On the Corner of G and 6th

Monday, September 21, 2009

This week is training all week to become my role in the Sexual Assault Response Team (SART). With a multidisciplinary group, I was one of the novice advocates among nurses, police, and Alaska State Troopers. But I was young. So young. Most of us from my work are about the same age. In our 20’s. We’re the average age of the victims, the survivors, not the problem solvers, the professionals.
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Getting back from training to work. Count the money for the thrift store. Check my emails. Think about how inexperienced I am. “Can you stay a little longer today?” “Sure!” Eager to help, eager to learn. A woman, drunk, comes in. She’s been assaulted. I’m staying to be her advocate through the police interview. This is what we do. Experience matters, but it can’t be a requirement; there’s too much work to do. This is an average night in Bethel, looking for the fallen.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

A call comes in at 10 or so at night for Joe. His boss, a cheery, short woman, needs his assistance. He dons his glasses and his shoes quickly. I follow with a camera and my own shoes. Drive to BIA, Bureau of Indian Affairs Road, go down until we see her car, parked, headlights on. We jump out. On the ground between our two cars, a bird the size of a chicken is flopping around, flops right off the road. She points into the tall grass beneath the low-set telephone wires, directs Joe in. She and I link arms and hop and shout encouragement and directions as Joe finds the ptarmigan, gets the ptarmigan, drops the ptarmigan, and cannot find it again. After a good laugh, we pile back in to our cars. His boss leaves. Joe and I drive up and down BIA. He hopes he’ll see another to make it up to her, a lost hope by that hour with that little light. We drive back on Chief Eddie Hoffman Highway, our one paved road, listening to days-old NPR on the radio. Prairie Home Companion—needs a fireplace and steaming mug on this already cold night, luxuries not warranted this early in the season.

So that was ptarmigan picking. A pastime and a subsistence strategy, when you can actually get one. They fly into the low wires at twilight and people come by to scoop them up, wringing their necks if they’re not already all the way gone. This is an average night in Bethel, looking for the fallen.

Friday, September 25, 2009

The end of our week of training for the Sexual Assault Response Team. Would you report? Mixed reactions. An advocate who grew up in the village: no; too much to try to fit into upon return, too possible to be re-victimized going through the system. A nurse from outside Alaska: maybe; she knows the system, knows how it may be helpful, knows how it may fail her after her own post. A State Trooper: yes; he believes in the system, but says it wouldn’t be hard because it just wouldn’t happen to him. Who ever thinks it would?

Sunday, September 27, 2009

A co-worker of John my housemate is gone in Anchorage for two weeks. We get his worn out blue station wagon and head back down to BIA. Community night: Ptarmigan picking. It’s cold and PJ hangs out of his front seat window anyway, scanning for the unlucky birds. John does the driving; Justin refuses to be photographed. Jill and Joe can’t really see anything out of the way back, and it’s all Abby and I can do to stop laughing at our adventure. Needless to say, the birds were the lucky ones that night.

Monday, September 28, 2009

My parents sent me up a care package far superior to any that I’d ever received in college. Included here was the mysterious but ever-loved and appreciated quinoa. I didn’t really know how to pronounce it, let alone prepare it, and the directions on the back would only result in plain, though cooked, quinoa. And so I run into the dilemma that plagues my inspired evenings. Whenever I get the whim to creatively cook something, the whim becomes a wish to call my mother, who has infinitely more practical knowledge than I do, especially in the kitchen. However, not only would I have to dial roughly 38 numbers with a calling card to reach her, but due to time zone differences, I would also have to wake her up every time I try to be a grown up. So I took the matter into my own hands, determined to be an adult. I looked up quinoa in a cookbook, cooked it up, and added coriander. It called for fresh, which of course is unheard of in Bethel unless you secretly are a millionaire, or at least have a salary, so I went with the dry powder. And, of course, added too much. Determined not to waste it, I ate some, put it away, and began the epic quinoa week of 2009.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

My first week on-call for SART. Three calls in two days after no calls the week before. Exhausting, exciting, frustrating, and hopeful. This has been my favorite part of my job so far. What I do, I only do for the hope and comfort of one person at a time. And it matters.

Tonight, I add onion and garlic powder to my quinoa.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Pentecostal Church service. Says the man in front looking back at us, at me. “You must not fear. If you have fear you do not and cannot have faith.” Seems hard to not have fear when I am about to walk home alone in the dark. Seems hard to not have fear when women I work with every day face violence in their own homes. Seems hard to not have fear when one woman I met was raped by a stranger walking home alone at night last weekend. Seems hard to not have fear unless you’re in some privileged position of being fearless and ignore the reality of many lives in the YK Delta. Would Jesus have more fear if he were a woman? Our faith should not be ignorant of our situation, but cognizant that people make sometimes harmful choices. Isn’t our faith in how we act not in how others will; how can this dismiss fear? And still I have faith that God is in this somewhere, somehow.

Tonight, I add tomato to my quinoa.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Tonight, I take a break from my quinoa.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Most nights, my roommate and I at least cross paths, usually on the way to bed. Fill each other in on the goings-on as good roommates do. Then talk of minor things, like what the center of the alphabet is. Between M and N I say. Between L and M she says. But the halfway is after number 13 I say. We count along on our fingers. No she says. There are 26 letters in the alphabet I say. What? Oh she says.

Tonight, I add left over hamburger and more tomato to my quinoa. It is finally delicious.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

I woke up this morning to the unfamiliar: dull sunlight. Lately, the morning has been streaked with darkness. My alarm unpurposefully timed just right to have blinks of the school bus’s night light dance back and forth on my wall as it first passes me, then comes back, meeting its match with the cul-de-sac.

And then more unfamiliar. Wind, strong, unceasing wind. Of course I’m used to the winds of the Midwest: Chicago; Iowa. But here, where our houses are up on posts above the permafrosted tundra, the wind takes a different toll. We move, or rather, are moved, and the tundra grasses are pushed fervently down. The rumor holds from Father Chuck that at this time of the year in this part of the world, we get the hasty leftovers from the typhoons of southeast Asia: a ragged batch of warm weather and the mighty scraps of forceful wind.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

As soon as I conveyed my concerns, maternal instincts kicked in. The seven or so middle-aged women sitting around the dining room table eating quiche with me all had something to add. Recipes, window sealers, winter tips, savings advice (start with a little every day now; you’ll appreciate it when you’re my age). It’s refreshing to be cared for so concretely. Mom won’t be so worried that I’m all the way up here; she’s got her extended network working in high gear.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Tonight we light candles for all those affected by domestic violence, especially those who have had their voices silenced and their lives stolen.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Four of us walk down the corridor staring in every direction. Especially the floor. The tiles are shiny and perfectly laid. Turn on my cell phone that has only gathered dust in the last two and a half months. Two of the group stop at Starbucks. I call my brother. “Ariel?” he squawks. “Is that you? How are you calling me right now??”. I feel I must be emerging from the twilight zone. It only takes an hour flight east to Anchorage.

We gather up our luggage with space pocketed for a later Costco trip, which will save us at least a hundred dollars of groceries. Then we gape at city life, climbing into the van to pick us up. More than two story buildings. Traffic lights. Lots of cars. Lots of people, especially white ones. So much paved road. Mail boxes.

We have some hours to explore. Dropped off downtown. Food we can almost afford at greasy mall restaurants. Watches for less than $40. Escalators. We walk around outside, start catching up on other house gossip. Pose with moose decorations. This pace, this context, has become unfamiliar, and much less desirable. I miss hearing Yupik. I miss hearing people’s stories.

I stand waiting for a bus. I am giddy at the prospect of navigating a city again via public transportation. I was directed by the Anchorage JVs, but things aren’t running as they are supposed to exactly. I sit on a bench. He comes up on a black bike. He is my age and Native. “Are you from the Southeast?” (Meaning, Southeast Alaska). “I live in Bethel.” His mouth drops. He laughs a bit. Introduces himself and says who he’s related to in Bethel. Asks me if I speak Yupik. I tell him I know some words, how to count to five. He rattles off the numbers quietly, grinning. Tells me about weather and families and subdivisions. I ask him about the buses. He smiles the whole time he talks and listens, moving inches forward, inches back on his bike with his feet. Before he leaves, he shakes my hand and gives me his weeklong bus pass. I like what Jesus is like here on the corner of G and 6th. My bus comes soon after.
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Eventually we pack into vans and drive faster than I’ve gone in months. In Bethel, the wind goes faster than the cars. We curl through the mountains, back seat dozing off from the early flight. Wasilla. More strip malls, a public library. No Palin sightings, but there were mountains and trees and other things strange to Bethel.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Wake up in a warm cabin. Climb down from my bunk. Try not to make too much noise as I get ready. Put on the candy corn leggings. Put on the purple velvet dress, the leg warmers, the 80’s work-out shirt with shoulder pads, the wool patterned sweater, and lastly, the pink flamingo sunglasses. At breakfast, I’m first of our community. But eventually, in walks PJ, silver pants and flowing button-down pastel patterned shirt. Joe, paisley-patterned red shirt and a red, white, and blue bandana. Jill, the one-piece pajamas and short cream turban cap. Justin, sweater vest and short black skirt over khakis. Later, in comes John, an Alaska sweatshirt with cut off sleeves. Abby, sparkly orange dress with feather trim. And Jamie, our area director, in a blue bunny sweatshirt with sewn-in collar. Nothing builds community like Saturday morning retreat costumes. Most items found around our house, bestowed by past Bethel JVs. Many items traded around between us throughout the weekend.

Later, Abby and I walk through the woods. She leaves orange feathers accidentally along the trail and keeps appearing in my photographs like a much-too-easy where’s waldo.

Our first JVC Alaska retreat gave time for both reflection and community—needed ingredients outside the weekend that while not necessarily in short standing, can be strange to us still in Bethel.

Monday, October 26, 2009

After buying out Costco on our meager budget, we creatively repack our bags. I get the olive oil and the dish soap. Almost everyone gets spaghetti sauce, there’s so much. At the airport, we tape up the honey in Justin’s backpack to be checked. Stuff the oatmeal last minute into one of Jill’s extra bags. At the line with no people at security, we shake our heads at the sign for no knives with a picture of an uluk, really only found in Alaska. Head through security, almost. PJ can’t get through with peanut butter; check that bag. Jill’s flour in a garbage bag is inspected for drugs, pass. Justin’s baking powder is inspected for explosives, pass. We take our groceries, head towards our gate, and use our cell phones one last time before they’re obsolete again.

Friday, October 30, 2009

The heat’s not working at the thrift store. “I’m going to let you use one of your co-workers to figure that out.” So I ask one, tell her that because she’s lived in Alaska her whole life, she must know how to fix it and she scoffs at me. We go next door. Look at the furnace and have no idea what we’re looking at. It’s got fibers sticking out inside of it like a whale’s mouth. We ask one of the customers who takes a look. She says it’s probably the fuel’s out. We go outside. My co-worker pulls a long stick from the ground, takes off its twigs. I climb up the ladder to the fuel tank in the back, open the top. She hands me the stick and I guide it down into the tank, pull it out. Nothing. Out of fuel.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

I call for my roommates. I’d finally found both my boots and my coat after a two minute frantic search in the dark mud room (entry room) of their house. Daylight savings time left me at an hour’s advantage, awake enough to face the outdoors, or it’d be a rude awakening instead. I call again and hear the two girls answer. The guys all headed out earlier in spurts towards home. Just the three of us padded down the snow-hugged wooden steps to the river’s edge. Step purposefully on the driven down snow toward our house. Cross the highway, skirt alongside the bottom of the cultural center heaving down on its posts above the ground. Decide to take the tundra instead of the boardwalk tonight; Jill has her headlamp. Up the stairs of the college and around one of its three buildings. Onto the tundra just like Justin and PJ walking across it this afternoon with groceries.
By now all shades of fall have been erased and winter has made its home, snug until mid-May. A week and two days ago, we had our first real snow, and real winds of thirty miles per hour. It forced the falling snow in my face like a sand storm. But now, the snow lays still, but not the wind of course, and we clamor across the tundra on the paths set out by snow machines and sleds. As Abby and Jill unfold the evening for scrutiny, I watch my feet under my pink Halloween dress pass loudly by the tuffs of frozen weeds until we reach our house.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

At UU today, one man shared about his wife. She’s doing medical volunteer work in Sudan. A half a world away. She seems to be loving what she’s doing so far; working in unfamiliar settings, with unfamiliar issues, with unfamiliar people. Sounds a bit familiar to me.
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Dealing with bumps in community that are more than just bumps and talking to my family on the phone makes me miss home more—the home that isn’t where you live, but where you grew up under quilts and around living rooms, peeling potatoes for Mom and arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes we all help with after dinner. I put on my classical guitar music and wish it were Dad playing it in real time and look forward to Christmas when I’ll be home again.

But Jill’s assembling a casserole in the kitchen. We just watched a movie altogether that PJ almost stayed awake for. Abby’s laundry hangs over wooden rods in the living room. Joe brought home leftovers last night, which included a fish eyeball that Justin ate at breakfast. John recounts stories of riding on a snow machine with a teenager from down the street and just came in from cutting up wood for our stove. I’ve been teaching Jill songs in different languages with our house guitar. And Justin will be home from leading youth group soon. I suppose we’re learning how to make home after all.