Ernestine Hayes
The first assertion in Explore Alaska’s Module II about connectedness—that the elder’s understanding that “all life, time, energy and the physical world” are connected “is not far removed from the geoscientist’s understanding that everything is connected in the earth system”—isn’t as self-evident to me as I would hope. To my mind, it is the nature of the connectedness that is primary.
An awareness of interdependence and a respect for all things emerge from a worldview that sees itself as part of the woven web, while from the other, it sometimes seems that the woven world is to be observed rather than experienced. This dissimilarity in worldviews is perhaps exemplified by ways of knowing listed in the Western science portion of the Venn diagram: that the Western scientist is skeptical, that evidence must be verified, that the thing to be known must be explained to the scientist’s satisfaction. To my mind, this approach leaves the individual in a place apart from the web, while the holistic way of knowing places the individual within the interwoven world.
In fact, I suggest that we consider the phrase “In order to integrate Alaska Native ways of knowing with Western scientific ways” and at least for a few moments think about a charge that asks us to see our work from that other perspective: let’s work to integrate Western scientific ways into Alaska Native ways of knowing. Instead of having a goal to “Facilitate the inclusion of local and traditional knowledge into research and science,” let’s have a goal to “facilitate the inclusion of research and science into local and traditional knowledge.” Instead of asking the question “In what ways [does] traditional native knowledge compliment modern scientific knowledge?” let’s ask “In what ways does modern scientific knowledge complement traditional Native knowledge?”
Perhaps the most valuable common ground would be the knowledge of cycles. Being witness to the cycle of birth, life, death in many things allows us to apply that knowledge to things that appear unchanging, and it allows us to apply that knowledge to ourselves, one of the most challenging lessons we face.
Educational opportunities arise from applying both ways to any learning situation. The Native way of knowing invites us to see the connectedness in all things at all times, something that might be difficult to accomplish if we allow ourselves to be constrained by rigid categorization. It’s difficult to perceive interconnectedness when we isolate subjects and confine our interests. Our challenge is to constantly remind ourselves that the greater message, that of connectedness, presents itself when invited.
We are surrounded by useful resources: weather, seasons, plants, animals, paths, the ground, mountains, trees, sky. Seeing the world as interconnected and alive refines perception, cultivates respect, and nurtures sense of self and sense of place. It readies us to engage our lives, and as a later video makes clear, builds character, develops patience, makes us bold, strengthens courage, and enhances creativity.
The first submission from one of the blogs from our course exemplifies this interaction with the land. Esther Gust posts about returning to the family fish camp at Lewis Point near Bristol Bay, summer after summer, generation by generation, connects a family to the land and sea in the most important of ways: the family depends on the place for subsistence, and the place benefits from the family’s interaction in important ways that highlight the interconnectedness of all life: we are part of the food chain.
This appreciation and interdependence of life is also exemplified in a video produced some time ago by the University of Alaska Southeast, titled A Time of Gathering. The understanding of interconnectedness is evident throughout the video, from the words spoken by each participant as they recalled times when the family would travel to that part of what is now Glacier Bay to gather berries, to the song sung to the land upon leaving it: a song acknowledging that the people would miss the land, and the land itself would be bereft without the people.
Native understanding of spirit probably cannot be understood from a purely Western point of view. Whatever Western scholars draw on to believe and to hope—to accept—is probably the means by which Western thinkers can approach Native understanding. Embracing an unfamiliar way of knowing in this manner is not as difficult as it sounds: Native people have been doing it for decades.
Sila and Inua are the terms that the module presents as the Iñupiaq or Inuit words to express the spirit that connects all things, and can also be described as temperature or atmosphere. Modern scientific knowledge complements traditional Native knowledge by adding yet another facet to a multi-faceted way of knowing. While modern scientific knowledge can and often does disprove itself and abandon its own favorite theories, the events that bring about these changes are compatible with the Native way of knowing, and embracing new events offers no threat to Native ways of knowing. This concept is illustrated in another blog for week one, where Martha Gould-Lehe’s favorite place has probably changed only insofar as the constant flow of water has worn a deeper groove into the smooth rock, while the people in the kayak personify the changes that have come about in terms of clothing, gear, and material. Yet the happiness that comes from enjoying this favorite place in Prince William Sound, near Whittier, remains the same, timeless human experience.
Some descriptions of the roles of modern and traditional ways of knowing still seem to be uttered from a perspective that is a bit biased toward the scientific method. For instance, when referring to Ecological and Non-Ecological Knowledge, ANSC asserts, speaking of Native people who have undergone Western-style “formal” schooling and contact with biologists, “In fact, their experiences often validate, inform and give new meaning and value to traditional knowledge.” I suggest that we say “their experiences often validate, inform and give new meaning and value to scientific knowledge.”
On a personal level, I value the “participation of Alaska Natives at all levels of science” to a high degree; in fact, I value Alaska Native participation in all levels of all fields of study, especially those that involve Alaska Native subjects. A Western bias that minimizes Native experience and sometimes even the land itself can be seen in the practice of naming. For instance, a blog by James White, one of the participants in this program, acknowledges the Native name of the place where he and his family hold a cabin: Xootsnuwu, the original name for the island showing a characteristic of the land itself—Fortress of the Brown Bear. The name that was inflicted on the place after it was taken describes not the land, but rather a person or perhaps a rank in the military.
I was born in the Public Health hospital in the Juneau Indian Village at the end of the Second World War. I was born at the edge of a great ice field that caused our winter Taku winds. I was born at the edge of the rich waters of what is now Southeast Alaska and what was not long ago Lingit Aani. I was born at the edge of the rich dark nurturing dangerous forest.
I was born at the edge of the village at the hem of two worlds. The forces that shaped the cultural landscape into which I was born carried with them irresistible colonial powers. By the time of my birth, Western style education had replaced old ways of teaching and old ways of learning. Instead of being part of the age-old successful method of watch, do, learn, I was sent out of my home to a hard place with hard chairs and a hard teacher, where I was told I must learn someone else’s language, someone else’s stories, someone else’s history, and someone else’s values. Now that I am a professor at a university, I often wonder how much has really changed.
In February 2009, I traveled to Nome to give a week-long writing workshop, give a reading, and visit schools. Part of my visit included flying to the village of Savoonga on St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Sea for two or three days, where I stayed in the community hall and visited classes during the day. Students were often still very sleepy when school started, and since it remained dark until later in the day, it seemed as though school started when it was still nighttime. Of course the hours couldn’t be adjusted to reflect the very short days, but it did seem as though school could start somewhat later in consideration of the hours kept by students and their families during the winter. When I broached that subject with school people, I was told that Savoonga kept the hours all the other schools in the district kept and would not be changed, a seeming failure of blending two cultures.
Some students did visit with me, and they spoke of summertime hours, when they traveled to nearby ancient village sites, and they went on mouse-hunts, and they raced across the island to favorite spots to explore. Interaction with the landscape was evident—they gathered driftwood for fires, they spoke of walrus hunting, and they spoke of the size of a particular tree that was growing year-round for the first time. They spoke of seeing wildlife that didn’t used to be seen on the island. They spoke of changes the weather seemed to be bringing. They spoke of change.
The extent of their interaction with the land was evident when I looked at it on Google Earth. Scott Momaday, when speaking of his grandmother’s people in The Way to Rainy Mountain, said they measured their stature by the distance they could see. I imagine that the same thing can be said of the people of Savoonga, the Siberian Yup’ik people of St. Lawrence Island, who can see great distances across the island and across the water. If so, I hope that they still measure their stature in this way.
I have taken quite a bit of new learning from this module, not the least of which lies soundly in technology. For a number of years, I have tried to keep up with technology, but even keeping new technological tools on the horizon is a challenge. For instance, I’ve only recently been given an Iphone by my youngest son, who loves his own Iphone, as do his children, who are 19 and 17 years old. Now I text, but rather slowly, and I have a FaceBook page, but I don’t update it as often as I should.
Apart from all the technological possibilities I’m beginning to see with the help of this module, I’ve learned a good deal about some of the fundamental Western science precepts, notably some of the icons of science who are revered by teachers and children of today.
The Teachers Domain is an extremely helpful tool, and I look forward to using it in any way I can. I am sometimes asked to teach Alaska Studies for the MAT program at UAS, and I’m sure that being able to introduce students to that site and others will be useful and productive.
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