the art and bringing awareness to Chilkat weaving. She spends just as much time teaching workshops, speaking to textile and weaver’s guilds, and asserting Chilkat’s significance to museums, galleries, and universities. “I want the world to recognize Chilkat weaving as fine art. I want people to hear the word Chilkat and immediately have an image of a Chilkat blanket pop into their heads. The goal is global recognition of these amazing woven beings,” she declares as she works on a child-size blanket that she’s weaving for her Patreon students. She’s well on her way to making this goal a reality. A decade ago, if you were to do an online search of Chilkat weaving, a few articles might pop up with a profile of one or two historical weavers. Someone hoping to commission a piece would have only had six weavers with the time and knowledge to complete the work. Now you’ll find numerous articles explaining the significance of the art form. New robes and smaller pieces are being woven and displayed in museums across the United States every year. Lily currently has her weavings on display at the Native Arts & Cultures Foundation, the Houston Museum of Natural History, and the Smithsonian Renwick

Gallery in Washington, D.C., and in over seventeen permanent collections. As a result of Lily’s dedication to teaching others, there are now over two dozen artists with the technical and spiritual knowledge to weave a full-size ceremonial Chilkat blanket. Many of her students also weave for museums and galleries and have begun teaching workshops themselves. Wooshkindein Da.aat. Walking together one behind another. Walking together. No one falling behind. Many are now on this path. The studio is a communal space. She’s quick to give gratitude to the teachers who came before her and never fails to acknowledge the weavers who help carry the knowledge to the next generation. Just like her name, Lily encourages you to follow with integrity, and witness the powerful fine art of Chilkat weaving. ■ Rachel Bishop grew up in Georgia but found her way to Alaska in search of cooler weather and more dynamic scenery. She works part-time for a nonprofit, Juneau Jazz & Classics, and is executive assistant to Lily Hope. When she is not busy supporting and uplifting artists, she is writing and recording her own projects and enjoying the Tongass National Forest.

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

Running Towards Self Wiseman, Alaska Roshier H. Creecy, material culture and individual anthropology By M.C. MoHagani Magnetek

f only for a moment, let us move away from the anthropology of societies and cultures to turn our attention to the material culture of individuals. Along the way, we will meet Roshier Harrison Creecy (1866-1948, born in Rustburg, Vir.), an African-American gold miner who lived in Alaska from 1897 until he froze to death at the age of 82 in his Wiseman, Alaska cabin. On this journey through archival collections, 20th-century film recordings, and audio interviews surrounding the life of Creecy, I will interject a bit of my own personal narrative as a means of engaging in reflexive anthropology. In both anthropology and archaeology, artifacts are things, objects, and/or items that signify human activities. It is the assemblage of artifacts that make up the material culture that collectively gives data for extraction and interpretation. Therefore, within this framework, we are offered an opportunity to escape the pitfalls of generalizations and boxing individuals into categories they may or may not adhere to. Yes, it is important to know Roshier Creecy was an African American and veteran of the Indigenous Assimilation Era Wars (1887-1934). However, there is more to learn about his life without implying the impact of structural and systemic racism on his life. I am at a place in my own journey where it means little to me to say that I am an African-American transgender woman because there are other dynamics of my personhood I would rather uplift in conversation, such as my identification as a cultural anthropologist and historical archaeologist, because these identities of mine are the driving forces of this essay.

After my presentation about Afrofuturism at the Alaska Anthropological Association’s annual meeting in Spring 2023, Crystal Glassburn, an archaeologist from the Bureau of Land Management, pulled me aside to speak about Roshier Creecy. I had never heard of Creecy, but because my presentation illustrated my research interests in the Buffalo Soldiers of Skagway, the African-American soldiers who built 60% of the Alaska-Canada Highway (ALCAN), and 20th-century women entrepreneurs Bessie Couture and Zula Swanson; Glassburn thought I would be a great candidate to pick up Creecy’s trail for a potential future project that involves developing an interpretive kiosk at the Arctic Interagency Visitor Center in Coldfoot, Alaska for visitors to learn about Roshier Creecy. I first read about Creecy from a Pioneers Hall of Fame website link that supplied enough information for me to learn more about the history of placer mining in Alaska. However, what really piqued my interest was a narrative of an African American’s journey to Alaska that had nothing to do with the military or work on the Alaska pipeline, but rather a story about an individual who arrived in Alaska for the purpose of gold mining during the Klondike Gold Rush (1896-1899). At the onset of this research project, a colleague asked if I was concerned about being tokenized. I get it. I respect my friend’s awareness of the circumstances. I replied, “I am a trailblazer,” the first time I ever spoke that word out loud about myself. In the past, my reluctance to say I was a trailblazer came from my desire to remain humble and not see myself as extraordinary in being the first Black to

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SEE THE FILM

Roshier H. Creecy at his cabin in Wiseman in the 1930s or '40s. Harry Leonard, a filmmaker and friend of Creecy’s, filmed him with his dogs, sled, and gold pan. This is a still from that film.

do this or the first Black to do that. Yet in this situation, I know there are no other diasporic African transgender women archaeologists in Alaska with an interest in documenting the stories of diasporic African descendant people in the Circumpolar Far North. It’s just me out here on the land conducting archaeological investigations and being an ethnographer in search of human stories and cultures. I know who I am in this space and where I am going. Can I be tokenized as the exceptional other when I’m driving this ship or is this just another case of Ralph Ellison’s unnamed protagonist in his 1952 novel “The Invisible Man?” I ask this question not solely for my personal journey, but because I want to know if Roshier Creecy felt the same way over a hundred years ago as the owner of the Eureka Creek Roadhouse he bought in 1904 and his multiple prospecting claims throughout the Alaska Klondike-Koyukuk region. I wondered if Creecy had agency. How did he negotiate power? The material culture, and the collection of items/artifacts he left behind informs me that he staked his claims, he inquired and defended his Veterans Administration benefits, and he considered his age and loneliness as he prepared to die. The only historical biographical sketch solely dedicated to Roshier Creecy is, “Roshier H. Creecy: A Black Man’s Search for Freedom and Prosperity in the Koyukuk Gold Fields of Alaska” (2019) written by Margaret Merritt, PhD. I reject the assertion put forth in the aforementioned work that Creecy was running away from racism and the systematic oppression of African Americans. Rather, I am cu-

rious to know what Creecy was running towards. In a conversation with my friend and culture bearer Diane “Bunny” Fleeks, a lifetime resident of Fairbanks, she similarly rejects the idea of the telling of Creecy’s story as a means of escape. She, like me, loves Alaska and thinks it is possible that Creecy came to Alaska in search of gold, but fell in love with this land and decided to stay; only leaving once for a lengthy hospital stay in Seattle in 1935 after he fell ill. I began my quest to know more about Creecy by visiting the University of Alaska Fairbanks Elmer E. Rasmuson Library. Yes, going to the library is still high-tech cutting-edge anthropology, well at least I consider it so because the library has digitized film and audio recordings. Furthermore, I had so much fun spending an early summer day reading and scanning photos, letters, grocery receipts, and newspaper clippings recovered in Roshier Creecy’s cabin after his passing. UAF library film archivist, Angela Schmidt, led me down to the film vault to see the original film canisters of filmmaker and friend to Creecy, Harry Leonard, who filmed Creecy in the 1930’s/1940s. Because the film is so old, the archivist could not put it on the projector for me to see but we did watch the digital version. Thanks to Leonard, we have the only footage as well as still images clipped from the film of Creecy alive with his dogs, and sled, panning for gold in front of his Wiseman cabin. The UAF archive is filled with materials and primary documents, such as the scraps of paper, of-

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ten undated and without context, on which Creecy used to jot down notes such as needed provisions, how cold it was outside, or his son’s name and moments of life reflections. On a scrap piece of paper recovered from his cabin, retrieved in the library’s Roshier Creecy collection, we get a sense of his mental well-being and attitudes towards aging and marriage via his own handwriting: “I am thoroughly aware that having lived from beyond the span of maw life. My own span is very short. I ought not be afraid to die. I do my best to greet people with a smile. I … had seen his children grow to manhood and womanhood and become fathers and grandfathers. Their mothers and grandmothers. I am too old to marry and old enough to make ready to die.”

The moment my fingers parted the archival folders, and I came across a 1936 letter from a representative of The Regular Veterans Association addressed to Creecy, I knew I had to call and talk to my dad, Stacey Wilburn, Sr. I told my dad that I’m studying documents from another African-American veteran who lived over a hundred years ago and how Roshier Creecy remained in constant communication with the VA. I call my dad for anything VA-related because he is an Army vet and taught me, as he says, “how to handle my business” at the VA. My dad replied, “Ain’t nothing changed, it’s still the same. You got to read to have knowledge for yourself,” because the VA is accessible; you just have to follow through with all the paperwork. Several other letters in the collection highlight Creecy’s persistent communication with the VA. In 1905, Roshier Creecy wrote a complaint letter to the Canadian police to report the burglary of his Eureka Creek Roadhouse. I wish we had access to Creecy’s letter to the North-West Mounted Police because the Assistant Commissioner responded to Creecy’s upset tone about the break-in and theft of his provisions. After informing Creecy of the impending investigation the commissioner writes, “In the meantime, however, I would not advise you to take the law in your own hands, as you suggest, as you would render yourself liable to an action for assault.” I believe Creecy had a great deal of agency, meaning he did not allow anyone to cheat or shortchange him on his money, and he believed he must defend and protect his belongings even if it meant going above the law. However, this is only my interpretation and takeaways from reading the correspondence letters. After those two days in the library, I caught up with another friend of mine, archaeologist Steve Lanford, in the archaeological collections of the University of Alaska Fairbanks Museum of the

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Film archivist Angela Schmidt, left, and author M.C. MoHagani Magnetek, right, in the film vault of the UAF library. Schmidt holds an original canister containing Harry Leonard’s film of Roshier Creecy. PHOTO COURTESY OF M.C. MOHAGANI MAGNETEK

they were here for a purpose. they weren’t running out of town. they were coming to a life they thought they could create for themselves that was much broader, much bigger.

LEF T: Correspondence between Creecy, The

Regular Veterans Association, and the NorthWest Mounted Police. ABOVE: A fragment of Creecy’s writing recovered from his cabin after his death: “...I ought not be afraid to die. I do my best to greet people with a smile....” PHOTO COURTESY OF M.C. MOHAGANI MAGNETEK

North to tell him about my findings and to ask him a few questions about Creecy and Klondike Gold Rush history. He told me that if I was snooping around the archive collections in the library then I was in the right place because that is where the bulk of all that is known about Creecy resides. I felt rather good about myself with the affirmation that I was on the right path. I must be honest, I do ethnographic research because I love sitting with the Elders and listening to their stories, tall tales, and wisdom. My library adventures continued on to access the audio files housed in the library archives. There are nine audio recordings available; however, for brevity I choose an October 9, 1978, interview with Creecy’s son Nathan Cristini, recorded by documentarian Joseph Strunka. In 1917, Nathan met his father for the first time in Bettles, Alaska, and spent one year with his father as a placer miner. Nathan spoke about his dad’s affinity for apricots, reading, and sense of humor. Nathan recalled his father’s pranks in which he pointed a miner in the wrong direction. Sometimes he used the n-word to refer to himself as someone with ingenuity, charisma, and trickster-like tendencies. Such audio recordings enhance our research with rich, juicy, and savory anecdotes about Roshier Creecy that afford us in the present the opportunity to know who Roshier Creecy was as an individual beyond placer mining or being African American for that matter.

Archived collections and old audio-recorded interviews did not satiate my appetite for writing a complete story. I needed more ethnographic information, so I arranged a meeting with my friend, the theatre director, historian, and culture bearer Diane “Bunny” Fleeks on a Friday evening at The Boatel Bar in Fairbanks. Sitting there on the outside deck sipping on a Lemon Drop mixed drink located on an oxbow bend of the Chena River, I listened and used my iPhone voice recording app to chronicle our conversation. We spoke about many different matters as they related to the history of Black folks in Alaska. My mind was blown away by the amount of knowledge and depth of historical knowledge about African Americans in Fairbanks and Alaska as a whole. On the topic of Roshier Creecy’s presence as the only African American in Wiseman for thirty years, Diane said the stories, “...tend to get told in a way that we’re this kind of special, special, special flowers, but are we? I don’t think of myself as anything but I’m pioneering things and I’m over 60.” Regarding Creecy’s motivations, Diane agreed with me that Black folks who travel, move, and choose to stay in Alaska are not necessarily running away from troubled circumstances; rather, “...they were here for a purpose. They weren’t running out of town. You know or anything like that. They were coming to a life that they thought that they could create for themselves that was much broader, much

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

bigger... so when we are talking about our motivations, we always have to ask, ‘What are we doing?’” I know this is true in my own expedition to establish a life for myself here in Alaska. I had the choice of leaving New York City when I was medically retired and discharged from the Coast Guard in 2012 to relocate back to Houston, Texas (my birthplace), Atlanta (where my immediate family resides), or go back to Alaska after having been gone nearly twenty years since I graduated from East Anchorage High School in 1994. I won’t lie, I was somewhat afraid to move so far away from all my blood relatives, but I sought adventure and a place to heal from the trauma I experienced on active duty. My dad, who is a great source of information and support to me, told me to not have any fear and to go live wherever I want to live and be whoever I want to be. Yet, these anecdotes about our lives and that of Roshier Creecy are insider information, also known in anthropology as emic distinctions, as opposed to etic distinctions (outsider point of view) that often result in assumptions that may or may not be true. Creecy left behind a few notes here and there but no detailed diary of his feelings, emotions, and adventures. The closest we can get to understanding Creecy’s personhood are the stories that were told by the people who knew him well and even to a degree those are assumptions at best. To Alaska out of fear or to Alaska towards self. I’m looking at rather moving towards an anthropology of self in which the individual and personhood take centerstage beyond culture and society. Us diasporic Africans who call Alaska home often hear from others when we tell them we live in Alaska, “Oh, there are Black people in Alaska?” and then they may ask how we fit in or relate to Black culture. But I ask what difference does it make when people akin to Creecy, Fleeks and I are more interested in being ourselves rather than proclaiming or defending our claims to African cultural identities? No doubt racism, bigotry, and discrimination of yesteryear and today give pause to run off into the Alaska wilderness without looking back. However, we engage in our own sense of self as we trailblaze and cut down new paths in the Alaska terrain for those who choose to follow us. Our identities are not derived from our cultures or circumstances for that matter rather originate from ourselves. What is self? I’m not talking about one’s identity. I do not just identify as an African. I identify as queer, as a poet, as an archaeologist, a mother, and a wife… these intersectional pluralities of mine with the understanding of “self ” at the center. I treat this self as a reflexive state of being in which I transit the terrain aware of my actions and inactions; my attitudes and my thoughts regarding my own survival. Now that I think about it casually, Roshier was on his own path and loved it. He could have

Roshier Creecy’s school portrait. PHOTO COURTESY OF M.C. MOHAGANI MAGNETEK

taken his money back to the Lower 48 and lived a plush life of riches but he did not. According to the oral narratives recorded in the Strunka interviews of Creecy’s family and friends, Creecy often sent money and gold nuggets to his family in Virginia. He had income through his placer claims, gemstones, and gold findings. On top of all that he had a $30 monthly pension from the VA, which is a substantial amount of income in 1948. He could have made it anywhere he traveled but he chose to remain in Wiseman, Alaska until he froze to death in the winter of 1948 with his arm stretched out as if he was reaching or stoking a fire while lying down. The oral accounts state in order to fit him in his casket they sawed off his arm. I imagine to this day he is still cracking jokes from the great beyond with one arm eating apricots, reading Negro Digest, and hanging out with his dogs. This entire research and writing is a work in progress. I am just now beginning to venture deep into the fireweeds of individual anthropology, material culture collection, and ethnographic analysis of people like Roshier Creecy here at the base of my climb, running towards an anthropology that investigates individuals who look like me in the Circumpolar Far North. For now, I am enjoying this moment of anthropological exploration and reflection. ■ M.C. MoHagani Magnetek holds degrees in anthropology and English, and has an MFA in creative writing and literary arts. She is a PhD student in cultural anthropology and historical archaeology at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She is currently working on getting her life together to focus her doctoral studies on the culture, history, and arts of diasporic African people in the Circumpolar Far North. Frying fish is her favorite pastime.

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ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

or years, I’ve documented the first pasque flower blooms to appear on the hillsides near home on the boundary of Denali National Park. My approach is not a scientific one; I look for flowers where my mood and the snowmelt take me, and my only record-keeping is a social media almanac with a small but loyal following. I am not one to wish away the winter or to rush the spring. But these flowers, purple beacons bobbing in the wind while the world around them remains a shoulder season monochrome, offer a promise of the season to come, sprouting from the artifacts of past years’ growth. I’m drawn to their continuity even as the seasons bring new uncertainties each year, and to their flamboyance in a landscape that doesn’t seem quite ready for them. I’ve watched small children squeeze a flower in their small fist or a new blossom close and droop under late season snow, and the next day the petals appear bright and unscathed. Flowers carry no shortage of metaphors, but I think they are most powerful as simply themselves: blooming where conditions, however unlikely they may seem, allow, then gone.

Gaudiness and Grace A pasque flower almanac Photos and words by Erica Watson

I TRY to find the flowers earlier each spring, long before they are flowers. As soon as bare ground appears, I find last year’s browned and damp leaves matted to the wet ground. Sometimes daytime highs still hover below freezing, but most years the buds appear around mid-April. I’m careful to replace any vegetation I moved to see them; they’re not yet ready for the world.

Erica Watson lives and writes on the boundary of Denali National Park with her partner and dog. Learn more at ericarobinwatson.com.

PASQUE FLOWERS thrive in well-drained, south-facing

slopes. As the climate warms, slopes undercut by roads or other disturbance fall away. The earliest flowers I find reliably grow on this hollowed out hillside.

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ANTICIPATION BUILDS with the first hints of purple.

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

A FAMILIAR SLOPE just off the Parks Highway was recently cleared and graded as part of an extensive road construction project. I wonder if the flowers will grow here again. I miss these bursts of color on their unremarkable hillside.

IN TWO IN THE FAR NORTH , conservation

leader Mardie Murie wrote of annual “crocus picnics” in the Fairbanks springs of her youth over a century ago. The announcement of pasque flowers, colloquially known then as crocuses, meant everyone took a day off from school to picnic above the still frozen Tanana River among the flowers. “The crocus picnic was always around the 29th of April,” she wrote. The earliest I’ve seen pasques in full bloom was April 14, 2019, a remarkably warm spring. A friend in Fairbanks reported a sighting the same day. In the lingering cold of Spring 2023, they didn’t bloom until Mother’s Day, May 14.

IN FULL SUN, the flowers embody both gaudiness and grace.

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BY THE TIME pasque flowers go to seed, the forest has greened up around them. They might be surrounded by lupine and bluebells, and their tufted seed heads are easy to miss, remnants from a short season already passed. ■

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AKHF DONORS In 2023, the Alaska Humanities Forum pursued its mission with renewed commitment: to connect Alaskans through stories, ideas, and experiences that inspire understanding and strengthen communities. The following donors helped to make this possible. Please consider joining them by using the enclosed envelope or visiting akhf.org/donate. INDIVIDUALS Mike Abbott Donna Aderhold Terry Lee Agee Thea Agnew Bemben Annette Alfonsi Marie Alfonsi Carole Ann Anderson Jean Anderson Jeremy Anderson Jerrad Anderson Joanne N. Anderson Jane Angvik Anonymous Joan Antonson Charisse Arce James C. Arend Hans Arnett Ray Ball Jessica Becker Tom Begich Jill Bieler Melanie Bladow Qacung Blanchett Erin Borowski Bruce Botelho Anna Brawley Colleen Bridge Christa Bruce Nancy Buell Elizabeth Burke Megan Cacciola Evangelia Calhoun Annie Calkins Marian Call BJ Carlson Mara Carnahan Jeffrey Chandler James Cheydleur Cheryl Childers Mike Chmielewski Michael Clark Denice Clyne Emily Cohn Carol Comeau Lorraine Crawford Jeanne Creamer-Dalton Myles Creed Melinda Dale Carmen Davis Patsy Lee Day Bathsheba Demuth Robin Dern George and Brenda Dickison Mawuor Dior Louise Driscoll Roger Dubrock Selina Duncan-Metoyer Bob Eastaugh William Eggimann Rogan Faith Judith Farley-Weed Kitty Farnham Nancy Felton Charleen Fisher Heather Flynn Mark Foster Josh Franks Kenneth Friendly II Jane Fuerstenau Grace Gallagher Rebecca Gallen

Christina Gheen Jim Gilbert Patty H. Ginsburg Carol Gore Anjuli Grantham Gena Graves Amy A. Greene Chelsea Gulling Richard Gustafson Nim Ha Griffin Hagle-Forster Joyanne Hamilton Natalie Hannam David Harper Heather Harris Kelley Hartlieb Jennifer Harty Chet Harwood Nancy Hemsath Camille Hiebert Erik and Robin Hill Holly Hill Jason Hill Lindsay Hobson Shirley Holloway Dianne Holmes Mel Hooper Karen Hunt Elayne Hunter Tim Hurley Marie Husa Juanita Illera Marianne Inman Inmaly Inthaly Ali Jabry Sara Jackinsky Jayly Jackson Mikki Jemin Lynne Jensen Lisa Johnson Britt Johnston Tina Johnston Martha Jokela Diane Kaplan Barbara Karl Martha Keele Ann and Ron Keffer Gwen Kennedy Kip Kermoian Peg Keskinen Stephanie Kesler Joel Kiekintveld Catkin Kilcher-Burton Tyler Kirk Leslie Kleinfeld Joanna Knapp Lynndeen Knapp Pat Koslovich Carolyn Sue Kremers Kurt Kuhne Jeff Kunkel Don Kussart Argent Kvasnikoff Jonathon Lack Jeremy Landreth David Lefton Heather Lende Steve Lindbeck Roberta Littlefield Nancy Lord John Lovett Panu Lucier

Theresa Lyons Mary L. Madden Benjamin Mallott Mary Mangusso David Mannheimer Blythe Marston Brooke Marston Allison B. Martin Gregory Marxmiller Jerry McDonnell Jenny McNulty Rachael McPherson Toni McPherson Jane Meacham Susan Means Joshua Medina Marjorie Menzi Peter Metcalfe Selina Metoyer Bonita Miller Kerstin M Miller Stanton Moll John Mouw Clara Muchunguzi Cathy Munoz Kris Norosz Berit Nowicki Erick Sande Oduor Dinnah Ojwanga Charles Ossenkop Jayson Owens Judith Owens-Manley Lisa Parker Marti Pausback Kameron and Monica Perez-Verdia Ira Perman Helen Peters Sarah Phillips Gordon Pospisil Lee Post Virginia B. Potter Rebecca Poulson Deatrice Pulliam Claire Pywell Sharon Rayt Cyndi Reeves Faith Revell Ann Riordan Felix Rivera Sigrun Robertson Susan Rogers Evan Rose Marci Rosenberg Jeffrey Rubin Rachel Ryan Mary Rydesky Clark Saunders Monika Scherffius Conni Schlee Gregory Schmidt Charles Schwab Sheila Selkregg Ila Sellingham Turid Senungetuk Elizabeth Serrano Catherine Shenk Carrie Jean Shephard Judy Shiffler Wendi Siebold Jeffrey Siemers Michele (Chellie) Skoog Veronica Slajer

Maria Smilde Kathy Smith Mary Lou Spartz Jackie Spieler Jeannine Stafford-Jabaay John and Marcy Stalvey Jennifer Stansel Taryn Stein Rayette Sterling Wayne Stevens Kate Stockly Carmen Stone Trevor Storrs Jess Stugelmayer Denise Sudbeck Susan Sugai Carly Tencza Christine Thorsrud Peg Tileston Heidi Tilicki Charles Tobin Hannah Toomey Aleesha Towns-Bain Mead Treadwell William Tull Joann Utt Dora Vaa Walter Van Horn Janelle Vanasse Lila Vogt Catherine Walling Renee Wardlaw John Weddleton Eva Welch Mimzy Wellberg Florence Whinery Jetta Whittaker Kirstie Willean Kristi Williams Kurt W & Jiaher C W. Wong Mary Bethe Wright Rosalie Wulf Joe Yates Jacqui Yeagle ORGANIZATIONS Agnew::Beck Consulting Alaska Airlines Alaska Community Foundation AmazonSmile Foundation Atwood Foundation Bank of America Charitable Fund ConocoPhillips Alaska GCI John C. Hughes Foundation Juneau Community Foundation Kroger Company Rewards Levesque Law Group Inc. Mat-Su Health Foundation Matson Network for Good PT Capital Rasmuson Foundation Raven Real Estate, LLC Recover Alaska TOTE Maritime Alaska WalMart

Donors listed here made contributions during fiscal year 2023 (Oct. 1, 2022 to Sept. 30, 2023).

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KINDLING CONVERSATION

How are You Creative? THESE CONVERSATIONS

developed in partnership with an Alaska State Council on the Arts initiative, How Are You Creative? How Are You Creative? began as a discussion of collective approaches to teaching and learning in and through arts and cultures in Alaska. For the past two years, groups of arts and cultural advocates, educators, and community leaders from across Alaska have been sharing and learning artistic, cultural, and creative experiences with one another. howareyoucreative.org KINDLING CONVERSATION

sparks connection and strengthens community through intentional, compassionate conversation. This Forum program was built to help get people in our community talking. It provides themed toolkits, host support, and $250 of funding to Alaskans interested in hosting short, thoughtful community conversations tailored to connect people across difference and foster inclusive conversational spaces throughout the state. akhf.org/kindlingconversation

Lynne Sauve Watercolor

Lynne Sauve was born and raised in Alaska. She is a graduate of UAA with a bachelors degree in theatre and recently obtained her master’s degree in vocational rehabilitation from the a. She is Alask in d University of Masraise and Lynne Sauve was born in Theatre with a Bachelors Boston. She works for a graduate of UAAsachusetts her Master’s in Vocational and recently obtained the State of Alaska, Department ersity of Rehabilitation from the Univ s for the State of She work ofon.Labor Vocational Rehabilitation. Massachusetts Bost tional Voca r Labo of nt Alaska, DepartmeHer second language is American language is American Rehabilitation. Her second Sign Language. for a staunch adnch advocateShe’s Sign Language. She’s a stau riences one ilities as she forexpepeople with disabilities people with disabvocate xia and looks at the world herself. She has dysle as she experiences one herself. She and tivity prizes crea differently than others. She orage,at the world has dyslexia looks in Anch livesand She ng. solvi lem prob visionary frog 4 cats, a 2 kids, a dog,than differently others. She prizes is married and has and a corn snake. creativity and visionary problem solving. She lives in Anchorage, is married and has two kids, a dog, four cats, a frog, and a corn snake.

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How does this piece express your creativity?

This watercolor shows a representation of how information is taken in. The center is the brain, and the same information is presenting itself on both sides. It is up to interpretation whether it is a gift or a curse. All senses are represented but not quantified with words. Senses cannot be put into words.

How do your identity and culture shape your creativity?

Dyslexic – Dyscalculate I am a passionate person with a flare for the arts. I love creative expression. It is where I excel. I do not fit into traditional academic in a left-brain world. Not one to fit into a box, I created my own. Struggles I have had have injured and scarred but have made me a powerful advocate. I see patterns; I create patterns if they are not there.

Britt'Nee Kivliqtaruq Brower walrus mask dance Cottonwood, ivory, walrus jawbone, acrylic paint, glitter, wire Uvuŋa atiga Britt’Nee Kivliqtaruq Brower. I was born and raised in Utqiaġvik. My Iñupiaq name is Kivliqtaruq/Qivliqtauraq, which means shining or glittering one. All of my artwork is set with intentions to teach about my Iñupiat culture, cultural identity and recognition, and for passing down traditional knowledge and skills. How does this sculpture express your creativity?

The Walrus Mask Dance sculpture is inspired by my Iñupiat culture and the Messenger Feast, Kivgiq. There are many dances performed but the Walrus Dance is my favorite. I captured the movement of the dancer performing, telling a story about a walrus. The dancer transforms into a walrus on ice.

How do your identity and culture shape your creativity?

I am a strong proponent of Iñupiat values and their relevance in our modern age. I advocate the revitalization of the language, art, story telling, and tattoo traditions of my Iñupiat people and bring this passion to my artwork. I incorporate traditional Qupak motifs and add a modern twist to honor traditional elements of my Iñupiat culture. All of my artwork is set with the intention to teach about my Inupiat culture, cultural identity and recognition, and for passing down traditional knowledge and skills. I was born and raised in Utqiaġvik (formerly known as Barrow). I am an Iñupiaq woman, still learning about my own cultural heritage. My biggest disconnect with my culture is not knowing my language fluently, dances, traditions, songs, etc. These are my biggest motivators to create my artwork. I do my best to create visually enticing pieces by using materials that are native to my culture. Giving someone the experience and ability to recognize a dance, traditional knowledge and skills, a familiar movement or feeling, an animal or a word/ phrase from my Iñupiat culture through my artwork is my biggest accomplishment.

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

KINDLING CONVERSATION

Lydia Dirks untitled Lydia Dirks (she/her) is an Unangax̂ and multimedia artist from Unalaska. Her work represents her culture, the land and sea. Where do you draw inspiration from?

There are many things I draw inspiration from. It could be as small and simple as a raindrop on a leaf to something big and breathtaking like a fiery red sunset. I’m inspired by everything in nature.

How does this piece express your creativity?

This expresses my creativity by showing movement, rebirth, and beauty. Salmon could represent power and I like to think of my art as powerful. ■

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PROGRAM NOTES

Introducing Leadership Anchorage 27

ounded in 1997, Leadership Anchorage (LA) is the premier leadership development program for established and emerging Alaskans seeking to expand their impact in the community. LA is designed to develop the skills, knowledge, perspective, and networks needed to be an effective and compassionate changemaker in our city and our state. Each year, a diverse cohort is selected to participate in this 10-month program of monthly sessions enhanced by group projects, individual mentorships, readings, resources, and guest speakers from the community.

LA27 COMMUNITY PROJECTS Branding Anchorage Through District Naming with the Anchorage Economic Development Corporation

Katie Pattison Apatiki Katie Pattison Apatiki grew up in Sunburst, Mont. She moved to Anchorage in 2010 and joined the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium in 2011. She has held various roles and is currently a Special Projects Coordinator for the Behavioral Health Aide Training Center. Katie graduated from the University of Alaska Anchorage (2023) with a BA in anthropology and a minor in Alaska Native studies. She loves reading, walking the trails, nerding out over cool rocks, and adventuring with her family.

Alaskanizing the UN Sustainable Development Goals with AKv3 Denelchin Lab Community Access Program with Cook Inlet Tribal Council, Inc. UAA Childcare Project with University of Alaska Anchorage Establishing an Anchorage Veterans Inventory with Anchorage Economic Development Corporation

Esbei Arurang Esbei Arurang, an Education and Training Program Manager in the Alaska Air National Guard, blends a criminal justice degree with his love for the outdoors—fishing, hunting, and hiking. Raised in Palau and Saipan before settling in Alaska, he embodies resilience and adventure.

Mawuor Dior Mawuor Dior moved from Juneau to Anchorage last year in 2022 with his family. He lives with his wife Madelina and their three children. Mawuor lived in Juneau for about 8 years before he decided to relocate with his family to Anchorage. Since their move to Anchorage, their kids have been madly lobbying to get a pet cat. The addition of a furry family member is still being negotiated.

Tanisha Gleason Tanisha Gleason was raised in Chugiak and Anchorage and has spent the last 23 years offering her experience to help support Alaska Native companies and to improve the lives of Alaska Native people. She works at Cook Inlet Region Inc (CIRI) as the Supervisor of Shareholder Communications.

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

LEADERSHIP ANCHORAGE 27

Katie Henry Katie Henry is often seen walking her dog and two cats around the town of Homer, where she is currently living with her husband and two teenagers. She wears many hats throughout her days and weeks, including that of mother, a wife and friend, a massage therapist, a Qigong instructor, a life coach, a photographer, an aspiring sailor, a builder, a baker, a skier, a dancer, a Spanish language learner, and a ukulele player.

Maxine Laberge Maxine Laberge is originally from New Hampshire and after eight years in Washington, D.C. now resides in Anchorage with her dog, Frank. She graduated from American University with a double major in business administration and public relations. She worked for several years at Girl Scouts Nation’s Capital as the Outdoor Program Specialist. She is a recent alumna of the Alaska Fellows Program. Maxine enjoys spending her free time backpacking, being on the water, reading, and playing cards.

Danielle-Aliiraq Larsgaard Danielle-Aliiraq Larsgaard is a mother and student originally from Bristol Bay. Danielle relocated to Anchorage for education and job opportunities. She has developed relationships throughout the state through her rural behavioral health work. Danielle is also the owner of Aliiraq Arts traveling art studio, teaching traditional art classes in rural communities. Danielle strives to be involved and to make a difference in the communities she loves and works in. She loves to subsist with her son and cooking!

Lillian Maassen Lillian Maassen was born and raised in Anchorage, then spent most of her young adulthood wandering. She traveled through the US, Europe, and Africa. She worked as a bartender, a carriage driver, and an English teacher, and she earned her BA and MA. But nowhere else ever felt like home, and when she moved back to Alaska in 2020, she knew she was ready to stay. She now works as Editor at the Alaska Native Language Center and spends her free time hiking, skiing, and generally admiring our beautiful state.

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Ian Murakami Born and raised in Honolulu, Hawai’i, Ian Murakami moved to Anchorage after graduating from Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. in August 2021. Ian’s interests in community building through conversation and social justice were cultivated through relationships in Hawai’i and strengthened through education in D.C. He hopes to deepen his commitment to Alaska and develop his leadership through a transformative year in LA.

Elizabeth Nicolai Elizabeth Nicolai grew up in the Kansas City area. In 2008, she moved to Anchorage to be a youth services librarian at the Anchorage Public Library, then a Branch Manager, the Youth Services Coordinator, and the Assistant Director. Elizabeth received the Supervisor of the Year in 2016 and the I Love My Librarian award in 2021. She was a member of the 2012 Newbery Award book committee. Elizabeth lives in South Anchorage with her husband and two daughters. She leads Girl Scouts and plays handbells.

Christina Ranken Christina Ranken is the Director of Rooms at the Marriott Anchorage Downtown. She brings 17 years of hospitality experience to her role. She began her career in Scottsdale, Ariz. at the The Phoenician Resort and has grown to love the hotel and resort industry. She believes in the value of tenacity and that learning is a lifelong journey.

Cyndi Reeves Cyndi Reeves is Yup’ik, born in Bethel and raised in Alakanuk. She has traveled and lived throughout Alaska. Cyndi has a real passion for working with Alaska’s youth. Currently, she is the Project Coordinator for Gui Kima in Indigenous Education for the Anchorage School District. In her free time Cyndi hikes, fishes, and harvests both edible and medicinal plants. She enjoys sewing qaspeqs and creating Native art. Cyndi has two adult children and a “Grandy” in Seattle, whom she visits often.

LEADERSHIP ANCHORAGE 27

Rachel Ries Rachel Ries lives in Anchorage with her family. Rachel has fulfilled a range of roles, including paralegal, MEDEVAC pilot, military commander, and aviation operations, taking her around the world, including deployment to Afghanistan. Rachel is a business owner, the Board Chair of the Veterans Affairs Program for P.U.P Inc, Commissioner for the Budget Advisory Committee, President of the Huffman-O’Malley Community Council, and member of the Anchorage Home and Landowners Organization (HALO).

Helena Sarcone Helena Sarcone was born and raised in Anchorage. A proud alumni of West Anchorage High School and the University of Alaska Anchorage, she has a background in Anthropology and Project Management. She currently works in the fields of fair trade and community development, and is an organizer of Spenard2ndSaturday. Helena is motivated to experience, grow, and share the community she loves.

Jenny-Marie Stryker Jenny-Marie Stryker grew up in the Bay Area, Calif., but is honored to live, work, and play on Dena’ina land in Anchorage for the last six years. She works as the Political Director for The Alaska Center, after working on political campaigns and briefly as a journalist. She loves spending every day supporting clean air and water, healthy communities, and a strong democracy. Outside of work, she can be found walking her Malamute pup with her partner, cooking, and enjoying Alaska.

Monica Terrones Vargas Monica Terrones Vargas is from Lima, Peru but has been living in Anchorage for the last 33 years. She works as the Events Manager for Rasmuson Foundation and loves her job. It allows her to meet so many new businesses and great community partners. In her spare time, she enjoys walking or hiking her dog Bonita. She loves to travel to as many new places as possible. Listening to music and trying to get out dancing is also a must.

Lorna-lei Sua’ava Lorna-lei Sua’ava was born in Long Beach, Calif. and raised in Palmer, Alaska. She earned a bachelor’s degree in biochemistry and psychology and is working towards her master’s degree in neuroscience. She works to empower and uplift Pacific Islander youth and young adults, and strives to be an example for those who aspire to higher education, specifically in STEM. Lorna-lei now works as a Prevention Fellow with Washington State University. Her aim is to continue work in coalition and community development, to implement culturally-centered practices and collaboration.

Molissa Udevitz Molissa Udevitz grew up hiking, camping, and studying ballet and modern dance in Alaska. Molissa’s professional education work has ranged from leading youth day camps to teen backpacking trips to creative aging workshops. She currently works at the Alaska Humanities Forum where she collaboratively designs programs that help Alaska Native youth take pride in their cultural identities. In her free time, Molissa enjoys dancing, hiking, cross-country skiing, and volunteering with outdoor education programs.

Sarah Weideman Sarah Weideman was born in Anchorage and spent most of her teen years in the Mat-Su Valley. Currently, Sarah is the Human Resource Manager for the iconic Dimond Center in Anchorage. When not at work Sarah enjoys riding and teaching with her two horses and relaxing at home with her boyfriend, teen daughter, and two dogs. ■

ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

ARTWORK BY FAWN WATERFIELD

LESSON PLAN

A LA S KA H U M A NI T I ES FO RUM WI NT E R 2 0 2 3

WHAT DOES RAVEN

FEED HER BABIES,

ANYWAY A storyteller’s initiation on the Alaska ferry By Keema Waterfield

Creating the new media artwork Songbirds: What Does Mama Raven Feed Her Babies? This was such a fun piece to make (left). Keema says old hippies didn’t take a lot of pictures like people do today with our digital cameras. It’s true! But when she asked me to create an image for her piece “What Does Raven Feed Her Babies, Anyway?” I instantly remembered this image of Keema and her sister Tekla at well-loved Alaskan folk musician Myrna Ukelele’s colony home in Palmer, hamming it up by playing Tin Pan Alley divas, trying to make me laugh. Keema’s story is based on events the summer after this photo was taken when we traveled with the Heliotroupe. The Heliotroupe performed a variety of musical and performing art concerts and public school presentations in Alaska towns supported by grant funding through the Alaska State Council on the Arts, with travel contributions through Alaska Airlines and the Alaska Marine Highway System. The Raven overlay is from artwork Keema created as a gift to me a few years ago. Find more of my work at Fawn Waterfield (@fwaterfield) on Twitter, or search for Fawn Waterfield Lightworks on YouTube. — Fawn Waterfield

e were 10 and 11 years old the summer Mom invited my sister, Tekla, and me to join her on tour with Heliotroupe. It wasn’t quite a band, but a mishmash group of revolving artists with the vibe of a traveling folk festival. You had your sitar and standup bass players, multiple guitarists, a mandolinist, a cellist who also played fiddle, a Celtic drummer on bodhran and pennywhistle, and an actor. Plus, my little sister and me—because we could sing, but also because that’s the price you paid for bringing a single mom on tour in Southeast Alaska in 1991. We traveled by ferry on a grant from the Alaska Arts Council, performing twice a day aboard a ship in exchange for passage. Then again later, at local schools and performance halls when we reached wherever we were going. To pass the time between ports, I practiced telling stories in a lounge below decks with the troupe’s thespian, Jeff Freeman. He had dark hair, hazel eyes, and a moodiness my mother called thoughtful. “If you’re nervous, find one friendly face to look at on either side of you,” Jeff instructed. “Or look right above everyone, like there’s a real tall guy standing way in the back.” He stared at a blank spot on the wall to demonstrate. I pulled my shoulders back, turned to face my imaginary audience, and smiled. Easy, I thought. Jeff didn’t realize that I’d had my musical debut at the ripe old age of four—Uncle Rocky’s wedding in Ketchikan, and the church pews so full that guests were crammed all the way through the arctic entryway. We’d taken to the stage in frilly white dresses with thick tights and white shoes, Tekla already taller than me. Despite my fourteen-month lead on her, I was a runty little thing. Jeff gave me his nod of approval after a handful of practice sessions, and I told my first story to a lunch crowd already loose and laughing from twenty minutes of jumping bluegrass. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” I began, launching into a whimsical tale about a wide-mouth frog who doesn’t know what to feed her babies and asks all sorts of animals for advice. I loved that I could add as many animals as I wanted to stretch the performance out. I stood before the crowd as fierce and focused as the bawdy wench at a Renaissance faire. Who cared that my hair was a wind-tied knot from camping up on the solarium deck for a week, or that my last ALASK A HUMAN ITIES FOR UM W IN TER 2023

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bath had been in the public hot springs in Tenakee Springs days earlier? For a few minutes, I felt like a diva in thrifted Chuck Taylors. I’d introduced my frog mother to a cat, a moose, and a raven when I realized that every eyeball in the room had just one thing to focus on: me. Sweat stung my neck, burning as if every mosquito I’d ever smashed had come back to bite me again. This was different than singing a duet with Tekla or jumping in on harmonies with Mom. I couldn’t hide a missed note The smell of in a sea of other voices like I was used to. And I couldn’t, fried halibut not even for a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill—and despite drifted from the a lifetime spent cawing after them on rocky Southeast Alaska beaches—think what galley kitchen. a raven fed to her babies. I pinned my eyes to a spot Dishes rattled. just above a grey-haired genA child coughed. tleman trying to hide a yawn in his drooping mustache and begged the dusty chalkboard of my mind to fill with words that made sense. The smell of fried halibut drifted from the galley kitchen. Dishes rattled. A child coughed. Raven feeds her babies puny little redheads who think they know how to tell a story as easy as singing, I thought. I crouched down and casually turned to look at Jeff for help. His return shrug said, abandon ship, kid. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I cocked my head and scanned the room, pretending this was all a part of the show. “I feed my babies whatever I want to feed them,” I said, mangling the punch line. “But especially, I feed my babies wide mouth frogs like you,” I lunged at a kid crawling on the floor, who fell over laughing. I wanted to do that, too, but feared I would wet myself with relief. A middle-aged woman in a floppy black sun visor rose from the seat nearest me. She smiled vaguely, buttoning her windbreaker. She didn’t clap, but most everyone else offered polite applause. Tekla hooked an arm around my neck and loud whispered, “I can’t believe you pulled that off!” “Me either,” I said. But I knew already that I would keep telling stories until, one day, I could spin a yarn so deftly it would make even sun visor lady’s bored hands smack together in delight. ■ Keema Waterfield is the award-winning author of Inside Passage, a nomadic childhood memoir set along the wild coast of Southeast Alaska. Waterfield has written for The New York Times, WIRED, Brevity, Scary Mommy, INSIDER, and others. She lives in Missoula, Montana, where she moonlights as a stand-up comic when she’s not wrangling her husband and two children, a bunch of extra instruments she doesn’t know how to play, and a revolving cast of rescue animals. She lives and writes on Séliš and Qlispé land. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @keemasaurusrex.

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Nuch’ishtunt (Wind Protected) STUDENTS in the Ilakucaraq Program gathered at Nuch’ishtunt (Point Woronzoff) in Anchorage on Aug. 6-7 to paint the water tower on the beach as a part of a Land Back project led by artists Holly Nordlum, Melissa Shaginoff, and Dimi Macheras. Nuch’ishtunt, which means wind protected in Dena’ina, is the original name for Point Woronzoff. Students painted the water tower with imagery of local plants and animals and On Native Land sentiments. To find out more about the program, visit akhf.org/programs/ilakucaraq. PHOTO BY HOA NGUYEN, THEPOVAK

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