ghost story

Fred Beans (Howard's brother, actual, distinct, separate person) posted this to the all-staff mailing list the other day.  What a taste of home!



This happened about a month ago just outside of Douglas, a little town in North Dakota .~ It sounds like an Alfred Hitchcock tale.

This out-of-state traveler was on the side of the road, hitchhiking on a real dark night in the middle of a snow storm. Time passed slowly and no cars went by. It was snowing so hard he could hardly see his hand in front of his face.~

Suddenly he saw a car moving slowly, approaching and appearing ghost-like in the snow. It slowly and silently crept toward him and stopped. Wanting a ride real bad the guy jumped in the car and closed the door; only then did he realize that there was nobody behind the wheel, and no sound of an engine .

Again the car crept slowly forward and the guy was terrified, too scared to think of jumping out and running. He saw that the car was approaching a sharp curve and, still too scared to jump out, he started to pray and began begging for his life; he was sure the ghost car would go off the road and into a nearby lake and he would drown!~

But just before the curve, a shadowy figure appeared at the driver's window and a hand reached in and turned the steering wheel, guiding the car safely around the bend. Then, just as silently, the hand disappeared through the window and the hitchhiker was alone again! Paralyzed with fear, the guy watched the hand reappear every time they reached a curve.~

Finally the hitchhiker, scared to near death, had all he could take and jumped out of the car and ran and ran until he got into the town of Garrison. Wet and in shock, he went into a bar and, voice quavering, ordered two shots of whiskey, then told everybody about his supernatural experience.~

A silence enveloped the room, and everybody got goose bumps when they realized the guy was telling the truth and was not just some drunk.~

About half an hour later two guys walked into the bar and one says to the other, 'Look Ole, ders dat idiot dat rode in our car when we wuz pushin it in da snow.'


Fred Beans, Head Maintenance.
Ignatius A. Beans Sr. Memorial School Complex.
591 2829 , ext. 2804

Carpe Diem!

native food

My first taste of native food was dry fish ("DRY-fish") my second week here.  This was smoked in the traditional fashion, salmon I think, and you peel it away from the skin to eat it.  Maybe the hardcore eat the skin; I don't know.  It was greasy and chewy and delicious, reminded me of jerky without the salt, although apparently some people do salt their dry fish.  It was seriously yummy.

My next taste of native food was not so yummy.  Eskimo salad, a gift from one of my aides, Leandra, who got it from a relative.  Apparently, this is a dish from the coast that most people around here haven't even had, so I once again felt very privileged to be given some.  It consists of dried seal, dried walrus, dried black whale, and some kind of dried fish, all cut into little laces half the thickness of a french fry and tossed in seal oil.  It was too much for me; I managed to finish the bite I took, then gave the rest to Daisy (an Americorps volunteer who works with the middle school kids) who enjoyed it thoroughly.  To me, it had the aroma and flavor of rotting fish, the texture and consistency of strips of cartilage.  Still, I chewed it up as best I could and swallowed it.  And the next time I'm offered traditional food, I will be honored, and I will try it.

more basketball

Friday night there was basketball here again, this time the elementary team.  A couple of things stood out to me:  one, that the boys and girls play together seamlessly; and two, that even these young kids play with remarkable sportsmanship.

Don't get me wrong, they play very hard!  But there were hardly any fouls because even when rushing like mad to cover someone who was about to take an open shot, these kids rush up with their arms in the air, going for the ball, rather than reaching in or slapping at the opponent's arms or hands.  In two whole games, I think there were four or five fouls total; they play hard, but they play clean--amazing to see in such young players.

They also play very selflessly.  Even the 'star' players seem always to have the team in mind rather than any personal glory, foregoing an outside shot to send a pass in closer to the basket, whether the player there is a girl or a boy, a good shooter or a poor one.  I haven't seen a single ball hog here.

Now, the passing is not what you'd call 'crisp.'  These games were about as sloppy as you'd expect for the age group, but the fact that there is a passing game at all is amazing to me.  And I never once heard anyone jeering a teammate for a bad pass or a missed shot; I never noticed them showing any preference for gender or individual, they just pass to who's open.  The same holds true at the other end of the court; they play hard, clean defense, regardless of who they're defending.  

Competitive sports can be terribly hierarchical and divisive, but basketball here, at least in this age group, somehow seems to be incredibly egalitarian.   

Howard Beans

Another cultural observation.  (?)  I met a wonderful guy named Howard, who seems to give everybody shit pretty much all the time, with just a moment of sincerity here or there--blink, and you miss it.  He's head of maintenance for the district, I think, or maybe technology, a local Yupik native and a classic example of what seems to be a very particular sense of humor peculiar to this part of the world.  We met my first day at school, and when I told him I live in Michigan, he launched into a diatribe on how much Michigan's college football team sucks.  This I took in stride, and with no small amusement, as I don't pretend to know anything at all about college sports, and very little about professional sports either.  After a few minutes of giving me a vigorously hard time about that and several other things, he told me to let him know if I needed anything.  Later, after he got me the key to my classroom, I caught him in passing and thanked him.  He teased me mercilessly about Michigan for a while longer, then parted with, "I'm here to help people."  He didn't say this with any kind of emphasis or melodrama; it seemed a casual statement of fact, so obvious that it hardly needed mention.

Yet, casual though it sounded, this simple statement struck me as nonetheless quite profound and far-reaching, as though he were putting his whole life and world-view into a nutshell to let everybody know what he was all about.  I'm probably reading my own views into it, at least in part, but I can't help feeling that this was more than a mere statement of professional responsibility.  It struck me as a very casual expression of a very deep, personal sense of purpose.  It strongly reinforced my first impression, that this is definitely a guy I can get along with.

At least one teacher has actually warned me off of Howard as a racist.  I believe the line she quoted was, "White people are trash."  Given my own impressions, I have to wonder if she simply failed to catch on to his decidedly dry and forceful sense of humor.  This past Saturday, he and his wife stopped by the Hilton to pick up something from the chest freezer, and since I was home they stayed to BS for a while and gave me a nice hunk of sheefish, an Alaskan delicacy that is apparently related to whitefish.  I felt very honored to be given such a treat--when people here ask if I've had any native food, sheefish is always one of the first things mentioned.

Deservedly so--it is wonderful.  I cooked it up tonight, baked in foil with lemon pepper and a drizzle of olive oil.  Light and mild, flaky and tender, moist, savory, delicious!  Again, I may be dramatizing things unnecessarily, but I feel very strongly about being given food, particularly food of a kind prized by the giver.  There is something powerfully humbling in such a gift.  It makes me feel...  accepted, that's part of it, valued, welcome in some quiet, profound way.  Actually, now that I think about it, this feeling reminds me of having a bunch of high school and middle school kids ask if they could come into my room to do homework after school; the implicit sentiment is, "You're all right."  I'm delighted and honored to be accepted as even a distant and tangential member of this community.

My craving for acceptance has always been a bit of a weakness, for I crave it from everyone, deserving or no.  But I wonder if this 'flaw' doesn't also carry a little blessing, in that it lets perceptive people see my sincerity of purpose and my profound desire to be of help.  So perhaps in some circumstances my tragic longing for acceptance can help to bring about its own fulfillment.

the hood

One of the most interesting cultural discoveries I've made is that the village is more than a little gangsta.  The high school boys wear baggy clothes, crooked baseball caps, flashy sneakers, gold chains, I've actually heard teachers in the school hallways saying, "Hey, no gang signs in school," the works.  Wait, one exception--their pants generally ride above their buttocks rather than below; perhaps they're a little behind the times.

Joking aside, I don't know quite what to make of this.  It would seem that similar social and economic phenomena couple with the ever-increasing availability of popular media to cause these kids to identify with the culture and behavior of 'inner city' youth.  In both cases, life shows little promise of exit from a rather bleak and directionless world.  What is there to do?  Where is there to go?  What's the point?  I don't know what the suicide rate is like in our big cities, but in this village of 800 I know there were at least four or five last year.

Visibly, superficially, life here could hardly be more different from life in the city.  From the nation's highest population density to its lowest; from the omnipresent press of humanity in every direction to being able to look beyond the edge of town and see not a single sign of human endeavor in any direction; from the interminable roar of cars, buses, subways, to the distant, echoing whine of snowmobiles.  The lifestyle here would be unimaginably foreign to a kid from the projects.  And yet, deep down, I get the sense that their experience of life must be profoundly similar.

ball

I had a chance to play basketball last night, with several other staff members from the school, against the high school boys' team. It was a great time, some much needed exercise, and I played well enough to get some respect from the kids, which made me feel good.

Before the game, looking at my cheap sneakers, one the HS players offered to let me use his extra pair of proper basketball shoes. They turned out to be too big, but I was pleased as punch at the offer. These kids really are pretty damn cool.

our best idea

As I was preparing for this trip, one of the things I looked forward to was time for reading.  Trouble is, books are heavy.  But data weighs a good deal less than paper, so I packed along just a couple of real books, and loaded several audiobooks on my computer for transfer to my phone/mp3 player.  No cel service here, but I've been listening intently to an absolutely inspiring book on the national parks.

It's a companion book to the Ken Burns documentary series, "The National Parks:  America's best idea."  True to form, Burns tells the stories of grand historical events from a deeply human, even spiritual perspective, focusing on the lives of individuals and their personal experiences with the parks.  Listening to the most eloquent, impassioned quotations from the most eloquent and passionate supporters of the park idea, I often feel just a little inadequate for my lack of personal experience in national parks.  For though I regard myself as a deep lover of wildness and nature, I have not made the effort in my own life to see these most wondrous places.  For this, I feel a little ashamed, as if I have not made good on my own ideals.  How can I presume to be a supporter of the park idea, the idea of untamed wildness as valuable and worthwhile in its own right, when I only occasionally make the effort to take a camping trip, and have never traveled to the most scenic and magnificent places in my own country?

I have found an answer, and a kindred spirit, in a brief and unattributed quote from this wonderful book.  In an interview, naturalist Terry Tempest Williams mentions a young man who once attended a hearing on the proposed expansion of the national park system in Alaska in the late seventies.  He was blind, a piano tuner by profession, and had taken a bus from Austin to Denver to be at this hearing.  Standing, he said:
"I will never see wild Alaska.  I will never see these parks.  But when I'm in Texas, tuning those pianos, it will touch my heart, knowing they are there."

This book has inspired me to try to see more national parks in the future than I have in the past, but this simple quote from a blind Texan piano tuner has reassured me that I don't have to try to see them all--an impossible task.  To love these places, these refuges of wildness, even without knowing them; to take comfort in the simple knowledge that they exist; that is also good, also worthwhile.

If the book is any indication, the PBS series must be magnificent.  I intend to see it as soon as possible when I get home, and I encourage anyone and everyone to seek it out.

enjoy the weather

Okay, now it's cold. Have to get out for a hike today, just to see if I can.

Mountain Village, AK
-22°F

Current: Partly Cloudy
Wind: N at 12 mph
Humidity: 69%

Negaunee, MI
9°F

Current: Partly Cloudy
Wind: NW at 7 mph
Humidity: 55%
Sat

The moose.

So some of the eighth graders went moose hunting on monday; the principal went, along with a couple other adults, but I think it was one of the kids who carried the rifle--and they got one! One enormous leg is currently laid out on a table right down the hall from my room, being butchered. I'm about to head down there, say a quiet Puja, and see if I can help out at all.

after-school visitors

This week I added ten or twelve middle-schoolers (gr 7-8) to my list, and they've initially been far more... reserved (to put it nicely) than my 4-6 graders. More armor. LOTS more armor. I didn't know where to find them all at first, so it's been kind of a gradual roll-out; Monday I got just a few, more yesterday, and today was the first day with a full house for both time slots. It's getting better already, but there are only a few in this age range who readily accept help with their work; I'm feeling a lot of resistance from them. Not that this is in any way a surprise. As kids approach puberty, they become more fearful, less trusting; more rebellious, less eager to please any kind of authority figure. Anyway, school got out an hour early today, and five or six different students in the middle school to high school age range, some of my tutoring students and some I didn't know, came in and asked if they could work in my room. Several even asked for help with their math or with information about various diseases (science homework). Some came and went, but for close to two hours I had students in my room, doing schoolwork, entirely of their own accord. I was so thrilled I got teary-eyed, more than once! It made me feel like the space I've created here is coming to be perceived as a welcoming and comfortable place to learn. I can't think of any greater accomplishment.

The teachers and administrators here have been great; they've gone out of their way to let me know I'm taken care of and to give me the support I need. But to have students come into my room, to study, of their own free will: it's the most welcome I've felt since I came to Alaska. By far.

garbage garbage garbage

EVERYTHING goes in the trash here. No recycling whatsoever. I've become so accustomed to recycling, office paper in particular, that I'm finding it quite hard to adjust to. There's a dump outside of town. A little troubling; I feel terribly guilty whenever I accidentally print an unnecessary page or have to print a new copy of my schedule because something has changed. It's genuinely troubling; I feel it in my heart.

On the other hand, how much fuel would it take to ship any meaningful quantity of recyclable materials OUT of here. Hmmmm...

Mother Moon

I've been wondering why the moon seems to be out for so long the last few days. It hangs in roughly the same plane as the sun, so shouldn't 6 hrs sunlight mean about the same for the moon? Then I realized: DUH, when it's full, the moon is on the opposite side of us from the sun, so the same tilt that shortens the days up here by leaning us away from the sun has the inverse effect on our exposure to the full moon--ie, Alaska is leaning toward it. Ergo, 6 hrs sunlight = 18 hrs moonlight. Hello mother!

The beginning

I need to begin telling the 'whole' story, but I keep putting it off because I don't know where to start. When in doubt, begin at the beginning.

I did my student teaching this past fall in Big Bay, as most of those likely to see this already know. Early in the semester, Carrie got an email from our old friend Arica, who had taught in the Bush for a year before moving to Marquette. It was a forwarded message from her old administrator, who obviously thought the world of her, asking if she knew anyone who might be interested in a tutoring position starting in January. Carrie and I talked it over and agreed it was at least worth looking into, and when we had more information--dates, location, pay, conditions--we agreed it was a good idea.

Not an easy decision, as it meant me being away for three solid months, but ultimately the benefits outweighed the costs. Personally, it would be a marvelous opportunity for growth, discovery, and adventure, as well as a chance to help kids who really needed it. Professionally, it would be invaluable, both in terms of experience and practice, and in terms of subsequent resume building. And the kicker, for the sake of our young and growing family: it would pay off nearly my entire student loan in one fell swoop.

So we decided to go for it, and a few short months later I was in Anchorage taking pictures of a moose at a range of about two yards; welcome to Alaska! I have lived in the UP for several years and have only ever seen tracks, but one day in Anchorage (when I was supposed to be grocery shopping) and I had a real close encounter.

I am now the new 'intervention' teacher at Ignatius Beans Memorial School in Mountain Village, Alaska, a town of less than a thousand on the mighty Yukon River in southwestern Alaska. Google maps will not tell you how far away I am or how to get here because there are no roads that lead here. If you want to go to a nearby village, you take a snowmobile, and if you want to go further than that, you fly. The tundra is spacious and beautiful, but also a little monotonous.

'Intervention' means I'm a tutor. I am working exclusively in reading and math, and mainly with students who are likely to fall short of 'proficient' on their state tests in one or both subjects without some extra help. In the last two weeks I have learned all about Alaska's official education standards (Grade Level Expectations) and how they are reflected in standardized tests. I despise standardized tests. But they do give me lots of information about what my students need to learn and practice. So from within the Belly of the Beast I work to help the individuals being processed there. Broadly speaking, this is exactly what I want to do with my life. Spread the love.

Some things I've encountered have meshed well with what I imagined a little school in the Bush might be like. My classroom has no windows and can be stiflingly hot, so I asked around to see if a fan might be had; another teacher loaned me a nice big one, but it has no shield on the front, so I had to put up on a filing cabinet out of reach. Many of my students are indeed quite poor, and live in very small houses with very large families. On the other hand, the school itself is startlingly well provided for. I have a fancy new printer/copier and five brand new Dell computers with 19" flat screens and wireless keyboard and mouse--pretty fancy! The building is quite new as well, half of it built only two years ago, with triple-pane windows whose handles turn ninety degrees to swing open from the side, or 180 degrees to open from the bottom.

I didn't know what to expect from the people, either native or newcomer, but I have been pleasantly surprised on all fronts. The teachers, by and large, are caring and idealistic. The principal is passionately devoted to his students' success, both in school and in life. And the students! Well, they are active, certainly, but also sweet, receptive, willing to work hard and to learn. They've made me feel right at home. I love them already.

on AK

Well, since I already have a blog that I haven't used lately, I may as well simply resume. Appropriate, I guess, since I am here for educational purposes. So here's blog post number one from Mountain Village: I had cereal for breakfast. Good old flaky, somewhat sweetened, cold cereal with organic whole milk. The milk I brought from Anchorage with me; the cereal I picked up at the store here in Mountain. It's a pretty nice little convenience store with prices not as bad as expected--expensive, but not absurd. So I will indeed place a bush order with Fred Meyer for all my staples, but I'm happy to know that I won't have to use powdered milk the whole time I'm here. And even more important, I won't have to use 'creamer' in my coffee because (drum roll) they have heavy whipping cream at the store. WOOHOO!

And now I'm off to plan lessons. Yay.