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!
Monday, January 31, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 24, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
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.
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.
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