It's a Lot

It’s a lot. That’s the best response that I can come up with for what’s going on in our country right now. It’s a lot. It’s heavy. It’s frightening. It’s also stupid, just plain stupid. 

Surely this is a dream that I’ll wake up from any minute. There are no book banners. There is no Donald Trump. Our local borough assembly is made up of compassionate, open-minded representatives who love our local public libraries, believe everyone should love who they love, and aren’t afraid of Harlequin Romance novels. Parents are playing an active role in their children’s public school. Teachers are on the same pay scale as doctors and lawyers. Telephones hang on walls in kitchens. The country’s education budget is larger than the military budget. Classrooms are true melting pots with immigrants from all countries. Prisons are filled with murderers and pedophiles, not political activists and citizens without the right papers. Food banks are overflowing and no one goes to bed hungry. Healthcare is free, women control their own bodies, and men are held responsible for unwanted pregnancies. Education is free, from pre-K through PhD. Our country is powered with sustainable energy and our wildlife and wild lands are protected. Law enforcement has been greatly reduced because there is no need. Every citizen has what they need - housing, food, clean water, and education. Native Americans, Native Alaskans, and Native Hawaiians are revered for their indigenous knowledge and work side-by-side with scientists, doctors, and lawmakers.

That is the dream. This is a nightmare. It’s a lot.

How did we get here? We need to take a serious look at that question, so that when we turn this around, we never go down this road again.

I raised two strong women, both now in their 30’s. Both stand up for their beliefs against all odds. Either one of them could have easily been Renee Good, having just dropped off her son at school. I used to just be concerned because they are both public school teachers, one in middle school and one in high school, and school shootings are a real threat. Now, I have to worry that they might get gunned down in the street in a residential neighborhood because they won’t get out of their car when an armed, masked man says, “Get the fuck out of your car,” as they are attempting to make a u-turn. It’s a lot.

I have never been involved in politics. Before 2 years ago, I had never spoken at a public meeting or served on a government board. I never held a sign or marched in a demonstration, but you’d better believe if what happened to Ms. Good happened on my street, I’d be bundled 

up in this sub-zero weather, helping to barricade the streets, protecting my neighbors, and holding a sign for the first time, at almost 60 years old!

Libraries. Public libraries. Like I said, I didn’t become involved in politics until 2 years ago, when our local libraries came under the attack of misinformed book burners banners. I don’t remember a time before I could read and write. Both came naturally to me, and I’ve dedicated my life to teaching others those skills. I’ll definitely do everything in my power to protect them. I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams that I’d have to fight to protect them, but here we are.

As a child, I went to the library alone. I don’t remember my mother ever going there with me and I don’t remember that she had to sign for me to get a library card. I’m pretty sure that I just walked in there and got it on my own. The first books I really remember reading were by Laura Ingalls Wilder, but I eventually moved on to V.C. Andrews and Judy Blume, controversial authors of that time. The library was my safe haven. My home life was … a lot. I rode my bike to the library and spent hours huddled on the floor in a back corner reading books and paging through magazines. Through V.C. Andrews words, I read about child abuse, incest, sexual assault, and generational trauma. Through Judy Blume’s words, I read about puberty, sexuality, religion, divorce, bullying, body image, death, and depression. These books didn’t teach me anything. I was familiar with all of the topics. That was the reason that I chose the books in the first place. What they did for me was help me not to feel so alone, so isolated, so different. Had those books been removed from the shelves before I had a chance to read them, I would be a very different person today, probably a lot more damaged because I wouldn’t have had the strength to speak out loud when I was being hurt. Yes, it’s a lot.

When I was first asked to be a part of the Friends of the Sutton Library, I thought that sounded right up my alley. The next thing I knew, they were asking me to apply for the Borough Library Board as the Sutton Representative, which I did. That’s when the shit hit the fan. At the first meeting I attended, one of the board members started talking about “curating” and “cataloging” Young Adult books in the library that she considered harmful. I immediately thought, “That’s censorship!” Seriously?! In the 21st century in America?!

Since then, my board position expired and when I reapplied, I was replaced with a local conservative in favor of book banning. As a matter of fact, over the past two years, every position that expired was replaced with a book banner. The mayor has 100% authority over who is placed on all borough boards. How crazy is that? She’s the same mayor who regularly hosts government meetings in churches and brings her prayer group to tour the borough offices. Yes! It’s a lot.

Now that the library board is stacked with book banners instead of library advocates, they have been given the responsibility to review every piece of material that our 5 public librarians want to order and decide whether they should be ordered or not. Every month, these untrained laymen and women flag books to remove from the order lists. Mostly, they flag materials from the adult fiction book and DVD genres. This is happening! It’s a lot.

Christian Nationalism. I have to laugh at that term, because these Christians are now using their authority to shoot civilians in the head while they are driving away. While they are driving away! These Christians are putting American citizens behind bars because of the color of their skin. These Christians are then lying about what’s going on, just making things up. These Christians are telling us that they know best and we should just follow along as they dismantle our education system so that the wealthy get the best education, as they raise health insurance by 300% for the poorest in our nation, as they remove books from public libraries and demand that history be rewritten so that it doesn’t place them in a bad light. This is happening! It’s a lot.

Then, these folks get upset when they are compared to Nazis. I can’t imagine a more direct comparison. I keep hoping that those in positions of authority in D.C. will stand up. I keep saying that this can’t keep going on, that eventually our legal system will step in. Folks say that change will come in November with the midterm elections. I’m not so sure that our country can last that long, 10 months. 

It feels like they are winning, but they are not. Every day, more and more Americans wake up, speak up, and stand up. Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can in my small part of the world. Next week, I’m going to Juneau with a Legislative Process class that I’m teaching. We will be talking directly to a variety of legislators, senators, representatives, and staff. I will be talking directly to a variety of legislators. It seems very timely, and I’ll be ready. 

This is the nightmare, and nightmares don’t last forever. But for now, it’s a lot.

Denver Reflections

 Transportation

• 6 lanes eastbound are often not enough

• 55 means 65

• 65 means 80

• Express Lane means “do whatever the hell you want”

• Is it a bike lane, a bus lane, both, or neither? You have 1.2 seconds to figure out how to turn right - too late.

• Google Maps does not recognize one way streets.

• Google Maps switches randomly between cardinal directions and relative directions. “Turn west here. Turn left there.” I never knew before how much west and left sounders alike.

• I only had to roll the window down once to flip someone off.

• Allow twice as long to get anywhere as Google Maps says. Then you’ll still probably be late.

• Electric bike and scooter rentals are everywhere.

Shopping

• Get ready for Alaska prices.

• Trying to find local artisan-made goods is difficult and expensive. No, I’m not paying $14 for a bar of soap. In those cases, Alaska is actually cheaper.

• Best bookstore ever - Shop at MATTER! It’s an independent, Black- and woman-owned bookstore serving the needs of all revolutionaries, designers, and other thinking persons. The owner will ask you what you are passionate about.

Food

• Everything is spicy except the Indian food - probably the Thai food, too. Even the sausage on the sausage, egg, and cheese croissant from the gas station is spicy sausage.

• You must eat at West Saloon & Kitchen downtown - ask for Roro and tell him the English teacher from Wisconsin sent you. Get the Cowboy Margarita, Rocky Mountain Oysters, and Elk Meatballs.

• You must also eat at Curry & Grill 2 in uptown. The Butter Chicken is crazy good! I’m pretty sure that’s the rainbow district. Delicious food, fun shops, and a safe and quiet neighborhood.

• Lastly, you must eat at the Teacher’s Lounge by the convention center. Seriously, why not!

Everyday Life

• The altitude is serious, so don’t try to climb a mountain on your first day there.

• Alcoholic drinks will hit you twice as fast and you may end up with a killer headache before bed.

• Rest - get a lot more than I did.

• Bring walking shoes. Denver is big. 

• The airport is enormous - 3rd busiest airport in the U.S. and it’s 20 miles from town.

• The convention center is huge - over 50 square acres. You need at least 15 minutes to walk fast from one side to the other. Also, they don’t have wifi that works.

• Everyone moves fast here - they drive fast, they walk fast, they think fast. I stayed in the slow lane on all three.

• You can buy flower bouquets at the off-ramp stop lights from random Mexicans. Not a bad idea if you’re running late for a date.

• November weather is warm. Roses and Cosmos are still booming - jackets optional, except in the early mornings. It barely rains here. Not what I thought of for a place nicknamed the Mile High City.

• The city is noisy, constantly, even the suburbs that run for a hundred miles in every direction.

Would I go back? If I had to. I’m glad I was there to visit; 6 days was long enough. Maybe I’ll try Philadelphia next November.

Nuka's Elegy (4/29/2016 - 2/18/2025)

Through tangled fields, your nose would lead,
Finding lost treasures with quiet speed.
No need for chains—your heart was free,
Bound by love and loyalty.

The Unalakleet called, and you would go,
Chasing the current, swift in its flow.
Sticks were treasures, carried back true,
Each one a promise, a gift from you.

Through tangled fields, your nose would lead,
Finding lost treasures with quiet speed.

A constant companion, on couch or trail,

Ready to please, never to fail.

No stranger you met, only friends on the way,
Your love was a light that never would stray.
You pressed against us, warm and near,
A steady presence through shadow and fear.

When days grew dark, you held me tight,
A warm, calm soul in the coldest night.
Your tail, a rhythm both sure and sweet,
An excited thump, a heartbeat's beat.

Meek and mild, yet strong and true,
A friend to all who knelt by you.
Children would gather, you’re name they’d call,
To roll in the grass and toss your ball.

Now silence lingers where paws once pressed,The echoes remain, though you're at rest.
In the whispering wind, in the river’s deep song,
I hear you, sweet Nuka, running along.

And though you've gone where we can't see,
Your spirit lingers quietly.
In rustling grass and skies so blue,
My sweet girl, we remember you.

My Big Story of Little Libraries

Sutton Public Library

I work from home as an English Professor teaching online classes. When we first moved to Sutton and were waiting for our internet to be installed, I went to the library every day to use an office space for work. The library is where I made my first friends. It’s where my husband and I attended our first community events. It’s where I joined the book club, then an exercise group, then Threads (a fiber artist group). It is where I found a place to serve and be served by my community.

It has grown into a space for a community garden, yearly summer picnic gathering space, Trunk or Treat location, and so much more. It became My community as I joined in on Ladies’ Movie Night featuring Barbie, silent auction fundraisers, and was invited to join Friends of the Sutton Library (our local library board) where I soon became President and then Vice Chairperson of the MatSu Borough Library Board.

When I was 10 years old, we moved from St. Louis to rural northern Wisconsin, Hayward. We lived in a house one block from Main Street, and the local public library was only four blocks away. I was tall for my age, head and shoulders above my classmates, quiet, and shy; I didn’t make friends easily, but I’d been born with a love for reading and writing. My home life with a new stepfather was rocky, at best. I spent many afternoons and weekends in the children’s section of the library, sitting snug in a corner under the big windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Main Street. I discovered Laura Ingalls and Ramona Quimby, National Geographic World Magazine for kids, and everything written by Judy Blume.

Hayward's Carnegie Library

The Carnegie Library in Hayward was built in 1904 with funds from Andrew Carnegie and the townspeople of Hayward. Seventy-four years later, in that same library, I wasn’t bullied and there were no expectations placed on me. I was allowed to come and go as I pleased, leaving my bike parked outside on the bike rack while I lost myself for hours in imaginary worlds. As I moved into junior high school, I discovered Shakespeare and read his complete works before my first day of ninth grade, thanks to the public library.

I met one of my best high school friends in the school library during the lunch period one day that first week of ninth grade. Debbie, my only friend in the world, and I stopped into the library to the delight of our newly found freedom to roam the school during lunch and happened upon Sue, sitting at a table scattered with books and magazines. I recognized Sue from grade school, so we approached to see what she was doing. She told us that she was trying to find out if drinking alcohol was worse for the body than smoking marijuana. The three of us became fast friends.

School libraries continued to be important spaces to me as I finished high school and went to college, mostly relying on them for research and romance novels. However, if I’m being honest, I lost touch with libraries when I became a parent. My kids brought home library books from their schools which we read together, but my busy work and life schedule kept me from seeking out public libraries for many years. As a high school English teacher, I made time in the class schedule to take my students to the school library regularly, for pleasure reading and for research purposes. Still, I couldn’t have told you where the local public library was. However, I knew where all the popular bookstores were.

It wasn’t until I moved to Sutton five years ago that my need for a public library returned, and that need returned with a vengeance. I became involved in our local library just months before COVID hit and programming shut down. However, they still figured out a way for patrons to check out books remotely and, even though the doors were closed, the workers would wrap the books in plastic bags and place them on a table just outside of the door with the patrons’ names on them. When COVID passed and the doors reopened, I masked up and attended gatherings. Then, when restrictions eased and I joined the local and borough boards, it was just before the popularity of challenging books came into play, and that’s a story for another day!

Exhale: The Beginnings of a Story Started at The Tutka Bay Writers' Retreat, 2024

 As we pulled away from the dock, I could feel myself viscerally exhale. The anticipation of the peace and quiet, along with the creativity and adventure, that waited across the bay had me holding my breath coupled with the anxiety that followed me down the hillside into Homer.

I left Homer ten years ago with nothing more than my Jeep packed with everything I could stuff in the back seat and passenger front seat, and my dog tucked into the hatch storage area. Life there had not gone as planned, having moved there for a teaching position that was job-elimated due to funding after only 3 years, I floundered for 3 more before cashing in my teacher retirement to buy the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Cafe. The owner-financed loan agreement was unattainable and two years later, on the verge of bankruptcy, an empty bank account, and no retirement, I ran away from Homer with my tail between my legs. It was not my proudest moment, and I never look forward to coming to Homer because I’m afraid of running into previous employees that may still feel slighted by me. I’ve only been back twice, and both times were only to have lunch before boarding the water taxi to Tutka Bay. I don’t stop at any of the cute shops. I don’t have lunch in town with the locals. I don’t dare walk into a grocery store. I just head straight to the spit where I can blend in with the tourists, holding my breath as I scan the faces. So, the moment that boat pulls away from the dock, I allow myself to relax and breathe. Feeling the familiar ebbs and flows of the ocean current as we bob out of the marina and into the bay calm me. Water is my solace in a world of chaos. It’s so predictable and unpredictable at the same time. I can set my clock by the tides and breath more clearly facing the wind that swoops down off of Grewingk Glacier. Once, we were caught out in the bay, miles from the spit, when an unforecasted gale blew up, reminding me how unpredictable the sea can also be. So much like life, we control what we can and let the waves of time take the rest.

Home is Where Whiskey and Water Meet

The whiskey-colored slough at low tide reveals a teaming bed of life invisible at high tide. Murky and dense with moss and bull kelp, the wet scent of laundry that’s been left in the washing machine too long catches on my inhale. I give a little cough. 

What kind of barnacles or sea creatures are on those exposed rocks, do you suppose? She asks. Too small to be edible, I reply as I remember describing the taste of swan to fellow writers yesterday.

She laughs.

I walk on, continuing down the meandering boardwalk supported by soft logs 20 feet above the bottom of the slough. When the tide comes in, the change is drastic. The blueness of the icy bay waters blends with the bourbony slough, creating a murky dark green not unlike some of those smoothie drinks that the millennials carry as they walk across the Fairbanks campus.

The grassy undergrowth disappears and the tide brings with it a freshness, a newness that covers the damp laundry smell with a brininess, bringing with it fish and waterfowl. Nearly twelve hours will pass before the sea bottom reveals itself again, bearing new treasures, perhaps a starfish or some other sea creature that will make the long wait for the tide to come back in and carry them back home. Some will live out their life in the slough, having found a quiet place protected from the vast, and often violent, sea.

We are not so unlike these sea creatures. Some of us are swept into a foreign land, waiting for the chance to return to where we came from, home. Others find their home in the new land, forcing themselves to adapt and adjust, forever grateful for the safety and security that the new land offers, far away from the madness that was our life before. 

Moving to Alaska 17 years ago was not a decision that I made lightly; however, it had always been in my heart. I yearned for the far north, even when I lived in the extremeness of northern Wisconsin, I knew there was more. I let the tide take me to this foreign place where I found a safe harbor. I did not immediately find the safe harbor; I found myself being tossed and turned, broken and smoothed, not unlike the sea glass on the Bering Sea beaches. Persistence and a sense of adventure brought me finally to the arms of a man who is my forever, who is my safe harbor, who is my home.

Had I never taken that chance, at 40, no less, to see what lay beyond the horizon, I would have never found my home. Now, the tide takes me from one corner of this fast state to the other, showing me all of the beauty and blessings that abound in the Last Frontier. However, I always find my way back home to my safe space, my center of the universe, where I prefer whiskey in my glass.

The Joyful Journey of the King Cake

“Lassiez les bons temps rouler!” Let the good times roll! After spending eighteen years as an adult in Louisiana, from age twenty through thirty-eight, this saying is as much a part of spring as Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday). This year, Mardi Gras falls on Tuesday, February 13, and the weeks leading up to it are filled with food and fun that is grounded in centuries-old tradition. My favorite food tradition of Mardi Gras is the King Cake.

The first encounter with this circular confection is akin to stumbling upon a hidden treasure chest during a grand adventure. The vibrant colors of the sugary topping - purple, green, and gold - not only represent justice, faith, and power, respectively, but also symbolize the three wise men who followed the star to find the baby Jesus. Often filled with swirls of cinnamon, cream cheese, and/or pralines, this fattening concoction lives up to the pre-lent season’s reputation of carnival revelry. The most important feature of the King Cake is the small plastic baby figurine hidden within the layers of dough. This tiny treasure carries significant symbolism, representing baby Jesus, and the person who finds the baby in their slice of cake is bestowed with good luck, designated as the king or queen of the festivities, and has to bring the King Cake next time!

Beyond its delectable flavors, the King Cake carries layers of symbolism that prompt reflection on the essence of the celebration. The plastic baby reminds me of all of the hidden surprises that life offers and the interconnectedness of joy and community. The cake also serves as a reminder that traditions are fluid, dynamic, and capable of evolving while still retaining their core essence. As I move forward during this Carnival season, my friends on Facebook posting pictures of the hundreds of parades and multiple King Cakes, I am grateful for the time I spent and the friends I made in such a unique part of the United States.

Mardi Gras holds a special place in my heart as I recreate the decadent tradition of the King Cake. I have a friend who’s having a birthday party this weekend, and I think I’ll whip up a King Cake to share, but where to find a little plastic baby? At any rate, since food is my love language, “Lassiez les bons temps rouler!”

Just Trying to Escape the Pain

 My cardiologist recommended that I start taking one baby aspirin every day because of a sluggish artery and angina. I didn’t give it much thought until I took it out of the package and held the plastic bottle in my hand. My mind immediately zipped back to a time when I was 4 or 5 years old.

I remember kneeling on the top of the sink when I dropped the glass bottle in the sink. I don’t remember climbing up there, but I remember the yummy orange taste of the baby aspirin as I chewed a handful of it. My mom would give me an aspirin when I skinned my knee, and so, I associated it with pain, even though they tasted so good. 

That day, I was feeling a pain that I couldn’t explain to my mother because it partly included her. I had been up late, crying in bed as my parents yelled at each other in the living room, 10 feet from my bedroom door. The next day, my head hurt, but my heart hurt, too. I didn’t want my mother to know that I had heard them. Honestly, I was afraid of her. I was afraid that she would yell at me, like she had with my dad, and blame me for listening. Then, I remembered the orange-flavored baby aspirin.

When the glass bottle fell into the sink, it didn’t break, but it did make a lot of noise. I immediately heard my mother outside of the bathroom door, “Kathy? Kathy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” was not the right answer.

“Kathy, open this door now!” she yelled from the other side of the locked door. 

Shakily, I scrambled down from the counter and opened the door without thinking to shut the cabinet door or grab the empty bottle from the sink.

She immediately put two and two together and we were on the way to the hospital to have my stomach pumped.

I wouldn’t call it a suicide attempt, but I was trying to escape the pain, the emotional pain as much as the physical pain of a dysfunctional household. It would be the first of many attempts to escape the pain.

To Be or Not to Be - Native Enough

 Bristol Bay Campus Land Acknowledgement: We honor the indigenous people of the Yu’pik, Dena’ina, Sugpiaq, and Unangan that have given their land for the education of their people. We recognize the Curyung Tribe of Dillingham whose land the main campus resides on. We recognize the indigenous tribes of Unalaska, Saint Paul, Togiak, New Stuyahok, and King Salmon for their contributions.

It has become common practice for every University meeting to begin with a verbal Land Acknowledgement.

I attended a webinar last week called “Beyond Land Acknowledgement.” We had been discussing this very topic in our weekly Bristol Bay Campus meetings about how to not let our reading of the Land Acknowledgement at the beginning of every meeting become rote, which I think it has become. My anticipation for the webinar was that it would provide meaningful conversation and perhaps even some practical suggestions about how to make our Land Acknowledgement have greater depth and sincerity. That is not where the conversation between the four indigenous speakers went. Instead, it veered off down the road of blame and even making fun of white Americans who, in one speaker’s words, think it’s cool to claim Native American status on college applications because they figure that they must have a Native American great grandmother or someone kin to that in their family tree. That’s when I left the webinar.

As one-eighth Blackfoot (my daughters, at one-sixteenth, even have enough quantum to live on a reservation), I take exception to that. No, I have never lived on a reservation. No, I do not have a tribal identification number. No, was not raised with Blackfoot traditions or culture. Finally, no, that does not make me less Native American than the obviously mixed-race man who was making those comments in the webinar.

This week, for my “Images of the North'' graduate literature class, we read The Right to be Cold by Sheila Watt-Cloutier. Even though my story is much different from Watt-Cloutier, whose children are equally as indigenous (or unindigenous, however one chooses to look at it), as I am, I commiserate with her struggle of not looking native enough. Breaking through those stereotypes, and even using them to her advantage, she was able to make great strides for her people as well as for people around the world. As for myself, for the previous three semesters, I was taking courses toward my PhD in Indigenous Studies at UAF but was feeling that I wasn’t native enough to continue down that path and stay true to my own background, which I’m very proud of and felt that it was being belittled. For that reason, I have switched directions in my studies. Will I go back? I don’t know. However, I will continue to make Climate Change a focal point in all courses that I teach, and I will continue to impress upon my students the importance of local, indigenous knowledge as we move forward into an uncertain future for our state and our planet.

Because I don’t have a tribal identification number, since my grandfather opted to live “white” rather than be moved to a reservation, which meant giving up all current and future government and tribal benefits for himself and his descendants, I have never been able to claim that status on a college or job application. So, that webinar speaker who made those claims does not know what he’s talking about, and in my grandfather’s words, “Never judge a man before you’ve walked a moon in his moccasins.”

Life is Really a Slinky

The idea of the great hoop circle of life that some Lower 48 tribes refer to is echoed in the description that tribal systems “recognize multiplicity at every single level.” That circular concept is something that

I’ve always embraced. I teach it in my writing classes when I tell students that writing is recursive. We first write in a big circle and then, with repetitive rewrites, the circle becomes smaller and smaller, paying attention to minute details. However, the recursive process is never complete; the continuum is infinite. There is a point where we must stop and turn the writing in, but it is never complete - thus, the many editions of the same textbook. All writers know this. All parts of the writing process are interactive and overlap and circle back around. It only makes sense that all things in life are like this. Familial relationships - parents raise children who then come back around to take care

of the parents. Work life - we start out with a part-time job and eventually move on to a full-fledged career, only to ease off toward retirement, maybe even down to part-time before staying home altogether. My husband, 65, is now semi-retired, working only in the summers for Fish & Game, much like he only worked summers when he was a teenager. Also, a friend of his from childhood, Steve (who he has known since they were 4 years old), is also now retired and they often go fishing in the middle of the week, always planning where they’re going to go next, just like they did when they were kids, always fishing together. Adulthood came and took away the time for that, but now the time is back again.

In my head, I envision familial ties as a sort of slinky that goes round and round, never intersecting, but always connected, almost circling back on itself. My grandparents raised my father who circled back around to take care of them while raising me and then as I grew up, my respect for them increased and I wanted to learn more. As they faded into the next world, my dad was growing older and I was learning from him as I was raising my children, alone. He was a stand

in dad and the circle kept spiraling. Just as he passed on, my children started having children and now I am trying to share my wisdom with my children and grandchildren. As I walk through the garden, hand in hand with my grandson, I see the spiral continuing as he learns what flowers are edible and goes home with that knowledge to work in the garden with his mother, my daughter.

This brings me to the idea that “gynocracy is more about grandmothers’ femininity than about mothers’ femininity.” It was truly about the time my first grandson was born, 4 years ago today, that I first started understanding and practicing mindfulness. I was living offgrid on the Unalakleet River with my husband. I didn’t use one drop of water without thinking about it. Sunlight was precious. The river was our lifeblood. It all interconnected and we took care of our environment and it took care of us. Today, now having lived on the road system

for not quite 18 months, I still never brush my teeth without being thankful for the running water. I’m especially thankful for the warm running water to wash my hands. I’m a conservationist, taking short showers and not flushing the toilet every time. My husband thinks I’m a little crazy, telling me that we have a large septic tank and there is no need to conserve. I tell him that it’s not just about our septic tank; it’s about the environment as a whole. He just shakes his head and laughs. His ancestry is Viking - did they not conserve? Oh well, I will never let another food scrap go to waste or wander off the trail with my 4-wheeler or snowmachine. I will never leave trash on the tundra, and I will always recycle and reuse whatever I can. I will always garden organically; pulling weeds is a wonderful time for mindful thinking.

The understanding that “you can’t address health without providing water; you can’t address the need for water without protecting the environment” was so on track with my own understanding. It’s all a package deal. Actually, it’s more than that. It’s bigger than a package. It’s recursive. It’s circular. It’s a slinky. Economy, ecology, social constructs, and political systems are all interconnected. None can stand alone.

As I move forward with designing indigenous curriculum, this will be in the forefront of my mind. Even the idea of grade levels (first grade, second grade, third grade, etc.) doesn’t make sense to me. When I first started Kindergarten, we lived in St. Louis and there was a new elementary school using the “open concept.” My father, an educator, and my mother, Native American, chose to send me to that new school. It took the idea of the one-room schoolhouse and expanded it to a school population of approximately 200 K-6th grade students. The Kindergarten classes were the only classes held in a separate room. The rest of the school was designed as a big circle with a library in the middle. There were no walls, only 6-foot high partial dividers between classes, and all classes were open in the back to the library in the middle. There were no grade levels; instead, there were six teams. A student may be in Team 3 for Math and Team 5 for Reading. It all depended on each individual student’s needs. Each class could contain students with 2-3
years of difference in their ages. I went to that school until the third grade, when my parents divorced my mother and I moved to Wisconsin. It was quite a shock to my system when I went to a normal

Hoop Dance

school, but I eventually adjusted. I can remember Kellison Elementary School like I was just there yesterday. With all of the changes in education, the school has since been remodeled and reimagined into the same format as every other school.

My hope is that soon indigenous communities will be able to make their own decisions about what is best for their young people, instead of being governed by the state lawmakers. It is only when we return to this indigenous knowledge framework that we can truly begin to rethink education and what success looks like in those communities.

Wishbone Lake Observation Journal

For my class this semester (Traditional Ecological Knowledge), one of the assignements was to go to an outdoor place, away from people and civilization, and just spend time there, alone. No phone. No dog. Just be. This was my resulting essay: 

Everywhere you go, there you are. As I sat in my camp chair in the middle of frozen Wishbone Lake, I had time to reflect on the space and time of my visit. 

It was a 10-mile snowmachine ride into the backcountry of the Talkeetna Mountains right behind our house. My husband and I took separate machines and he led the way, having explored that area a couple of weeks prior to my starting these observations. Even on Saturday afternoons, we seldom saw another soul on the well-worn trail through the trees, across creeks, and past ragged cliff faces. Recovering from achilles surgery, the vibration of the motor had a healing sensation on my foot, and I enjoyed the rides immensely. 

Once out on the lake, I set up my chair on the trail behind my machine and settled in to enjoy the peace and quiet that is so much a part of the last frontier while my husband continued on down the trail to give me some alone time for the next hour. 

As the silence closed in around me, my tinnitus heightened, and I found myself wishing for wind. On one occasion, the wind answered, bringing snow along for the ride. As I sat there, in the middle of the lake, I tried to see how much snow would pile up on me before the torn discs in my lower back begged me to move. The flakes were small, but my dark jacket and snow pants allowed for close examination of the hexagon shapes, each different and unique. I love the wind. I love the feel of it. I love the sound of it. I loved watching it roll through the trees and across the snowblown lake, creating drifts and shallows as it went. 

In all my time there, I never saw an animal, not a bird, not a sound. There were tracks, moose and rabbit, maybe a fox here or there. We saw wolf tracks on the trail on the way in, which made me feel the need to look behind me now and again as I sat there. I wondered if there was some being just inside the treeline, hunkered down, watching me and wondering what I was doing. Was a crossfox curiously scurrying from tree to tree? If he was there, I did not see him or hear him. Perhaps it was a she, fattened with kits, heading back to her den with a mouse or a vole who had met his demise. 

I couldn’t have been more than 5 miles from a blacktop road, just a couple of miles from a gravel road neighborhood and a lake, 17-mile Lake, filled with ice fishermen, women, and children. It was because of this that the complete silence took me by surprise. I noticed that I couldn’t even hear Gregg coming back until he had come over the top of ridge. 

I’ve only been to Wishbone Lake in the winter, this winter. I look forward to driving the 4-wheeler into it this summer, though, from the look of it, there may be some wet crossings that will add to the adventure. I wonder… will there be birds chirping in the trees in the summer? Will there be fish jumping in the lake? Will an occasional moose dare to show its face at the water’s edge? For now, the lake is sleeping. It’s tucked in under a thick blanket of snow, silently sleeping. 

The lake sits in a sort of hollow, surrounded by mountain peaks, and makes me grateful that this is in my backyard; we had driven the snowmachines straight from our house to this wild place. The hills that rise up from the edge of the lake are tree covered, but the craggy mountaintops are just beyond. I would say that I’m lucky, but really, luck had nothing to do with it. A lot of hard work and dream chasing brought me to that very spot on Wishbone Lake. There, I was. Everywhere I go, there I am.

CCS 612 Reaction Paper 4

I'm taking CCS 612 (Cross-Cultural Studies: Traditional Ecological Knowledge) as a step toward my PhD in Indigenous Studies.

This is a reaction to Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future by Melissa K. Nelson.

This week’s chapter readings (Nelson) gave me a lot to think about. I came away from it thinking about the positive impact that indigenous knowledge, native science, could have on western civilization if only the concept of colonization could be wiped clean. As I type this, I’ve got my hair pulled up because my face is covered with a greasy salve that I bought from a lady in Nome. The salve doesn’t have a name and she makes it with local ingredients. It’s a healing ointment for dry skin, psoriasis, and such, and my face is just flaking away from dryness, partly because of physical therapy in a pool once/week and partly because it’s just so dry this time of year. I’ve had the salve for several years and seldom use it. Instead, I turn to mass-produced lotions and skin care, but the face creams I’ve been using don’t seem to be helping at all, and I saw this little jar in my medicine cabinet today and thought, “Well, duh! Isn’t this just what I’ve been reading about? Native science!” It seems like just a bad habit that I fall into, searching for answers on Amazon or in storefronts. I’ve been making a concerted effort lately to really pay attention to what food and drink I’m putting into my body, so it only makes sense to pay attention to what I’m putting on it, as well.

In Chapter 18, Mohawk was talking about food as medicine, and it made me pause and think about the floral jellies that I make. I research edible flowers and then grow them from seed, harvest the petals, and make jelly. I’ve learned a lot over the last few years about nutritional, even medicinal, benefits of many of the flowers. Some of the flowers, I harvest in the wild, like Fireweed and Dandelion. I also find it fun to learn what the different flavors are that come from the flowers. Nasturtium jelly tastes like nectarines. Black Pansy jelly tastes like blackberries. Calendula jelly tastes lemony. Bachelor Button jelly tastes like strawberries. There are more that I have discovered, but I’ll stop here. Last summer, when my then 3-year-old grandson was walking with me through the garden, I would pick petals off of this flower or that one and give them to him to eat. The raw petals don’t have much flavor, but it was fun to teach him that he could eat grandma’s flowers. When Mohawk wrote about elders being a repository of knowledge, it made me think about that day and about how my daughters, and even my sister, often call me for advice or information regarding cooking, baking, and gardening. Before my dad passed, he would also call me with questions about those things. Now, I get to start passing on that knowledge to my grandchildren and it’s difficult to describe the feeling of leaving an almost tangible impression on other humans to carry with them long after I’m gone.

In Chapter 19, Nelson was talking about being Ojibwe and the deep meaning behind the annual wild rice harvest. I spent some time teaching at a BIA school on the Lac Courte Oreilles Ojibwe reservation in northern Wisconsin, and students were often “in class” outside of the classroom in the mornings. In the fall, often coinciding with the beginning of the school year, was the wild rice harvest. This pulled students into the local lakes and waterways until late morning on most days. However, the integration of Traditional Ojibwe Knowledge into the regular school day was the key lifeline for those students. The reward was having wild rice for lunch! The K-12 school had no more than 100 students when I was there in 2005-2007, and the cafeteria cooks made lunch from scratch every day, and the menu depended on the season. However, whenever they said we were having a feast, it meant that wild rice was on the menu. In that culture, if you had wild rice, you were livin’ large. Fall also meant deer hunting, so it was not unusual for us to have venison with our wild rice. Duke mentioned this same feast tradition in Chapter 22. It brought back good memories and a hunger for wild rice!

I loved how Rivera, Chapter 20, put it when he said that the Andeans would have a conversation with wild plants before, during, and after harvest. It reminded me of picking berries on the tundra behind our cabin on the Unalakleet River. Hundreds, probably thousands, of acres of blueberries, salmon berries, cranberries, black berries (crow berries) all mixed in together. There was a special time in late summer and early fall when I could go out to the tundra and sit in one spot and pick all 4 kinds of berries within arm’s reach. I was always alone, the spot being 12 miles from town, so I would often sing or just talk to the berries and the mountains in the distance, partly because it made me feel a connection with the earth and partly because I didn’t want a bear or a wolf to just happen upon me out there.

Memories of my own ocean food gathering were brought to mind as I read Ross’ Chapter 21. When I lived in Homer, we would go digging for razor clams in September. Earlier in the summer, we would go across the bay to camp. While over there, we would scour the boulders at low tide for mussels and butter clams which would be steamed and served with a coconut curry broth and big hunks of fresh French bread. It was so delicious that I can taste it as I type. Ross also emphasized thinking small - home gardens, using what’s around on the land and in the water, and steering clear of big-business food products. It’s all so true and I’ve lived most of my adult life according to that very principal. My daughters, having been raised with gardens, now have their own gardens and are teaching their children about organic (native) home-grown food. Food gathering can also be a fun, family experience like when I go blueberry picking with my daughter and grandson out at Hatcher’s Pass. We have made it an annual family tradition. This coming Saturday, we (my husband, myself, my daughter, her husband, and my grandson) are all going ice-fishing together. I love that we do those things together. Bonding over the catching and harvesting of food is food for the soul in itself.

Finally, in Chapter 23, when Mohawk talked of the fragility of a high tech civilization, it made me reflect on how thankful I am for the modern conveniences that we now have, that we didn’t have when living offgrid in the 400sf cabin on the Unalakleet River. Much like the Andeans, I have conversations with my appliances on a regular basis. I don’t know that I’ll ever turn on a tap for warm running water again and not be grateful for it. I’m thankful every time I open the refrigerator to get a cold glass of iced tea. I’m so very thankful to have ice in the summer, not just in the winter. The robot vacuum, dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer - I’m very spoiled now, but I am thankful. However, the fragility of it all is not lost on me. I’ll always garden, hunt, fish, gather, and put up all that I can.

Food is medicine and so is the acquisition of that food. Mindfulness in all steps of the process is as nourishing as it is healing. Now is the time to extend that thought pattern to medicine for the external. Over the last couple of years, I have been learning about essential oils and rely on my homemade roll-ons to ease back pain, capsules to ease stomach pain, and cleaners to keep my home as nontoxic as possible. Why didn’t I turn to that healing salve first? From now on, I will.