Listening to the North

This post is a contribution to this week’s Polar Week activities.  Learn more here.  It is also a re-post from my blog about living in the Arctic–check that out here.

Justin Cardinal shuffles through the halls of Inuvik’s Sir Alexander Mackenzie School—his face tucked in the hood of a Volcom sweatshirt, his ears plugged with the buds of an mp3 player. His feet, like many youth in this northern town, are adorned with mukluks, traditional animal-skin boots that have been handcrafted by generations of aboriginal Canadians. Justin’s accessories may not clash in the fashion sense of pre-teens across the Territories, but they do represent a collision of cultures that is shaping the North of tomorrow.

This is a story about my year as a volunteer teacher in the Arctic and the stories shared with me by northerners—the same stories I’ve overheard told to students like Justin. From the classroom to the campfire, I’ve watched youth confront two powerful, yet seemingly conflicting messages. Remember your roots. Branch out with new technologies. What kids-these-days patch together from the internet, their iPods, their elders, and their ever-diversifying peers is being stitched into the fabric of their identities like beads on their footwear.[i]

How do they make sense of the noise? By analyzing three stories youth hear, we begin to learn about their task of braiding worlds of the past with the present.[ii] By listening to the North, northerners can take crucial steps to preserving culture in the face of modern challenges.

The land is our home. We can develop it, but we must also protect it..

Imperial Oil was in town this winter proposing plans to survey the Beaufort Sea for oil reserves. The company conducted meetings across the Delta to consult with natives about best management practices. Their study area intersected traditional whale harvesting grounds and hunters had expressed concerns over potential impacts left by research vessels. I prepared myself for a heated discussion that might take the chill out of the November air.

Things never got too hot to handle. Instead, opinions from the southern enterprise harmonized with those from the local Hunters and Trappers Committee. Biologists used graphs and charts to prove their point. Inuvik residents spoke from personal experiences and the wisdom of their ancestors. One lesson resonated through these different stories: take only what is needed from nature and no more—it is delicate, yet resilient, and must be treated with care.[iii] As I wandered home under the Aurora, I wondered how northern and southern perspectives had traveled to this common ground.

Perhaps the dialogue I heard in Ingamo Hall is a legacy of Thomas Berger and his landmark decision against the Mackenzie Pipeline in the 1970s.[iv] Perhaps visitors to today’s North bring with them respect for what is native to this land—the people, their traditions, and the wilderness. Wherever the origins may lie, agreements among aboriginal and non-aboriginal environmental groups are a symbol of the new North. Kids see the signs of these times—from classroom presentations about careers in environmental monitoring to Petroleum Show banners boasting sponsorships from the Inuvik Youth Centre and the Aboriginal Pipeline Group.

There is a cautious tone underlying today’s stories of resource development. It lingered in Ingamo Hall and it surfaced again on trips to Split Pingo, to Rock River for a caribou hunt, and to the Mackenzie Delta for a trapping program. While on-the-land with groups of 6th graders, I listened as park officials and elders warned of the consequences of mismanaging resources and abusing nature. “This land may be an economic opportunity now,” a local man advised, “but it is always our home. We can’t take from it forever. We have to protect our home.”

It seems as new paths for development open in the North, young northerners are being reminded to tread lightly.

The only constant is change.

“Mr. O’Donnell! You’re back!” This was the battle-cry as an army of 5th graders overtook a middle-aged man—who taught these students a few years ago, before he left town. He’s returned, but only for a visit. Teacher turnover in Inuvik is as common as flies in the summer and can be just as annoying. I’ve heard parents and peers echo concerns about the troubles of northern youth, linking many of these troubles with watching teachers come and go, year after year.

While worries about adolescent development hang like a cloud over the North, there is an important silver lining to point out. Students here understand that transience is a permanent feature of their landscape—a lesson that may have increasing value as their world endures changes their elders never experienced. With forces like climate change and international tourism touching down in the Territories, knowing how to learn—without getting attached to expert knowledge—will be essential to thriving, adaptive communities.

Culture is preserved and produced on a daily basis.

Northern heritage lives in Sir Alexander Mackenzie School. It’s in the beading projects displayed in Mrs. Ray’s Gwich’in language room. It’s in the sounds of drums beaten by young drummers and dancers rehearsing for the Christmas concert. It’s in the smell of cooked loche wafting through the first floor corridor. It’s inside the cover of a book stamped with Grollier Hall—a living memory of this building’s residential school days.

Like a journey that begins with a single step, maintaining culture over time depends on daily practice. If my observations in the past year as a volunteer in the North are any indication for its future, the task of preservation is in good hands. I’ve seen youth build their own jiggling sticks, compete in finger pulls, and twist their own rabbit snares—a hands-on education they have come to cherish and celebrate.

Culture is created at the same pace it is preserved, and as students carry on age-old customs, they also produce new ones. I marvel at how these leaders, barely more than a decade old, balance the weights of tradition and modernity, of conservation and development, and of consistency and unpredictability. Stories of mukluks and iPods will be their legacies—their lessons in how to change and yet stay what you are.

[i] For an example of the continuing oral tradition in the Northwest Territories, see Above and Beyond’s feature on The Land is Our Storybook series (March/April 2008 edition). For an enlightening history of Yukon oral traditions, see Julie Cruikshank, Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination, (UBC Press: Toronto, 2005).
[ii] Environmental historian William Cronon has written about the importance of narrative—or stories—in shaping societal values with respect to nature, culture, and history. See William Cronon, “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative,” The Journal of American History, Vol. 78, No. 4 (Mar., 1992), pp. 1347-1376
[iii] For more on how scientific narratives can shape perceptions of northern environments, see Stephen Bocking, “Science and Spaces in a Northern Environment,” Environmental History, 12 (October 2007): 867-94.
[iv]There are many resources for learning more about the history of the Mackenzie Pipeline and Thomas Berger’s role in its development. A good introduction can be found in: Carolyn Swayze, Hard Choices: A Life of Tom Berger, (Douglas and McIntyre: Vancouver, 1987).

Coors Light, the Cops, and an Angry Old Man

I want to tell you a story today about adulthood.  You might not expect that a 27 year old student has much to say about the ins and outs of being an adult.  But an experience I had just 14 days ago has convinced me otherwise and I hope relating the experience will convince you, too.

Let me paint the picture for you.  Imagine that you’re me.  I’m walking Mackenzie the Dog around our neighborhood in downtown Madison, Wisconsin.  It’s a Friday–but not just any Friday.  It’s a beautiful, here-comes-the-weekend, everything-is-perfect Friday.  It might help you conjure up this image by picturing that a soundtrack is playing in the background.  The soundtrack would sound something like Boyz II Men because they’re epic (and the reference to this band might be considered foreshadowing)

My house and Mackenzie’s dinner is just a block away–across Reynolds Field, one of the few city parks in town.  Next to Reynolds Field is Breese Stevens Stadium, where all of the high school soccer teams in Dane County come to play their games.  We are fortunate to live in this area of town because we have so much green space to run around.  In fact, Mackenzie is kind of pissed that there are people occupying Reynolds Field at this particular moment.  She feels like she owns this park,so she takes a pee on it.

There must be a game tonight because the stadium lights are on.  And the street is all “parked up” by spectators looking to get a good seat.  This is fine by me.  It adds to the sense of community.

But something’s not right about this picture. Here’s what I see:  about 20 high schoolers gathered around a pop-up card table.  They are being fairly loud and rowdy for Friday at 4:30pm.  And the closer I get, the more Red Solo Cups I see.  And then I spot a trash bag full of Coors Light.  My first thought is:

“Who the eff drinks Coors Light?”

(Especially in Wisconsin.  And especially because that beer company has yoked its entire marketing campaign to selling the “coldest beer.”  Come on, anyone can put anything in a bottle, stick it in the fridge and–guess what?–30 minutes later, it’s cold).

So I’m angry that these under-agers are disrespecting me and the law and the entire state of Wisconsin by drinking.  They shouldn’t be drinking out in the open like that.  They’re not even 21!  What if one of them has to get in a car and drive in about an hour?  When I was young we drank Natty Light or warm diet coke with cheap vodka.  Have some respect.

As these thoughts bounced around my raging brain, something in me presses pause for a second.  Who am I? Am I Andy Stuhl, the guy who celebrates the anniversary of his 21st birthday each year?   Or am I Andrew Stuhl, the guy who owns a house and a dog, is engaged to be married, and generally likes to lounge in his Adidas sweatpants on rainy days?

In this moment, I decided I was the latter.  And here’s the kicker:  I didn’t just get “all adult” by thinking that what those kids were doing was wrong.  I made a huge next step.   I called the cops.

Yup, I picked up the phone and rang the local police station.  This was not an emergency, so no 911 was needed (sorry Sean Kingston).  It was just a friendly neighbor alerting the fuzz of a potential situation.  I convinced myself I was doing my duty as a citizen–this was illegal and dangerous activity.  It was the “right thing to do” to call the cops and let them know that young, under-age, and possibly intoxicated kids would soon get into cars and drive away.

As soon as I put the phone down, I had pangs of regret.  Am I “that guy?”  Am I Mr. Hypocritical?  Of course, we must remember, I too attended soccer games as a high school student.  My high school team reached #1 in the USA back in the day, partly because I was there in attendance cheering the boys on.  And I may or may not have been drinking beforehand.

I realized there were two reasons why I called the cops.  For one, I wanted to assert my own adulthood by “doing the right thing” and making sure everybody was safe.

Underneath that motivation was something deeper–potentially more adult.  It was the nagging feeling that I was getting older and that I recognized in these kids a shade of my youth, a version of my younger self.

Having that out-of-body realization–that distance between where I stood in life and where those teenagers were–that was the moment I knew I was an adult.

The Silent Auction

Ryan Massey, 7, of West Virginia, shows off the dental work that comes with living with coal-polluted drinking water.

Have you seen this boy?

This is Ryan Massey. His mug-shot graced the front page of the New York Times this Sunday. He’s spent more time in the dentist’s chair than most of us twentysomethings:  hours of surgery spent staving off the toxic chemicals invading his mouth, ingested through his drinking water.

Ryan’s picture captures a story that goes largely unheard in America:  Appalachia, that region somewhere between western New York and Georgia, is getting a raw deal.  Large corporations have capitalized on the area’s bountiful natural resources–coal, to be specific–and left in their wake dramatic consequences for human health, economic stability, and the natural environment.  As we can see from Ryan’s teeth, these consequences are all intimately connected.

Of course, the story is more complex than this.  It’s not just large corporations doing the damage.   Most Americans are part of the coal equation, if we really try to balance it out.  (When I turn my heat on this winter, I’ll have to thank the coal used here in Madison, Wisconsin).  And there are some benefits that local Appalachians receive from working in a local industry.  To learn more about the intricacies of this issue, check out the work of local Virginian Joe Bageant, whose book Deer Hunting with Jesus presents an insider’s look at life in this corner of America.

Yet, the simple, uncomplicated question that lingers in my mind, far after reading more about the issue is:  How come I haven’t heard about this issue before? Not to toot my own horn too loudly, but I’m the kind of person who seeks out stories of environmental and social justice.  I’m familiar with the contours of poverty, corruption, and power in North American history.  But in all of the lectures, the classes, the discussions, and the casual conversations, we’ve somehow glossed over Appalachia.  How can some place so close to our homes, so vital to our culture and economy, so American, be left out of our national narrative? It reminds me of the unsettling feeling I had watching the response to Katrina.

Hearing about coal in Appalachia has come at an interesting (and opportune) time in my life.  Just a few months ago, a few friends and I began planning an adventure.  The Silent Auction, we called it, for it represented our interest in being better listeners.  The idea:  We would spend 63 hours in silence.  From 5pm on Friday until 8am on Monday, there would be no talking, no whispering, no shouting, no responding, no butting in, no interrupting, no screaming, no singing, no arguing.  No talking.  Instead, we would do our best to listen.

Why?  To be honest, this started as a personal challenge.  I’m a talker.  I use my voice for lots of things–primarily to make myself heard, prove a point, and show my support.  But there are many, many moments when I reflect on how much I talk and how desperately I need to learn to listen–deeper, better, more often.  I tell myself I’ll do better next time.  And I do.  But the pit in my stomach tells me I need to do even better.  The Silent Auction is a motivation to reach that higher expectation.

But, as Tim, Brad and I thought about it more, the Silent Auction had the potential to benefit from an even broader, more encompassing goal.  Why not try to raise money for a charity or support a cause through our actions? Thus, the Silent Auction came to stand for a group of people whose voice is rarely heard–perhaps a group of people who cannot speak up for themselves.  I’ve been pushing for that group of people to be our neighbors in Appalachia.  And the charity to be The Appalachian Community Fund.

We don’t want to think of this adventure as some kind of handout for Americans in Appalachia.  Though I am fortunate to have what I have, this is not the have’s giving to the have not’s.  No–it represents fellow citizens using their voices–by not using their voices–to speak up about injustices that are going on right next door.  We can do something to raise awareness about this issue and strive for a better balance among energy use, occupational safety, clean water, and stable livelihoods.

We are still in the process of developing the Silent Auction. We are hoping it will take place sometime this fall.  We’d love to hear your input, your feedback, your questions, and your concerns.  If you are interested in participating, let us know in the comments section.

“Just Say No” is Decent Advice

Last week, I was on the verge of saying “no” to a great opportunity.  And I could have completely justified it without looking back.

I’m big on protecting my time outside of 9-5.  Though I’m not in the corporate environment, I consider my work professional–and I treat my days the ways most employees and employers do:  I show up prepared to log my hours in the morning and I head home when it’s time to go in the afternoon.

For these reasons, I’m defensive about signing on to new projects.  I’m the guy who doesn’t claim any availability after 5pm in the Doodle.  I’m the guy who questions whether team meetings need to happen on the weekends.  I’m the guy who pushes for getting up early rather than staying out late.

It’s not that I don’t want to get involved.   Because at the same time that I’m the guy I just described above, I’m also the guy who is whole-heartedly on your team.  I’ve been blessed to have passionate people all around me working on wonderful, heart-breaking, complicated, and beautiful issues in real places.  I’m inspired by my colleagues and delighted to work alongside them.  I’m a secretary for a group of organized graduate students because I like to get things done.  I’m a representative to faculty on behalf of students because I want to make the programs I’m in better.  I’m a team player and I’m proud to be on your team.

But I know when to stop playing, too.  And that’s how I almost missed the boat on a wonderful project.

The problem was that I had trained myself to pick out the reasons why I should not be doing something.  Hmm, this looks like it would be fun–but it would take away from my time at home.  I’d love to be a part of this, but would I be able to keep up my exercise routine?  How will I still get 8 hours of sleep if I’m working four nights a week?

Time with loved ones.  Time for myself.  Time for health and exercise.  Time for sleep. These were my filters that helped me maintain my balance between work and life.  They keep my life in good order.

But they also have a tendency to keep life and work as they are. And, as we twenty-somethings know, we have to stretch to grow. We have to risk to get rewards.  So, when I sat down to analyze whether or not I could sign on for this project, I was so close to saying “No.”  It was easy.  It made sense. It would protect my work and life.

The thing that shook my filters from their sturdy foundations was passion. The project that I’ve signed on to is the kind of thing that I want to do for my work and my life:  work in communities to learn about the intersections of culture, history, and environment.  Work with and learn from under-served populations.  Spread the word through different forms of media about the wonderful senses of place people have in the neighborhoods and cities they love.

Sure, this project met the criteria that would lead me to reject it.  But it also had the potential to enrich both my work and life–and to create a new balance between the two.

The catch for me was checking-in with what my life was about and making sure I could still have time for the people and things I love. I talked with my fiancee.  Would you support me in this?  Can I eat up some of our time to work on this?  Will you make sure I don’t spend too much time on it? She was there for me by saying “Yes” too.  How thankful I am to have a rock when things get shaky, a lighthouse in the fog.

“Just say No” is decent advice. It protects your way of life, your sanity, your health, your relationships, your performance on the job.  But the advice is not golden–there are reasons to stretch, to upset the normal work/life balance and find a new, albeit temporary, working order.

Fieldnotes

“At the same time, the needs of communities seem to be on a different scale than many of the climate models operate.  If the village of Anaktuvak Pass wants to know how permafrost composition will look around its surroundings in order to adjust for managing caribou and goose hunting, the outputs of certain models will overlook global and regional connectivity in pursuit of that information.  The cross-scalar issues seem like very wicked ones—and though they do no present any cause for “giving up” or avoiding planning—they certainly do make the job much harder.

I also was intrigued by the role that infrastructure and history has played in the spatial distribution of data monitoring locations.  In other words, it seems that there is a path dependence linking road formation in the WWII/Cold War era, siting of monitoring equipment, and the construction of pipelines in the 1970s.  It is probably much “easier” (less expensive, less time consuming) to collect the data if it exists on road networks.  But what geographic or ecological bias is given by placing monitoring locations along roads, or only along corridors where roads go? What role does infrastructure play in science, economic development, and politics?

Another tension that lurked in the background and foreground of many presentations today was the history of native-governmental relationships that have strained today’s native-governmental relationships. This was evident in one person’s talk as he described the means by which a federal agency monitors and models caribou populations.  He suggested that the agency uses satellite collars for many herds, including the Porcupine herd (which crosses the international border between the US and Canada).  He noted that the models also do not include hunting pressure in estimating the herd’s populations.  In both cases, it seemed that a native perspective—observations on populations, help with reporting hunting figures—would be useful to help manage the herd, maintain its population, and provide a viable population for harvest.  Yet, he seemed frustrated by the prospect of working with native communities.  Why is this so?”