Children playing out on the tundra in the Village of Wainwright, Alaska. I took this photo in July of 2017
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A month before I accepted a teaching position in Dillingham, Alaska, the salmon fishing hub of Alaska, and left Wainwright, I was walking the beach on a late Saturday morning when a few of my students ran towards me and said I needed to follow them, and so I did. I had no idea what they needed to show me but was grateful that wanted to include me.
As I stayed in the village all summer instead of leaving as most non-Indigenous educators do, I became more welcomed and integrated into the community. These children asking me to follow them was a sign of that change.
They ran ahead along the beach but turned back often waving me forward. They ran up a small incline of sand and onto the open tundra. I followed and then stopped, careful to carry an expression of wonder rather than of judgement. I reminded myself what I had been told many times by local Inupiaq elders, “The ocean is our garden.”
Too, I recalled the deer and bear my step-father harvested on the Iroquois Seneca territory in Upstate, New York. Culturally significant, traditional ways of hunting for food are sacred. Here in Wainwright, those traditions have been practiced for multiple generations. My lack of knowledge of these customs asked me to be silent, to listen, watch and help, if invited. Too, after asking an elder if I may, write or paint my experience of being present.
When I came up the dirt boat ramp, I saw my neighbors and the parents of my students bent over a dozen fresh-killed beluga carcasses. They quickly sawed away the meat and divided it amongst those that were there. No part of the animals was wasted. That which was not good for humans to eat was taken to the beach for seagulls and the four legged to feed upon. Some went into the water and fed those that swim below sea level.
I stood at the edge of the tundra and noted both some of my students selling lemonade (they wore ballerina tutus over their snow gear) and a table mid-way across the blood-soaked field. A few older men were eating donuts and pouring coffee from a thermos into paper cups as they stood around it.
One of the men called out to me and said to join them for a hot cup. I knew this was a pivotal moment in my relationship to the Wainwright community. Me, a blonde white woman from Boston invited to walk across the field where beluga were still being harvested? I had no hesitation. I walked over, raised my eyebrows up gesturing I wanted coffee and drank it down.
Beluga heads were mounted on sticks so oil could be drawn from them for medicinal purposes. Children danced around them. I watched and caught all that went through my mind in words that I held onto just as they held onto the oil that would be rubbed onto the chests of the ill, or behind their ears.
If you quiver at these words, remember these are whalers just like those out of Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of Massachusetts. Many are distant relatives of New England whaling captains. These acts were done by those captains of the sea, too. Whale oil fueled lamps for decades. Perfumes were made from it.
I talked with the men for fifteen minutes or so. Or more precisely, they talked and I respectfully listen. When all of the belugas had been harvested and their meat pack onto the backs of four wheelers, the tundra soon emptied out as everyone went home, including me. First, I turned to the wave to wash my hands and sip from my water bottle so as to swallow a bit of grit.
I wrote the poem below shortly after I arrived home. It has a shaper edge to it than my first poem, “Wainwright.” It expresses what I saw in that moment. It’s part of their story and mine.
Note: I do have photographs that I took that day. Out of respect for the Wainwright Alaska Indigenous community, I chose not to post them here. I remain grateful that I was invited to be present and given the go to write about that day.
Beluga Harvest
Sixteen beluga carcasses laid side by side,
Saws pull through the marble-looking hide.
Wide slabs fall into red stained hands.
They hurry to pile it into stainless steel pans.
Some bring utility trailers to carry their’s home.
Others, its Amazon boxes fastened to Ski-Doo chrome.
Twelve packs of Dr. Pepper pushed to the driver’s seat.
Dropped glove, Marlboro stuck between missing teeth.
Coffee in thermoses stand tall on an old card table.
An elder nods, his blue hoodie sports a Nike label.
Hunting stories, more than brew, he wants to share.
I walk forward, blood splatters ‘cross my outerwear.
Two girls wearing tutus over snow gear smile and wave.
I pour the black water and hear, “Lemonade’s made!”
Glazed donuts offered by a crimson stained mitt.
I show respect, dip half in my cup and swallow grit.
Kids run and screech between beluga heads on sticks.
From each, a young woman draws oil, clear and thick.
The sun tells me it’s midday, so I turn to the beach.
I’ll wash in the wave and watch seagulls feast.
Susan Slocum Dyer / © SSD
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