I've been thinking a lot about my home in Alaska recently as I prepared for this 35th anniversary issue of the Valley Advocate. Not because our moose-whackin' governor has got the Republican right all excited. I've been thinking about real Alaskans. Real people like my friend Dave, who was born on Kodiak Island but might as well have been born on water, because that is where he lived his life. When he wasn't on the water, he was talking about it. He loved to tell a story.
Dave's parents are coastal Alaskan Natives. His father is Alutiq and his mother Tsimshian. Dave's love of the ocean was inherited, but his skill and knowledge were earned. He skippered a new fishing boat from Seattle to Alaska while still in high school. There wasn't a floating vessel, it was thought, that he couldn't pilot. He understood technology and had been taught by his elders to see and respect the signs of the earth, the air and the water. That made the news we received that summer day all the more shocking. Our young friend had died in a boating accident (freshwater, no less; he would have cringed) at a family gathering at a local lake.
But that is not the story. Alaska is a dangerous place. People die there all the time, because of inexperience, arrogance or the simple bad luck of stumbling upon the space between a grizzly and her cubs. This story isn't just about the loss of a friend. It is about the loss of a storyteller. Like many Native Alaskans, Dave's life was shaped by the experiences of others. Elders tell their stories to the young in hopes they will add their experiences and pass them on. These stories teach the youth to hunt, fish and to honor the land and sea; they embody the broader concepts of stewardship, fairness and balance. Dave was a rising star, mature and articulate. He understood his role. He was expected to be the next steward, the next storyteller for his people.
The great storytellers left their most dramatic work in the village of Saxman just south of the Tsongas Narrows in Southeast Alaska. They are the master totem carvers of the Haida and Tlingit clans. The collections of totem poles here show the relationship between people, land and animals. They tell of wars fought, alliances made and debts unpaid. They celebrate and in some cases they shame. Most recently, a totem was carved for the express purpose of publicly shaming Exxon to pay its debt to the Alaskan people because of its role in the Prince William Sound oil spill disaster.
Almost a year ago today I was planning a trip home to Alaska when I was asked by the former owners of the Valley Advocate to lead this paper into what at the time was an unarticulated future. I knew where this publication had been, and given the state of this industry, I had some concerns about its future. What was never in doubt is the place I feel the Valley Advocate has in its community. The foundation of the Valley Advocate has always been the belief that diverse viewpoints must be encouraged and we as a newspaper are unwavering in that commitment. Our value to our readership is to tell the story as it is. Like the totem, there will be many stories, some glorious and some not so.
There will be stories that celebrate and others that shame. There will be stories as diverse as the people we've become, and often painful to tell. Our role as storytellers is clear. It is 35 years old today. The story must still be told, and our goal is to remain stewards of the telling.
—S. Do-Han Allen
