Thanksgiving in Barrow

Earlier in the week, Doreen had invited me to the Presbyterian Church for a Thanksgiving feed. She had mentioned caribou soup and maktak. I was interested in the caribou soup, so I thought, why not.

I arrived at the church right before noon as Doreen had instructed. As I entered the church, I walked into a big crowd. Doreen had told me where she and her family would sit – in the choir seats, the pews located behind the pulpit – so I found them quickly. The church was packed and the floor of the congregation room was completely covered in sheets of plastic.


I also noticed that people had coolers and totes with them in the pews, racks of soda. As the room got more and more full, fold-up chairs were taken out, children were sitting on their parent’s lap. I saw that Doreen and her family also had stuff with them. Inside one of the bags I saw Tupperware containers and spoons, and realized that I had forgotten to bring my own bowl and silverware as Doreen had told me to do. Her niece, Kristin, said it was ok, that they had extra. They also brought a new roll of paper towels and big empty zip-lock bags.

I assumed the feed would be buffet style and figured it may take a while. The big crowd at the church would mean long lines. But I was wrong. Kristin explained to me that the food is brought to us. The servers – teenagers within the church – were all assigned a section of pews to serve food to. Everyone attending the feed did not have to leave their seats in order to eat. This explained the plastic covering the floor. Kristin said she had been a server for ten years.

It all started with a church service. A Thanksgiving church service. I didn’t feel like I had been duped into going to church because Doreen seemed genuinely surprised that there was a service once it began. I realized I was going to have to sit through this if I wanted caribou soup. And so I did.

It wasn’t that unbearable as I began to see it for what it was – a cultural experience. Yes, I was inside a Presbyterian Church, but I was among Inupiat people and the service was indicative of that. Most of the service was conducted in Inupiaq – the prayers, the hymms (translated from traditional hymms), but I still found myself able to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the one prayer that’s been lodged in my brain since childhood.


Before the food was served, they had some of the servers and some of the deacons present the food. They walked down the aisle each carrying a plate of what we were about to be served and lined up before the congregation. One of them counted off, “1-2-3,” and they all proclaimed in unison, in English, “Happy Thanksgiving.” They filed out of the room and this was cue to get ready for the food.

Doreen handed me a Tupperware, a spoon, and piece of paper towel, as well as a bottle of water. As I looked around, people started taking stuff out of their coolers – vegetables and dip, drinks, salt and paper shakers. People started opening soda cans and boxes of triscits. Some people pulled out stools. They were picnicking inside the church, families sharing their food amongst each other, waiting for the main dishes to be served. I had never seen anything like it.

Wearing plastic aprons and rubber gloves, the servers poured into the congregation room and broke off into pairs, each pair carrying a huge pot of soup which they generously ladled into paper bowls and Tupperware containers.


When the pot was empty, they’d leave and emerge with another one. First I tried a caribou soup, then a duck soup, and the third was another caribou soup. All the soups were made by different people, so each had a different flavor and I wanted to be sure to sample the best. The soups contained bones with meat and fat still on them, and rice. At one point during the soup devouring, Doreen turned to me and said, “I’m so glad you came.” I replied with the same sentiment because it was true.

After the rounds and rounds of soup, the maktak was next. This time the pairs of servers carried plastic totes containing frozen slices of whale fat. Some people pulled out ulus and sliced just one brick of frozen maktak into bite-size pieces and ate it right there and then. The other bricks of maktak were destined for home.


Throughout all of this, individual people would go up to the pulpit and share a message of thanks, or at least that’s what I assumed they were saying. Others came up and sang. It was during a couple of women singing, as the fourth round of maktak was being distributed, that I decided to make my exit. I had sat there for two and half hours, drank a lot of soup, ate two pieces of raw maktak, and was getting antsy. Plus, I still needed to make a butternut squash soup for the American Thanksgiving meal I was attending later that evening.

Even though I had never seen anything like it, the atmosphere was familiar – the Inupiat people regard food in the same way the Chinese do. They aren’t bashful about food. There’s no polite etiquette to eating. They eat and enjoy, making a mess in the process. The people in church eagerly held out their bowls for more soup as the servers were approaching; they didn’t wait to be asked if they wanted more. Everyone had a spoon, but most people just drank the soup out of the container it was in, as if it was a cup. They called out if someone’s bowl had been overlooked by a server. When the maktak was served in various rounds, large zip-lock bags and used plastic grocery bags were held out in anticipation. The frozen pieces of maktak were meant to be horded, taken home, put back in the freezer, or into packages to be sent to distant family members. It was nice to be among such a food frenzy. As odd as it all was, I very much felt comfortable and at ease.

Later that night I ate a more traditional Thanksgiving meal with the Saxton family. There was the usual – turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, squash soup, green bean casserole, a yam and marshmallow dish, stuffing, rolls, canned cranberry sauce – as well as the largest selection of homemade pies I had ever seen. Everyone served themselves, took their time eating, and ate their soup with a spoon.

Daylight Fading/Daylight Gone

Daylight fading
Come and waste another year
All the the anger and the eloquence are bleeding into fear
Moonlight creeping around the corners of our lawn
When we see the early signs that daylight's fading
We leave just before it's gone
-CC

Today is my first day without the sun.

Yesterday, November 18, the sun rose in Barrow at 12:53 pm and set less than 40 minutes later at 1:30 pm. The sun will not be seen in Barrow again until January 22, 2009, at approximately 1:20 pm.

The Four Types

I think there are four types of people who are in Barrow.*

There are the Inupiat people, the ones who’ve been here forever and the ones who’ll remain here forever. They know the land and the ice better than any scientist who has all the fancy equipment in the word, and they are tied to them. The Inupiat are a close-knit family and fight diligently for what is rightfully there’s. To them, Barrow is beautiful. To them, Barrow is home.

Then there are those scientists with their fancy, and not so fancy, equipment. To this group, I’ll add the archaeologists, the engineers, the researchers, the oral historians – the people who come to Barrow to find something out that will be published in some journal or talked about in a conference. Barrow and the surrounding North Slope area appeal to a multitude of scientific minds from all over the world.

The third type is the individual who comes here for money and stays here for money. Money and benefits. These types say they get paid double than anything they would make down south or even elsewhere in Alaska. They want to go and live elsewhere but the package is too tempting. They live in Barrow now so that they can be happy in ten years, so that their long distance wife or husband can be happy. This is the type that mystifies me the most.

And then there’s me, and those similar. I’m the farthest thing from a scientist. I’m not by any means making a lot of money, and I’m not Inupiat. I’m here because I wanted to experience the extreme and that’s exactly what I’m doing. There was less than three hours of daylight today, so very soon, I’ll be experiencing extreme darkness. Although I’ve already experienced extreme cold, I know it will get a lot more extreme. When I saw the whaling boats come in from a distance and saw the whale they were pulling behind them emerge out of the water, I was extremely awed. StoryCorps Alaska and its poor reception in Barrow have made me extremely deflated. I’ve been extremely homesick and extremely lonely. In one month of living, I don’t think I’ve ever made less of an impact on anything or anyone, and that makes me extremely sad.

* Of course, there are way more than four types of people in Barrow. There’s the “Darlene” type. Darlene came to Barrow because a long, long time ago when she lived in Wisconsin and worked with the elderly, she joined the Lonely Hearts Club. Through it, she corresponded by letters with a man named Richard for over a year. One day Richard went to Benton, Wisconsin, freed Darlene of her lonely heart by marrying her, and brought her back to Barrow where, at age 63, she lives today, even though Richard has since died. There’s also that type. And they’re not really “types.” I hate to generalize, but I am for the sake of this blog entry.

Snowflakes

This is David's house from the outside. Notice the cut-out snowflakes on his windows:


Here, across the street, is a house really covered in snowflakes, a product of Barrow wind:

The House of David Ongley

I live in a black and white house, with a pink carpet. And various pieces of art and artifacts. Everything is very neatly placed but not necessarily cared for in the sense of true appreciation. It’s as if they were all hung with meticulous thought but no further love has since been attached. They exude an almost museum like quality, of being stagnant and still.










This is David Ongley's house. David is the librarian for the Tuzzy Library and his wife, Leanna, lives and works in Anchorage. His work and his long-distance wife are why David often needs a house-sitter, and that's where I come in. I am a seven-month house-sitter.

Three Things

1. Robin

Robin Mongoyak came up to me today at the Inupiat Heritage Center and told me he wanted to bring his sister into StoryCorps. I asked if his sister lived in Barrow, and it took just this small question to make him open up – Robin’s sister is, in fact, his mother. When he was born, his mother gave him up to her parents to raise. It was around age three or four when his “mother” started saying, “See your sister? She’s really your mother.” But Robin said he didn’t want to believe it so pushed it to the back of his mind. As he got older, he started noticing that all of his friends had grandparents and wondered why he didn’t. But he never asked his parents because he had a sneaking suspicion of what they’d say. Robin says he’s lucky though because he was constantly surrounded by older people, people his “parents” age, who were wiser.

Robin said his biological father was white, or “tanik” as the Inpiat would say (pronounced tah-nek), and this is why his grandparents (or his parents) forbade his mother (or his sister) to marry. He’s never met his father but he knows his name and Googles him every so often. Robin knows that his biological father is an appraiser, lives in Anchorage, married, and has six kids. When I asked Robin if he’s ever tried to contact him, he says no. Robin says if his father wanted to find him, then his father could, easily.

Robin is 38 years old and he’s not bitter. You’d think after hearing these things about him, he might be. But he described all of this to me without anger and he wasn’t faking it. If anything, he just seemed sad about his father. But he doesn’t seem like a man with regrets. Robin is perfect for StoryCorps; stories just pour forth from his mouth with hardly any provocation.

2. Eskimo Dancing

In honor of Inuit Day, which is today, the Inupiat Heritage Center hosted Eskimo Dancing.



3. Lloyd

I don’t know Lloyd’s last name. He told it to me but it was Inupiat and I have trouble hearing those names and knowing how they are spelt. It wasn’t one of the last names I’ve grown accustomed to, like Brower or Hobson or Leavitt or Nageak. I’m sure whatever his last name is, is another popular Barrow name that I’m just not that familiar with yet.

Lloyd was sitting in the front row for Eskimo Dancing. When I arrived, the seats weren’t filled yet. There was no one sitting in the front row except for Lloyd, but I still sat in the row behind him, which was also empty. Since moving to Barrow, I have this constant fear of breaking cultural norms. I somehow thought that the first row was reserved for elders. As we were waiting for the dancing to start, as people were still filing into the room, Lloyd turned and smiled at me. I smiled back and we started talking, enough for me to ask if it was okay if I sat next to him. He said I should, so I did. He told me he had just celebrated a birthday on Monday; Lloyd just turned 89. I said something stupid like, “Wow,” and then asked, “Did you ever think you’d live to see 89?” (I had to say almost everything twice), and he laughed and said no. He had more small chitchat and then he asked me where the bathroom was. I walked him to it. As expected, he was a pretty slow-moving guy. But he returned and we sat together for the show. I was happy I moved up to the front row because the others who ended up filling the row were smaller children or teenagers. It was one of those things where the crowd was large but no one wanted to sit in the first two rows.

Lloyd said a few things during the dancing, almost all of which I couldn’t hear, but I still smiled and he smiled back. For some of the dances, people in the audience would join in. As many of them passed our row to return to their seats, they stopped for a brief moment, shook Lloyd’s hand, and wished him a happy birthday.

When the Eskimo Dancing was over, Lloyd and I exchanged good-byes and he said, “Thanks for sitting with me.” I think that’s the nicest thing anyone in Barrow has yet to say to me.

Where were you?

I was at Arctic Thai Restaurant.

Its neon blinking ‘Open’ sign led the way into an empty restaurant; empty except for the one crucial element – a TV. I sat at the plastic table closest to the TV, ordered some food, and asked for the remote – after all, I was the only one there – and I flipped between the station it was already on, CNN, and NBC for what was to be two hours of being glued to my seat.

It didn’t matter that I sat alone in a Thai restaurant in Barrow, Alaska, for two hours. It didn’t matter that that was the level I had to sink to in order to watch TV (there are no bars in Barrow, hence no bars with TVs) on Election Night.

Barack Obama is President.

And as I walked home in the freezing cold, I felt like being patriotic was, for the first time since I was eleven, possible.

Campaigns and Gas Cards

I had the pleasure of absentee voting last week. It’s not as good as going to the polls, filling out the bubbles, putting it through the machine, taking a cookie, and walking away with an ‘I Voted Today’ sticker, but it has it’s advantages. I had the pleasure of knowing I got to see the ballot before many, many others. I’m not sure why that’s a pleasure but for some reason it is. I had the pleasure of knowing what the various propositions are so I could remind my friends to do their research. And I currently have the pleasure of knowing I voted, already.

So when I saw Ethan Berkowitz talk today in Barrow, I could look him in the eye and tell him I voted for him. I didn’t actually do this because for some reason I’m terrified of politicians, or more like I’m shy towards them. I don’t have a tear-jerking plight. I don’t have any tough questions to ask. Today, I just wanted to shake Ethan’s hand, wish him all the best, and tell him he literally already had my vote, so that when he is in DC, I could say that I shook his hand. That sounds so silly, doesn’t it.

I was nervous when I first met Frank Murkowski and Ted Stevens, which is odd because I don’t necessarily even respect them. As a reporter for the Wrangell Sentinel, I felt small. I was less nervous when I met Lisa Murkowski. And I was actually a bit tipsy when I met Sarah Palin in Petersburg.

Before seeing Ethan Berkowitz today, I had only spoken to him on the phone. He had called once. I don’t remember if I was at the Sentinel or KSTK, but when he called, whenever that was, I didn’t think he had much of a shot. He was funny on the phone though, very personable. I remember laughing. Maybe I’d even call him charming. In any case, he won me over in those few minutes, so that when I did see his name later, in mailings, on posters, and on the ballot, I knew who he was, kind of. Most of what I know about him is that he’s running against Don Young and he’s a Democrat.

It would’ve been so easy to have gone up to him after the talk, after they were done raffling off gas cards, after all the soda and most of the food were gone, and to have just shaken his hand, smiled, and said, “I already voted for you,” and maybe I would’ve said it seriously enough to actually convey, “I believe in you. Please do good things for Alaska in D.C.” But I didn’t do any of that. I fumbled with my gloves for a few moments, talked to the campaign assistant who was traveling with him, and walked away.