I can't be funny today. There is simply no humor in my topic. I began the morning thinking I'd write something amusing about one idiosyncrasy or another. But then I took a few minutes to check Facebook before I began.
Admittedly I was looking for inspiration so I shouldn't be upset with what I found. Still, I am upset - sad, is really a more appropriate a description. I saw this link, courtesy of my friend Terzah, which I've included here to a Globe and Mail story. Realizing I hadn't exercised my Canadian in awhile, I clicked it.
Upon beginning the article I nearly abandoned it. My eyes were brimming by the end of page one. But, rather than giving into the temptation of avoidance, I pushed on. After all, I'd gone to Facebook for inspiration.
I sat in my Steamdot corner reading and crying, crying and reading. Be advised it is not for the faint of heart. There is death, violence, abuse, hopelessness and much more; but there is also LIFE. Not just life, but hope as well. Granted, it is only a glimmer of hope, but it is there because where there is life (altogether now) THERE IS HOPE.
The story is a cross section of life in Nunavut, Canada. While Alaska is in no way Canada, and native people groups are not "all the same" - quite to the contrary - still the similarities are unavoidable. I see Dillingham, I see Kotzebue, I see many of Alaska's rural communities that are suffering a similar situation.
Like all overwhelming problems, there is no easy solution. The government can't fix it, the church can't fix it, the community can't fix it, the family can't even fix it. These are personal/spiritual issues. The community, as a whole, can only create an environment in which people can heal and thereby the issues will be fixed.
Don't misunderstand, I'm not here to preach. This is not my mission. This is my life.
I am, by proxy of my husband and my children, Alaska Native. You can argue with me. You can say I'm white, I'm a vegetarian, I'm urbanized; the list can go on forever. But if you say those things then I say; you don't know me, you don't know my marriage, you don't know my home.
I am not the only person out there who doesn't look the part but feels this connection deeply. We're everywhere and some of us didn't even marry into it.
So today this is what I have to offer. I promise, next week, to focus once again on smiles.
The trials of Nunavut: Lament for an Arctic nation
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Mid-day, mid-summer 1996, Dillingham, I’m alone at my in-laws house. I’m spending the summer “taking care of things at the house” – code for not fishing – the phone rings and I decide to take a stand.
“Hello,” I say.
“Who’s this?” the gruff response.
“Who’s this,” I’m standing firm.
“Is this Joe and Molly’s house?”
“Yes,” I reply.
Long pause. They persist.
“OK look,” I muster all the patience and grace I can find, “you called me so I think you should tell me who you are first.”
That wasn’t so bad. I was firm but polite. My internal dialogue affirmed me.
They hung up! They hung up because I was asking for the common courtesy of knowing who I was talking to? I can’t believe they just hung up!
A moment later – ring, ring, ring.
“Hello,” I answer with trepidation.
“Who’s this?” says the same voice.
Well, now I’ve had it! I try to remain calm but am determined that this is where it ends.
“OK, this is Denise, but you’ve called me so I’d really like to know who I’m speaking to. Who is this?”
“Is Joe or Molly there?”
“No, who is –“
I spend the remainder of the day angry at whoever it was. You see this was the umpteenth in a long line of many, many phone calls during which the first portion of that conversation happened – and it was not all the same person. The phone would ring, I would answer – politely, if I do say so myself – and immediately would hear “who’s this?” I would tell the caller, “this is Denise, Joe and Molly’s daughter-in-law,” give them whatever information they were requesting regarding the whereabouts of my in-laws and then, without even saying good bye, much less telling me who they were, they would just hang up!
So, as the determined young woman that I was – the proud owner of a college degree in communications I might add – I had to draw a line! Romantic missionary novels about brave young women enduring the hardships of the cold North spurred me on. Perhaps this was my mission, I thought. I was sent here to elevate the Yupik population by helping them better their communication skills!
Yes. I really was that ridiculous. Commence feeling sorry for Gary – I sure do, looking back!
I am more than a bit embarrassed to say I continued my God-given quest towards the betterment of Yupik telephone communication skills throughout the entire summer of 1996. Upon seeing the end of my summer mission approaching whilst – I got the “whilst” in! –having no measureable success toward my goal, I decided it was time to change my method. I would simply speak to the person on the opposite end of the line as if I did know who they were.
I would say, “Hello,” and “how are you this lovely afternoon?” and I when I sensed the hang up coming, I would rush in a “goodbye.” I maintained this approach throughout the remainder of my summer.
Still I observed no measureable results. Well, that’s not entirely true. Actually there was a steady decrease in the number of phone calls I received. In fact, by the end of the summer, I don’t recall having to answer the phone much, if any. But I’m sure that was as a result of unrelated factors. People had fish to process, moose hunting to plan, midnight sun to enjoy; make no mistake, those Dillinghamites are much too busy to have time to be making phone calls!
Yes. I really was that deluded too!
Fifteen years later, in my favorite spot in Steamdot, I must report the telephone skills of the Yupik people saw no improvement as a result of my summer mission. I, on the other hand, have seen a great deal of growth – THANK GOD! Now, upon receiving a Dillingham phone call things go much differently.
Ring, ring, ring, caller ID shows me this is a Dillingham number, I pick up.
I insert a long pause for good measure.
“Who’s this?” I say, not gruffly but admittedly with a bit of force.
They tell me and proceed.
“Yeah, is Gary there?”
Another long pause is due here and so I wait then say, “No.”
Click. I hang up.