Written by: Jake Todd, Social Studies Teacher, BartlettHigh School
I had been on the IgushikRiver for about a month.A rookie many times over:First ride in a plane that felt more like a tandem bike, first time in the bush, first time worrying about walking into a bear.The mountains were serene, and the stream that my camp was on was tranquil and quiet; the closest civilization to us was the village of Manakotaq, about 6 hours away by boat.Fish & Game had called me where I was working and asked if I would like to be an emergency replacement for a field worker at a fish counting station in Bristol Bay.I quit my restaurant job, bussing tables, that day.
Adjusting to the NPR schedule and pilot crackers was more comfortable than I would have thought.I was quick to find the rhythm and relax.Perhaps we were too relaxed.Two days before our boss was supposed to fly out with mail and inspect our camp, disaster struck.I lost the boat.I had not been tying the boat up when I came to shore, I would just come in hot, beach it like a Turnagain beluga, and be on my merry way.
Not this time.We were in serious trouble.
The three of us held a huddle.We revised the to-do-list.In front of “do dishes” and “catch up on field sample data,” we all agreed “find the boat” should take precedence.This was about to be the mess up of the summer.Worse than the time we accidentally asked for beer during a radio call when every commercial and subsistence fisherman in the bay was listening in.Worse than when we forgot to call in at all.I had lost our means of transportation.
Just as we were loading up the shotgun with rubber bear scare shells, we heard the din of a distant outboard.Every 5 or 6 days, a boat would go past us on the way to the lake, from the village.I waved.The boaters were seldom interested enough to look to see if anyone was around our camp.As I heard the boat get closer, I left the cabin and walked down to the river.
I saw two villagers in a new looking Lund coming up the river, angling into the little cove we usually had our boat parked in.The driver got just close enough to the bank to be out of the current.
“Hey,” he said.
“How’s it going?”
“Good.Did you guys lose a boat?” He asked.
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“We saw one going down the river, but no one was driving.You want a ride down to it?”
“You know it!Thanks!You just rescued me, and I wasn’t even in the boat!”
Written by: Helen Ramondos, Primary Literacy Teacher, LakeHood Elementary
“Though force can protect in emergency, only justice, fairness, consideration and cooperation can finally lead men to the dawn of eternal peace”.Dwight D. Eisenhower
Corina moved to Anchorage from one of the villages in southwest Alaska and was placed in my third grade classroom. She whispered to me that she had a nickname, Sixty, named after her uncle.She would sit quietly at her desk and keep to herself.Whenever directions were given, she seemed lost and later had difficulty completing tasks and participating in class discussions. Corina often either looked around to see what her classmates were doing and then mimicked them, or played with materials at her desk.She was very shy and had no friends.During lunch and recess, Corina kept to herself.
Fortunately, as a teacher, I was able to relate to Corina’s struggles on adapting to a new, larger school with a lot of strangers.I also came from a small village in Alaska.Occasionally, during class story time, I would read cultural books that she could relate to, and I would ask her to give the class an interpretation of a simple word in her language, such as the word snow.We would have sharing experiences and one of them was about our favorite foods. Corina’s was “agutuk”. Since my class was so diverse, many didn’t know what that word meant.She had fun describing it. Third graders love to share, and Corina was the “center of attention” answering her peers questions on something that she was knowledgeable on.My class had many cooperative learning activities, with whole class participation.Corina grew to enjoy them.I complimented and praised her for every little accomplishment.She, in turn, complimented me on how “perfectly matched” my clothes were.Remember, she liked to mimic.The school had Indian Ed. Services, which I made sure she attended. I informed the tutor on Corina’s academic and social situation.Her hours with the tutor were increased. The Indian Ed. Tutor also taught all third grade classes how to make Eskimo drums.The music teacher became involved and taught the students the Eskimo ice-cream dance. All third grade classes had a potluck and dancing at the end of the school year, wearing their kuspuks that a parent volunteer made.Corina had a ball!I also modified her assignments for her comfort level on grasping the concepts.My students had “class jobs”, in which, everyone had a turn on doing a particular job in the classroom. Corina loved being the “line leader”.
As the year progressed, she gradually adjusted to the learning environment and grew more comfortable with my classroom structure, students, and the school in general.These are just some of the lessons/activities that I did in my class with students such as Corina.With the cooperative effort on all involved in Corina’s education, she successfully completed the third grade and finished her elementary school years at that same public school.
Because of Corina’s lack of progress in school and her inability to pay attention and complete her work, some teachers might think that Corina may have a learning disability and be referred for testing.Sadly, many second language learners, such as Corina, exhibit types of behavior that resemble students learning difficulties.So meaningful assessments, with the cooperation of the teachers and “placement team” must be administered properly for appropriate academic placement for students.
This is my reflection on a very special little girl named Corina, and how the word “cooperation” evolved into a story.
Written by: Amy Maitland, Social Work Manager, MSW, GCDF
I have no complaints about my childhood.In fact, I feel very fortunate to have a family that has influenced me in powerful ways to become the woman I am today.I am an Alaska Native woman whose roots lie peacefully in the Aleut culture.A tremendously large and spirited extended family whose values and traditions left a deep imprint on my life raised me.They tenderly spoke kind words to encourage my development and even kinder but stern words followed to correct my many mistakes.
My home was a home that was not saturated in anger or conflict, it was a home that nurtured discussions, respected differences and spoke with cautious tongues.My family understood the power of words; therefore, I feel that I was mentored to speak very thoughtfully and select my words with care.One single word has the power to leave an imprint on a person for their entire life that will spark joy or ignite sadness. That is a lot of power.
I recall a warm summer day in July.The year was 1985 and it was full of laughter and carefree play.My regular casual routine was to wake up and get through the morning’s mundane tasks in order to ride my banana seat bike over to my friend’s house.As I peddled through the suburban neighborhood with the warm sun‘s rays pouring over my face, my mind eagerly raced with what fun activities would like ahead today for Molly and I.Molly was my “B.F.F.” and we bonded over making forts, baking our brownies in our easy bake oven and playing “light as a feather—stiff as a board”.Our friendship was two months of bliss and laughter until she told me she hated me.Woe is the intense and often short-lived joy of childhood friendships!
Needless to say, I was shocked and distraught.I was silenced by her words and quickly ran home to be cocooned by my mother’s arms.It is now funny to recall, but to this day, all I remember was jumping on her bed, having fun and the action that caused her sharp statement that stung my heart is wiped from my memory.But, the words, her words, still remain a poignant memory.
As I continue to grow and learn from situations in adulthood, I reflect on the opportunities in my life to practice the Native value of avoiding conflict.I have often been silenced and retreated from the experiences. But, I know words carry a lot of weight. They should be spoken with care and more so in times of disagreement or miscommunication.Over the years, I have come to the realization that conflict is unavoidable.However, you can turn conflict into an opportunity to learn and grow. The words spoken in tender situations should be chosen wisely and with care.With a kind heart and a soft tongue we can nurture the growth and raise the spirit of not only ourselves but also those around us.
This is my story of avoiding conflict and valuing cooperation with others by judicious communication as I experienced it in 1985 and throughout my life.
Written by: Gail Israel Weinstein, Site Manager/Academic Advocate, BartlettHigh School
She had never walked on cement before.New to urban Anchorage, the high school for her 16 year old son had more people in one place than she’d ever experienced before.It was as if time itself stood still for her while the rest of the building swirled around at a frenetic pace.Gently, I moved her into the privacy of the office away from the crowds. We spoke quietly. We spoke of mother and son’s journey and their immediate needs. While son worked toward graduation mom hoped to attend college to begin her studies in nursing. It was a pleasure to attend to the family. As we reviewed ideas, options and resources she relaxed and I began to sense a more personal connection.
We exchanged phone numbers for follow-up and to keep in touch. After handing her my CITC business card the space in the room vibrated and went totally still.She stared at my card, at me, back to the card, “Gail Israel Weinstein” she read pointing to my middle name “Israel, Israel” she spoke “You are Jewish!”I took a deep breath unsure where we were headed. “Yes, I am.”Peacefully, she looked deep into my soul and quietly said “Shalom.” She reached over, hugged me and while wiping tears from her cheeks said, “You are the first Jewish person I’ve ever met, except for, my Grandfather.”It was my turn for time to stop.
She continued, “My grandfather escaped from Russia during a ‘pogrom’ of anti-Semitism against the Jewish people in the early 1900’s.His family and all the people of his village were killed.”She sighed, paused, and continued, “He ran away and traveled across many lands and seas, barely surviving yet managed to come into our area where our hunters found him just about dead… They brought him back to our village and nursed him back to life… One of the women became his wife, my Grandmother. My grandparents together lived to become respected elders in the community… After statehood he became a surveyor and there is a mountain range named after him…And that is how my Jewish Grandfather came to be an Alaskan Native.”
This is a story of our human family roots and our interconnectedness as experienced in Anchorage during the 2003-2004 school year.
As the winter sun inched over the horizon, the dark sky turned steely gray and blurred with the snow-covered ground with every wind gust. The wind rattled the metal building and everyone wore coats inside.The rising sun marks a new beginning of the day, but not during winter in Bristol Bay.It only meant you could see how bad the weather was.Today was going to be work.
The terminal was busy with ticket counter ladies checking in passengers for the return leg to Anchorage.The air taxi counter checked in passengers heading from Anchorage to the Villages.I took my cup of cheap coffee with me and joined the other pilots on their way to the storage area of the hangar.We needed to check how much freight we had to move that day.The ramp crew was there, filling out their load sheets.It was always a good idea to know what needed to be done before the counter ladies and rampers argued about who and what was a priority and needed to be moved that day.All of this coordination and teamwork and all of these people trying to work together didn’t matter. Johnie could trump everyone’s plans.
Johnie was the most senior pilot, son of an original owner of the company, and himself older than God’s dog.He was short, wiry, and flipped his Leatherman constantly, effortlessly and mindlessly as he surveyed his domain.Making decisions according to his plans and plotting how he thought the day should go; his intentions were always to get the job done. He had more energy than most 20 year olds.He called us all Yuppie Pilots. It was not a compliment.
The coordination of all of us was required to get flights out timely and safely, but the lack of acknowledged interdependence made for long, hard, frustrating days in an environment where additional stress was certainly not needed.
This is a story of interdependence as I experienced it in Bristol Bay, Alaska.
It’s cold today, the waves are crashing at chest height but I wait, we wait… for a jolt. Collectively we wait for a splash in our net. We depend, we inter-depend on our family, our friends; to watch the kids, to kill the fish, to share a smile and feed our cold bodies. And again, we head back into the water, cold glacial water. Millions of years, surrounding our bodies, and bringing in the fish.
By mornings end, a dozen fish lay ashore. We sip coffee, share food, and peel our wet waders off. The tide has turned our priorities have turned…. We trade places on the beach. Provider turns protector, waiting ashore for the next fish. “Do you need anything….I’ll be over here with the kids. Remember to bleed out the fish, and catch a big one” I say with a smile.
At camp we warm our bodies, and wipe the sand from our kids hands. Today is a day to be thankful, to celebrate, and to share in the glory of family and friends (and many fish in the coolers).
A crackle of the fire leads to sleepy eyes. We all know what is in store tomorrow. Our jobs begin again and back to the water we head. Nets in hand, fish in mind.
“What time is it?”
“It’s 6:05”
“Lets finish our coffee and head down, the kids are sleeping, and I see fish being caught.” Together we hold each other up.
An experience from our yearly dip netting trip to the KenaiRiver.
Written by: Katie Cueva, Science/Multicultural Dance Teacher
While Linda deftly sliced through rich King Salmon meat, smoothing flesh away from bone with her ulu, I carried the orange fillets to my Dad at the cutting table.Swatting mosquitoes, Dad portioned out slices for vacuum packing, while the neighbors tied strips together with yarn for hanging in the smokehouse.Among friends and family, we worked together to catch, clean, and process salmon from the Kuskokwim.
Each member of the crew pitched in to help with what they could, working together to bring in the salmon.After letting the net out over the side of the boat, we watched in eager anticipation for the tell-tale splashes signifying a fish caught in the mesh.With the net trailing from Bill's hand-made wooden boat, swallows filled the air above the cliff face where they nested, offering us a brief distraction from our task.Then, pulling in the net burdened with salmon (or sometimes, less burdened then we'd hoped), we quickly sorted the fish into bins - Chums for the dog team, Reds and Kings for eating.After gutting the fish, we cleaned the boat with water dipped from the river.At home, the Chums hung full-length in the walk-in freezer while a frenzy of activity continued around the dog yard - cleaning, cutting, stripping, brining, hanging, vacuum packing - all done quickly with many hands.With Bill's boat, Linda's knowledge of the river, and the family and neighbors who pitched in to help with every step of the process, we enjoyed the fresh, rich taste of the King Salmon that Mary cooked for a dinner among friends in Bethel.
This is a story of interdependence as I experienced it in Bethel in 2010.
Written by: John Hoffman, Education Department Consultant
The low, gray clouds made it seem even earlier than it actually was. Keith wasn’t used to being up before 8 am on a Saturday but for the last three weeks he’d been going with a couple of friends to some special classes at a new middle school.If he did well in these classes, he might be accepted to this brand new school. His mom didn’t like the principal in charge of his old school; she had high hopes that Keith could be more successful in a new situation.He just needed to get selected.But today, when he got to the community center, the van and his friends had already left.Keith thought about going home but he realized how disappointed his mom would be.
He began to run.The first few blocks were easy – he felt warmer running – but then the rain began.Keith kept running; he was going to get wet no matter which direction he took so he kept running.After a few more blocks, he noticed the city bus coming so he got on at the next stop.When he got off, it was raining harder but the last few blocks to the new school didn’t seem so bad. At the door, he hesitated.He was afraid the teacher in charge would yell at him for being late, but he remembered how disappointed his mom would be.He went in.
When his friends saw him – soaked and dripping – they began to laugh.But it wasn’t a mean laugh: they were glad to see him and he knew he must look ridiculous.The teacher laughed too but got him some paper towels, helped him dry off and found him a clean T-shirt. She thanked him for taking the extra effort to get to class.When he went to his seat to start his math problems, Keith was proud to get to work on the day he took charge of his education.
This is a story of one of my students in Washington, D.C. in 2002.
Written by: Cristy Willer, Managing Director for Grants & Planning
Freddy was one of the worst street drunks in Dillingham.He wasn’t violent, but he was sloppy, and loud, and annoying, and so very public.Mostly he was annoying because people genuinely liked him, and seeing him behave like that made them uncomfortable and guilty, because there was nothing they could do to help their friend.They felt sorry for him, which is not a good way to feel about a grown man.
Then Freddy got sober.It took a lot of years and a lot of work – and at least seven different treatment episodes – but perseverance, and (according to Freddy) the power of prayer, and a lot of help from his friends finally allowed him to resume a life he hadn’t experienced for decades.He fell in love and married and had two beautiful children (we called him “Father Abraham” because he was well into his forties before all this happened).Then he went to school—a tough haul for a grown man—and worked hard and became a certified substance abuse counselor, helping hundreds of people to overcome their own addictions.As a professional, he almost didn’t have to say anything to his clients, because most of the people coming to him for help remembered what a public, pitiful mess he’d been, and now they saw in front of them a healthy, smiling, married, father of two—a proud Yup’ik man—and that gave many of them the hope they needed to struggle on.
After many years of doing this difficult and essential work, he was awarded the prized “Counselor of the Year” award at the statewide AnnualSchool on Addictions.Hundreds of fellow professionals in a large Sheraton Hotel ballroom stood and applauded this humble man who had won back his life and given it to others.Yup’ik men don’t cry much, but Freddy did, and so did most of the rest of us who had gathered to honor him.
This is a story of Yup’ik resilience as I remember experiencing it in Dillingham, Alaska, in the 1990’s.
Written by: Kristin English, VP/Chief Operating Officer
Any resilience that I have within me would be at least in part the result of an upbringing that was heavily laced with what I can only call the “proverbs of my parents.” There are things that I heard in the days of my youth that really didn’t resonate with me at the time. There are other sayings that don’t entirely make sense to this day. But, when I think of all the truths and truisms that my parents did their best to impart to my siblings and I, I can only be thankful to have had their steady guidance. In lieu of beautiful prose written in lyrical sentences, I provide instead a list of the phrases of my youth. I do not know the origin of all of these words, but I would like to think that at least some of them have been passed down through the generations. I’ve repeated these saying so many times, usually attributing them to my mom, that now my daughter and her cousins use a shorthand saying, “W.W.G.D” to indicate that they’ve gotten another dose of “what would grandma do” advice.
Never loan money that you can’t afford to lose.
Always put the needs of others before your own.
The dishes aren’t done until the sink and counters are spotless.
Words are like weapons. They have the power to wound.
Sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you. (In direct contradiction to the saying above, but they both have their time and place.)
A job worth doing is worth doing well.
Enunciate your words.
Cussing and swearing is the most ignorant form of communication. There is always a better way to express yourself.
There is a right way and a wrong way to do everything.
It’s better to give than to receive.
You have to eat a ton of dirt before you die. (This is one that I still don’t really get, and as a somewhat analytical kid, I always wondered if death could be avoided by eating less than a ton of dirt. As this advice was usually doled out during picnics or other occasions that involved dropped food, it was probably just my mom’s funny way of getting us to quit complaining.)
Family is everything. They will be the ones who will always be there for you.
Choose your friends wisely and avoid bad influences.
Always admit to your wrong doings. (According to my mom, we would always get caught anyhow.)
There is good in everyone. If you look for it, you will find it.
You should never hate anything or anyone (but perhaps the devil, which was my mom’s view.) Even dislike should be used sparingly.
Never call anyone stupid.
Don’t bite your nose to spite your face.
Never tell anyone to shut up.
There is no excuse for boredom. When one complains of boredom they should be thankful to be relieved of their burden by way of a chore.
Never let your house get so messy that you would be embarrassed if someone stopped by.
Don’t leave the house unless it is company clean.
God gives us no burdens that we can not bear.
Always take the high road.
Never let yourself sink to the level of others who are treating you poorly. You will only feel small and make matters worse.
When you feel your spirits failing, take a good long walk. All problems seem smaller after fresh air and exercise.
Do your best at every job. To do less is like stealing.
Listen to your conscience. It’s not there just to make you feel guilty but also to help you make the right choices.
Give to others without expecting anything in return. Gifts that are given laden with expectations are not really gifts at all.
I don’t know how much this list has contributed to my resiliency, but I know that the advice that my parents have branded in my brain has helped me get through many tough times. As I reflect upon the list that I’ve just written, I am reminded of my own short comings and the pieces of advice that are hard for me to follow. But that’s OK, because as my mom always said, no one is perfect but God! I am also reminded of how lucky I was for not only receiving good parental advice, but I’m also fortunate to be part of a large family who, like my father always predicted, is always there for me regardless of my imperfections.
When I first remember the school putting elders and students together in the classroom, both the students and elders would complain, “We don’t understand them.” But not Mike. Slow and steady he would come to the school everyday speaking to the students in Yup’ik while telling stories, making nets and sleds, carving and teaching a way of life. After a year of being in the classroom everyday, the students and other elders began to understand each other.
Nothing would stop Mike, an elder in his eighties, from coming to school. No one had told Mike that in the middle of a Bering Sea blizzard school had been called off, so he set off trudging up and down ten foot high snow drifts in a thirty mile and hour wind to school. He stumbled and broke his arm, but the next week he was back in class with a sling, teaching.
Mike passed away in the school gym on the afternoon of a large spring dance festival where he had come as one of the first to prepare for the many dancers coming from many villages. Later that evening, in the same gym, a multitude of flowers arrived on Qaspet, dresses, of the dancers - flowers as bright and fresh and beautiful as any funeral every attended.
Mikes wife, Susie, danced with the echoing rhythm of the drums with the grace and flow of a young bride to the voices and songs of her and Mike’s drummers and their ancestors. Mikes stories and songs are now immortalized in the minds of the next generation.
This is a story of Yup’ik resilience as I remember experiencing it in Tununak, AK, in the 1990’s.
