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FALL 2015 issue I

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What is the Qargi? The "qargi" is a community building; a place where the town gathers for stories, ceremonial occasions, and public business. People learned oral history, songs, and chants at the qargi. According to Wikipedia, it "was a combination courthouse, church, workshop, dance hall, and receiving center." I wanted to produce the Qargi Zine to accomodate work created by local artists, writers, activists, photographers, and more. I want this zine to be a central place for all ideas in our community. I am starting with Kotzebue first to stabilize the idea and make the printing successful. Then, I want to expand to fully represent the entire region. Issues will be printed when the season changes. They'll be published on December 21, March 21, June 21, and September 21. This would not have been possible without the collaboration of volunteers who were willing to share their ideas with me. I am excited to see this grow. If you have anything you want to add to the zine, I am open to anything and everything. Email me at mjacquilambert@gmail.com or call me at (907) 412-2599 for more information.

Photo: http://www.city-data.com/picfilesc/picc18972.php

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Photo by Hannah Atkinson

From the Editor...

campaigns, and of course, The Qargi Zine. The Qargi Zine was inspired by I started my small business, a magazine produced in a small Inuit EsquiMedia, as the first babystep of town of Northwest Territories, achieving my goal of producing Canada. It is called Tusaayaksat and multi-media that rightfully represents it represents a community that is very our community. This is the second similar to ours here in Northwest step. Alaska. A big thank you to the Since 2012, I've had an ongoing contributors. Their passion for this vision about a multi-media project region, their knowledge of various based here in Kotzebue, Alaska. topics, and their willingness to share Slowly but surely, over the years, I their work is what motivated me to have been contributing to this make this a reality. Without them, growing idea. It involves films, music, there would be no story to share. cartoons, radio shows, podcasts, I hope you enjoy the first websites, advertisements, publication of The Qargi Zine.

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Photo by Jacqui Lambert


An Open Le!er To Regional

Leaders...

N AN at the s m r wn rfo nkno ui pe Jacq rapher U og Phot

When I was growing up, a lot of my self-image came from being a performer at the NANA Museum of the Arctic. I started going there because my older brother did and eventually they talked me into learning how to dance, too. It became a second home to me for the rest of my childhood. Some of my earliest memories consist of spending entire summer days at the museum learning how to dance and share our culture with visitors from around the world. However, the place was closed down when I was a pre-teen. In hindsight, I can see how much the closure of the museum affected my cultural identity especially as a teenager. Throughout elementary, I was outwardly proud of my Native-ness. Then in middle school, without the museum as a cultural outlet, I shifted my perspective and my pride slowly died out. Sure, I was happy that I knew how to Eskimo dance. Sure, I took pride in being Native. But, it stopped being as important as it used to be to me. And throughout high school, it became less and less important. It wasn't until I was in college when I realized the closure had an effect on me. As a little girl, I used to dream of being old enough to work there and even get married there. I had dreams of having my children, or nieces and nephews, learn how to dance there, too. And when the place closed, we were promised another place would open so this could continue. But over a decade later, there still isn't any hope that it'll happen. We have an entire younger generation that doesn't remember the

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Jacqui participates in Nalukataq, blan ket toss, July 4, 2014. Photo by Hannah Atkinson

Museum and they don't know how to Eskimo dance, or even how to share their culture with outsiders. We do have the new heritage center, but that place isn't ours. It isn't our safe place to spend time with other people from the community while learning about the animals, the dances, and the traditional stories and practices. And we need that sense of ownership like we used to have. We need a place to carry out and share our culture, not just with others but ourselves. My question is this: how do we start working towards opening up a place again? Who should be in charge? What steps do we need to take? Can it happen soon? This is a topic extremely close to my heart. I've written blog posts and news articles about this. I've stood up at meetings to speak about it. And I'm not going to stop there. I want to keep this discussion going until it actually happens. Even if it takes me another decade. It may sound like I'm the only one who cares, but that is far from the truth. We have plenty of community members who reminisce on the good ol days at the museum, who wish their children can relive the same memories. I don't believe NANA realized what they took away from our spirit when they closed the place down. I don't believe they feel the nostalgia in the way we do. Because this isn't just a business to us, it's a lifestyle.

fm: m. jacqui lambe"

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Contributors Jacqui Lambert Christina Fields Elizabeth Ferguson Tiffany Creed Reid Magdanz Tim Argetsinger Hannah Atkinson Berett Wilber Myles Creed

Maija Lukin

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Contents

05 An Open Letter to Regional

18 Herring: A Tribute to Wade Cleveland

Leaders

09 I単upiaq: A Surviving Language

10 Where Are You From? I単upiaq Lesson

12 Kotzebue through Instagram 14 Questions to Ask Before Giving Up

16 On Track Playlist: Indigenous

21 Ice Fishing I単upiaq

22 Sewing Poems by Hannah 24 Art By Chris 27 Autumn Dawn Photography 32 Know Your PFD 36 Wander Woman

Artists

Photos by Jacqui Lambert

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I単upiaq

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A Surviving

language

Source: I単upiaq Phrases and Conversations: by Kapniaq Lorena Williams and Lawrence Kaplan Nikiatchuat Phrase Book Edited by: Aqukkasuk Tim Argetsinger


Seasons and Weather Upinġaksraq (spring) Upinġaksraqman atiġuurugut (In spring we go out to camp on the coast.)

Qanuq itpa siḷa? (How is the weather?)

Upinġaaq (summer)

Itriliqsuq (It is very cold.)

Upiġaami iqaluŋniaġuurugut, uunaqmiuq. (We fish in the summer, and it's hot.)

Siqiññaaġiksuq. (The sun is shining.)

Ukiaq (autumn)

Sailuktuq. (It is raining.)

Ukiaġmi tuttuliaġuurugut (In autumn, we hunt caribou.)

Qanniksuq. (It is snowing.)

Ukiuq (winter) Ukiumi anuqłiġuuruq, alappaaŋupmiuq. (It's windy in the winter, it's also cold.)

Anuqłiqsuq. (It is windy.) Nuviyaliqsuq. (It is cloudy.) Taktuktuq. (It is foggy.) Siḷagiksuq. (The weather is good.)

Shapes

Aqsravaluqtaaq

Suluutnaq

Uvluġiaq

Tiġitquliq

Uuman

Piŋasunik iqirġulik

Takiłhuŋayuaq

Aqsravaŋaaqtaaq

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Where are you from? Qikiqtaġruŋmiuŋuruŋa: I am from Kotzebue -miuŋuruŋa (me-ngu-rung-ah)

Nuataaġmiuŋuruŋa Qikiqtaġruŋmiuŋuruŋa Kivaliñiġmiuŋuruŋa

Isiŋnaġmiuŋuruŋa

Nuurviŋmiuŋuruŋa

Akuliġaġmiuŋuruŋa Siiḷviŋmiuŋuruŋa

Learn how to introduce yourself further than uvaŋa atiġa. Find your hometown to learn how to say that's where you're from.

Ipnatchiaġmiuŋuruŋa Katyaaŋmiuŋuruŋa Nunatchiaġmiuŋuruŋa Kaŋiġmiuŋuruŋa

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Laugviiŋmiuŋuruŋa Kuuvaŋmiuŋuruŋa

Ivisaappaaŋmiuŋuruŋa

Source: Iñupiaq Phrases and Conversations: by Kapniaq Lorena Williams and Lawrence Kaplan Edited by Aqukkasuk Tim Argetsinger Map: http://www.bloomberg.com/ss/08/12/1223_foreclosures/3.htm


Photos by Fallon Fairbanks

www.facebook.com/KotzebueKuspuks


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Kotzebue Through

@hannah.atki

Instagram

@bigfeelings.jpg 13


Are you hydrated? If not, have a glass of water.

Have you showered in the past day? If not, take a shower right now.

Have you eaten in the past three hours? If not, get some food — something with protein, not just simple carbs. Perhaps some nuts or hummus?

If daytime: are you dressed? If not, put on clean clothes that aren't pajamas. Give yourself permission to wear something special, whether it's a funny t-shirt or a pretty dress.

written by: eponis.tumblr.com photo by: Jacqui Lambert

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If nighttime: are you sleepy and fatigued but resisting going to sleep? Put on pajamas, make yourself cozy in bed with a teddy bear and the sound of falling rain, and close your eyes for fifteen minutes — no electronic screens allowed. If you're still awake after that, you can get up again; no pressure.

Have you stretched your legs in the past day? If not, do so right now. If you don't have the spoons for a run or trip to the gym, just walk around the block, then keep walking as long as you please. If the weather's crap, drive to a big box store and go on a brisk walk through the aisles you normally skp.

Have you said something nice to someone in the past day? Do so, whether online or in person. Make it genuine; wait until you see something really wonderful about someone, and tell them about it

Have you moved your body to music in the past day? If not, do so — jog for the length of an EDM song at your favorite BPM, or just dance around the room for the length of an upbeat song.

Have you cuddled a living being in the past two days? If not, do so. Don't be afraid to ask for hugs from friends or friends' pets. Most of them will enjoy the cuddles too; you're not imposing on them.

Do you feel ineffective? Pause right now and get something small completed, wehther it's responding to an e-mail, loading up the dishwasher, or packing your gym bag for your next trip. Good job!

Do you feel unattractive? Take a goddamn selfie. Your friends will remind you how great you look, and you'll fight society's restrictions on what beauty can look like.

Have you seen a therapist in the past few days? if not, hang on until your next therapy visit and talk through things then.

Have you been over-exerting lately — physically, emotionally, socially, or intellectually? That can take a toll that lingers for days. Give yoursellf a break in that area, whether it's physical rest, taking time alone, or relaxing with some silly entertainment.

Have you changed any of your medications in the past couple weeks, including skipped doses or a change in generic prescription brand? That may be screwing with your head. Give things a few days, then talk to your doctor if it doesn't settle down.

Have you waited a week? Sometimes our perception of life is skewed, and we can't even tell that we're not thinking clearly, and there's no obvious external cause. It happens. Keep yourself going for a full week, whatever it takes, and see if you still feel the same way then.

you've made it this far, and you will make it through.

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Prayer Loop Song Supaman

Sisters A Tribe Called Red

Celebration Wally Wells

Beat of My Heart I Sing. You Dance.

Fear Not Saali

Umingmak Tanya Tagaq

Yeha Noha Sacred Spirits

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Playlist of songs by Indigenous Artists


Alaskan Made Home & Body Essentials

The "NaTough" Stuff

Fireweed dreams earrings

$12.50

$12.00

Aana's Buns Candle

$8.50

www.arcticfreshalaska.com

Niaqunŋu Stick

$6.00

Find us on Facebook!

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the entire sound is filled with chunks and slabs of glittering ice. theyʼre flowing along the seawall from the north end to the south, marking a time when there is no ground travel on the ice nor travel by sea. the calendar says we have made it through spring, but it’s still winter, here. there are a few rounded platforms made of cement that can be accessed by hopping a short barrier or wiggling your way between the horizontal bars of metal, if youʼre small enough. like child-sized. if you fell in, the ice would just keep pushing you under. hannah goes past the barrier and a man named elmer warns her, you better be careful now, don’t fall in. elmer knows better. he tells us that long ago, when he was a kid, they used to hop from ice slab to ice slab at this time of year. no, he never fell in. but now the is ice is too thin, he says. itʼs not thick like it used to be. we can’t hop ‘em anymore.

Written by: Nauyaq Tiffany Creed

hannah wants to fish. she wants to fish and then make pickled herring. itʼs 10pm and the sun still illuminates the area, reflecting off all the white. the platform is overflowing with people, their children wandering and their poles all in lined up, lines down. cars are parallel parked along the road—one of just a few in town that are paved. they dip the ends of their lines into the dark spaces of water between ice slabs and bob them back up. itʼs a long way down from the platform, and the ice will drag your line downstream if you donʼt keep it in constant motion. but donʼt jerk it! they say. a herring is hooked every second, unhooked, and thrown into a few white buckets lined with plastic grocery bags. the top layer of fish are still flapping. the fish, the buckets, the bags are alive. we go to the pilot house — where bush pilots stay. white guys, from the lower 48. they’re here on and

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off. hannah says a pilot offered to let her borrow a pole once, so we go. i stay in the car. they emerge from the house with a long fishing rod with a silver hook and line bowing.

way up, and baggy jeans. his hair is growing out dark and straight from under his baseball cap. his name is wade, he says. wade cleveland.

we return to the sea. sun still up. she puts her line in several yards away from the rest of the fishers, on the right side of the platform, and pulls up nothing. and nothing, and nothing. finally, an old man approaches and tells us that weʼll never catch anything over there. he gestures for us to find a space near him. we hug the railing and shift over towards the crowd. sure enough, the fish come up one after another and hannah puts them in a plastic bag. the bag becomes a slimy, twitching blob. a few fish flop out, maybe trying to get back into the water or maybe trying to make a scene before they die.

the quaker missionaries assigned iñupiaq people the names of presidents when they ran out of ideas. lincoln, washington, garfield, adams. cleveland. now, the white people who come put their kids in kindergarten and they’re given the names of familiar spirits. snowy owl. wolverine. wade is from Ambler. 23. we must have played volleyball against each other, we said—the villages play co-ed because theyʼd never have enough girls to make a team of six. heʼs here to see his woman, his daughter. he already hit up the liquor store, something they donʼt have in the villages. canʼt have.

i’ve already decided i don’t want to try. i donʼt want to get tangled up in someone elseʼs line, or get too close to the rushing ocean. i donʼt really want to touch fish. the night is biting at my hands and they are staying in the pockets of my fleece sweatshirt. itʼs okay. iʼll watch. hannah is pulling ‘em okay. along the guardrail stands a young man, smoking a cigarette. heʼs alone, seems content amid the fishing frenzy. as he takes a drag, his eyes are glued on the snow-dusted hills across the water. parents eyeball their kids, kids eyeball the fish, the ice rushes, and he keeps close to the guardrail. keeps holding. the cigarette rests between his fingers like a loose plan for tomorrow. maybe he will; maybe he wonʼt. it fits perfectly in the space made available by a chip in his tooth. the whole bottom of one of his front teeth is clean off, creating a dark square that he smokes through as if it were the only way to do it. heʼs a handsome guy, his good looks coming through with iñupiaq features: almond eyes, round face and high cheekbones. his skin is creamy: he must eat a lot of fish; he must eat a lot of seal oil. maybe it's something else — an oil rich spirit that won't dry out. there is a patchy beard growing from his chin like the tangled willows that appear wherever there is space around here. where ever things are unattended to, where ever things grow wild. his moustache is traced of the same family. heʼs wearing a black raincoat, zipped all the

he’s got an ear for a good joke, he’s got friendly words but he’s still got his eyes on those hills across the way. the fish are coming up okay. one of every few comes loose from the hook while swinging through the air back into our hands and plops back into the water. sometimes the ice chunks carry our line downstream and it gets caught up in another. give me a try, he says, laughing, reaching out. he puts his cigarette in his lip and hannah gives up the pole to his knowing hands. he dips the line into a dark moving hole and instantly pulls a fish out like a magic trick. and another. and another. he says, come on, help me out, you gotta take the hook out of its mouth real quick. hurry up! the fish pops out of the water on the end of the line and swings back toward me, spinning, wiggling. i grab at it and hold with my firmest grip, trying to settle the motor of its body. i maneuver the hook out, squealing as i realize i’m unable to avoid tearing into its cheek, catching on its bone. i toss the fish into the wiggling bag and look at my hands. they are covered in blood, gravel and tiny translucent scales that catch spectrums of jewel colors as i move them. the gravel stings in the cold. everything has become fish and freeze. after i

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become acquainted with the first fish and its hook, we become a team. he hooks, swings it up towards me, i take the fish, quickly now, toss it in the bag. 11pm under the sun. my fingers become rigid and sensitive as the scene is winding down. the old man who knows where to fish ushers me across the street to his house to get a paper towel for my hands. wash in the water first, he says, then wipe ʻem with the towel and keep ʻem in your pockets. gee, girl, your fingers are gonna freeze! I return to a plastic bag of herring, full and weak, its fragility more apparent with the threat of fifty fish threatening to ooze all over the pavement on the way to the car. wade heads out. we pack up and crack the back door of the car, across the street. the pole comes through, all the way to the front seats and the bag is placed in the back. we’ll keep our eye on it. the steering wheel is cold on my hands and we shiver in our seats. i drop hannah off at her house with the fish; sheʼs going to be up for hours cutting and pickling them to eat all year. i turn down the street headed for home, the presence of restless ice like a halo around my body. like bracelets and rings around my hands and fingers. around the corner, walking towards me, is wade. he gives me a wave and i give him a smile back through the windshield as i roll past. when i turn the corner, i look back at him through the passenger seat window and he looks back at the exact same time, the sun finally pouring dark pink through the spaces between all the one-story buildings. goodbye, friend. the smell of fish follows me indoors and curls up in my hands as i lay them next to my head and lay my head on my pillow. my body is thoroughly cold wrapped in blankets, it’s time to wait. iʼll be leaving soon, for a helping of summer. itʼs the end of may, and the winter is going to lift soon.

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in the fall, when i return home, hannah heats up water for tea in a silver pot on her small stove with crooked coils. you remember wade cleveland? she says, that guy that —his face carved of ivory, his spirited smile with the perfect space for a cigarette. the fish whisperer. yes, i remember. he died, she said. he got shot this summer. in selawik. some guy went crazy and shot a bunch of people or something. i find out that his daughter’s mother is tina, a slender girl from the grade above me. She wears shapely glasses and has the same beauty found in wadeʼs face, supported by an ever-enduring smile. she posts pictures of her daughter, taylerʼs, first day of school, with a caption that says how much they wish he was there to see it. over the blaring music at a community dance, she leans in towards me and says welcome home. i find out that he was shot by a guy with the last name cleveland, too, though the reports donʼt indicate any relation. they were all drinking whiskey and homebrew and then things got out of hand. the shooter was about to strike a woman who was mouthing off to him and he just snapped. wade stood up to him—said he ought to hit a man instead. the charges say that christopher cleveland fired his black .22 rifle from his doorway until he used up all his ammo, then broke into a local store and tried to steal more. when unsuccessful, he stole a pack of kool cigarettes and went home. he eventually broke his rifle in half. he was going to keep shooting if he could find more bullets. at least, that’s what the reports say. iʼm sure the shots were heard in every home in the village. i donʼt remember shooting wade, he told them, after confessing. in some villages in the region, the ground has a weak constitution and boardwalks must be constructed so that residents may get around in the summer and fall, when there is no snow packed down to make the ground solid. the wood is bleached out gray and there is grass growing up tall and reckless between the tired wooden slats as if it had no concern for them. wadeʼs body was found on a boardwalk such as this, where the grass grows up tall between the wooden slats.


Sua una?

Photo by Nikiatchuat

Niqisik

Akkuaqnagu!

Tavra i単uich qulaani 21


I. I AM FROM HAND SEWN LACE COLLARS ON MY EASTER DRESS She presses the pedal singer singing, mother mumbling, into the space between stitches. The needle whirs up-down. up-down. Big eyes, rosy cheeks, and pleated hair. When I picked up the envelope inflated with bust ruffle, skirt front, shoulder seams I was a girl dressed like a doll. zip zow. zip zow. zipzowzipzowzipzow— until a snag— knot pulled loose, feminine rage. This is the first I know my mother angry.

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II. I AM FROM THICK SKIN AND SORE THUMBS Lips pursed, eyebrows raised, she runs her finger over kilugłuk stitches. I wait for the feel of fur and leather. Rip it out. Brandishing a box knife I turn back time. The radio babbles and gurgles, women sigh and laugh, lipton tea steams, rim of Styrofoam cups. Killaiyaqtuŋa, sakaituni ilitchuŋa. Continuity of tradition, old as seasons changing, warmth in winter follows steady fall. -Photos and Poems By Hannah Atkinson

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Art by Chris

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Art by Chris


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Photos by Elizabeth Ferguson


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Q A

We all love getting our PFDs. That extra $1000 – or $2000! – every fall that helps us buy a new sno-go, pay for college classes, or take a trip to Anchorage (or Costa Rica!). But do you know where that money comes from?

&

By Paałuk Reid Magdanz reidmagdanz@gmail.com

What is the Permanent Fund?

What is the dividend?

The Permanent Fund was established by an amendment to the Alaska Constitution approved in 1976. The amendment required at least 25% of the money the State of Alaska earned from oil and mineral leases and royalties to be put into the Permanent Fund. Once deposited in the Fund, this money is “untouchable.” Another constitutional amendment would be required in order to spend it. A constitutional amendment requires a 2/3 vote of the Legislature and a majority vote of Alaska voters.

Itʼs a common misconception that the Permanent Fund Dividend and the Permanent Fund are inseparable. They are not. The Legislature, with the support of Governor Jay Hammond, passed a law creating the Permanent Fund Dividend in 1980, four years after the Permanent Fund itself was created. The goal of the Permanent Fund was to save Alaskaʼs resource wealth for the day when the oil stopped flowing. The goal of the Permanent Fund Dividend was to (1) share some of the stateʼs resource wealth directly with its citizens and (2) make sure Alaskans had good reason to protect the savings in the Permanent Fund. The Permanent Fund is protected by the Alaska Constitution. The Permanent Fund Dividend is not. The Legislature could at any time change or even completely eliminate the dividend with nothing more than a majority vote.

How is the amount of the dividend decided? With a formula. It goes like this: the state calculates the average income of the Permanent Fund over the past five years. They then divide that in half. One of those halves is divided by the number of people qualified to receive a dividend. And, after some minor adjustments, that number appears on your check or in your bank account.

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How does the Permanent Fund make its money? From oil, right? Not really, in fact. The Permanent Fund certainly does receive money from oil and other resource royalties – 50% of the royalties the state takes in, more than the minimum (25%) required by the Constitution. And in the early years of the Permanent Fund, oil was the source of much of the money deposited in the Fund. But today, deposits from oil and mineral royalties are far overshadowed by money earned from the investments of the Permanent Fund. The Fund is invested in stock markets, government bonds, real estate, and a variety of other sectors. Last year, investment earnings added about $2.4 billion to the value of the Permanent Fund. Resource royalties added only $600 million – a quarter as much. To sum up, the amount of your dividend depends more on the stock market than on the price of oil.

Iʼve heard the Legislature might use the Permanent Fund to address the stateʼs budget deficit. If money in the Permanent Fund is “untouchable,” how can the Legislature spend it? Most people think of the Permanent Fund as a single account, and thatʼs how Iʼve been referring to it. But in fact, there are two accounts: the Permanent Fund “corpus,” or principal, and the Permanent Fund Earnings Reserve Account. The answer lies in the distinction between them.

The Permanent Fund corpus includes all the constitutionally required deposits from resource royalties made over the years, as well as any other money the Legislature chooses to deposit (such as when oil prices are high and the state has a surplus). The corpus, or principal, contains the money that is untouchable without a constitutional amendment. As of last June, this account held $45.6 billion. As mentioned before, the Permanent Fund corpus is invested in stocks, bonds, real estate, and other income-producing investments. The money earned from these investments is not automatically added to the Permanent Fundʼs principal. Instead, these earnings go to the Earnings Reserve Account. And the Constitution allows the Legislature to spend this account however it wants. Right now, the Legislature spends the Earnings Reserve almost exclusively on two things: inflation-proofing the Permanent Fundʼs principal (this cost $624 million last year) and paying our PFDs (this cost about $1.4 billion last year). Any money left over adds to the balance of the Earnings Reserve. As of last June, the Earnings Reserve held $7.2 billion. But the money in the Earnings Reserve doesnʼt have to be spent on inflationproofing and PFDs. The Legislature could spend it on roads, schools, capital projects, or anything else.

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Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you to not be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. -Marianne Williamson


You don't climb mountains without a team, you don't climb mountains without being fit, you don't climb mountains without being prepared and you don't climb mountains without balancing the risks and rewards. And you never climb a mountain on accident it has to be intentional -Mark Udall


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Written by Jacqui Lambert

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Photo by Berett Wilber 39


Photos by Berett Wilber


What do you do? What could you do? What's stopping you?

childmagazine.tumblr.com

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Faith is the function of the heart -Mahatma Gandhi


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<3

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2010


Iŋiḷġaan Iŋiḷġaan niġrutit uqautigaich aŋatkut Niġrutit iḷisautigaatigut iñuuniałiġmik nunami Agaayyuliqsit aggiqmata aŋatkut atuġnaiqsut Pagmapak igliġutit paamġuġuurut nunapayaami Niġrutit nipaitchut aasiiñ -Aqukkasuk


Long ago Long ago the animals talked to shamans The animals taught us how to live on the land When the preachers came the shamans became useless Now machines crawl all over the earth And the animals are silent -Tim Argetsinger


By Maija Lukin Step two: Mix Montreal steak seasoning in with the jiffy mix, then add the beer. adding water to make a battery consistency! Add salt and pepper to taste.

Step One: Gather ingredients Two shiifish fillets (you can use any more sturdy white meat fish) One bottle Alaska Amber Beer (or other local Amber beer)

Step three: Remove the skin from the shiifish. I take a sharp knife, and cut a chunk of the fish at the end down to the skin, then grab the skin and shimmy the knife under the fish wiggling the fish back and forth across the knife. (my husband taught me that!)

Step four: Cut the fish into bite sized chunks. The smaller the better, that way more people think they get more fish!

Step five: Mix all the fish chunks into the beer batter. Let it sit while your oil heats up.

Step six: drop your battered chunks into the oil (we use a Granpappy, a deep fryer we got as a wedding present!) and fry until browned

Step seven: remove to a paper towel lined dish, and enjoy!


Profile for M. Jacqui Lambert

The Qargizine Fall 2015 #1  

The Qargizine aims to instill the knowledge and pride of the rural and Alaska Native cultures in today's generation.

The Qargizine Fall 2015 #1  

The Qargizine aims to instill the knowledge and pride of the rural and Alaska Native cultures in today's generation.

Profile for mjacqsonn
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