Brie, Claire and I borrowed Ria’s car and drove to Saxman Native Village.

Some googling will tell you that Saxman has authentic replicas of original totem poles, 25 in all, that help Ketchikan boast the totem capital of the world.

We were invited to an event at the Clan House. 

Up til this, I’ve only seen the Clan House from the outside. It’s framed by gloriously tall totem poles, reconstructed like the originals by Native Artists. The Totems have a very distinguished spot on the Island. They overlook the water, day and night, and the Clan House is facing West out onto Pennock Island.

Totem Row, featuring said totems, is a 2 mile walk from my house. On several afternoons I elect to walk  there with my headphones, thinking about a handsome fisherman, about Nana, about trying to stay fit, or about nothing at all, and looking over the refulgent mountain scape. I’m happy just to be in sight of the mountains. I assume they don’t notice me. But they really make my afternoons.

Joe Williams, Former Mayor of Ketchikan and Former Mayor of Native Saxman, invited us over to dinner (see the post about that) and then invited us to come to this event. 

I invite Brie, my dinner buddy at Joe’s, and my roommate Claire who is game for whatever and has a heart of gold- I knew she’d appreciate it.

We walked in and immediately I had a terrible feeling in my gut: it was Wednesday night church. 

You’d have to go back to 1996 in Tampa, Florida, in a small Presbyterian church to understand JUST WHAT I MEAN by Wednesday night church. 

Now, I’m very familiar with uppity white people in their Easter hats and fur vests with last names like Smith and Jones and Johnson and McDougall Church People. I’m very familiar with emergent church hippies in tats and kinos, ribbed jeans Church People. I know Black Gospel Church People. I know Innercity Rescue Mission Church People. I know Tennessee Church People. I know Egyptian Pastors whose mission is to save the Middle East Church People. I know New York Indie Church People. I know Irish Catholic Church People. I know Roman Catholic Church People. I know educated church people, uneducated church people, I know Church People Who Are Also Rappers. 

I do not know Native American Church People. This is not a type of Church People that I know. 

But here I am, at the Clan House in Native Saxman Village, being bombarded by a kaleidoscope of two separate cultures mixing in a way I’d never anticipate had I not come here.

90s Christian praise music, repetitive and insipid to me, framed by Giant Beaver totem poles with Beavers for Penises. 

New. 

I felt the weight of the fried-cinnamon-potato covered dish in my hands and wanted to fling it in the air and run from the reach of the polished Native lady in her flight attendant length skirt singing to Jesus. I was inherently participating in a church-like function, one that reminds me of my childhood in all the ways I don’t want to be reminded of my childhood. 

Then I saw Susie, I saw Joe (the married couple who hosted us for dinner). I hugged them. I sat. I watched the music happen, I saw the lady standing next to the three gentleman sitting, playing instruments behind music on music stands.

I thought of the transparency sheets that we would switch over at church, to show the next set of lyrics. This was pre-powerpoint. If you were the person to change the transparencies, you felt cool. I even told Brie and Claire: this feels like Wednesday night church.

I thought: Where. Am. I? 

Then Joe introduced me to a blonde lady in her 50s. I assumed she was a friend of Joe’s. She had a short, blonde ‘do and looked like Texas. If she’s a friend of mine, she is a friend of Joe’s. I asked if she was from Texas and she said: Oklahoma. Pretty close, I must say. But she told me she was a school teacher and also a nurse and that the Lord is who brought her here. STRIKE TWO SAXMAN VILLAGE. STRIKE TWO. 

I knew this was an event centered on the granddaughter of Samuel Saxman. I don’t know much about Saxman or Samuel Saxman but I thought I was looking out for a distinguished Native lady, coming in town for a visit. After I sat down from talking to Oklahoma Ann, I realized that OKLAHOMA ANN WAS ANN SAXMAN. 

I got back up. I asked her more about her trip to Alaska. She is effusive but comfortable, like this place strangely feels like home to her.

She told me she’s been dreaming of this trip for 30 years, that her grandfather was originally from Pennsylvania and sojourned to Alaska. Her family members have been adventurous spirits, she explains. How she ended up in teaching and nursing is really just a wonder since her grandfather told her that she really should consider those two professions. 

“My house could use renovating but I figure, this trip is more important and the house will be there when I get back!” 

Shortly after we went through the line, got our grub and sat in the pews facing the stage, the program started. The whole night was about inviting Ann Saxman. 

Joe invited a few different folks to speak. The current mayor of Saxman, a pastor, another pastor. I think a Salvation Army guy blessed the food before we ate. Each pastor who spoke held the mic in such a pastory way. It’s the only way I can describe it. Kinda cool guys with jeans on and belts, heads balding, a weary eye from his wife on the their kids probably running around the sanctuary. 

It was not always easy to hear what was going on because the setting was laid back. Kids were milling around, people got up to go outside or get more food. Most people sat and looked on. After a Pastor spoke, and then the distinguished leader of something I don’t remember, the Mayor of Saxman Village spoke. He explained the significance of Samuel Saxman and he welcomed Ann Saxman and told her what an honor it was that she was there. Honestly, I think he said a lot of things but didn’t say much. 

And throughout it, Joe is surveying the room, one hand propping his face, the other holding his elbow. Sometimes he flicks his pinky finger between his two rows of teeth when he’s thinking. His eyes are always on the service. Not in a harsh way, but holding it all together with his gaze somehow. 

Ann takes the microphone. She tells her story. She’s been wanting to come here, it has been a tremendous blessing and wonderful time. She called Joe to ask if she could go on the walking tour, and before you know it, he’s called her a few days later to invite her to stay with he and his wife. She is honored, she is touched, she shares all of this.

He explains that the Cape Fox dancers will be going back to get ready. 

Someone sets a chair on the stage. Joe brings Ann to the chair.

The dancers take a few minutes to eventually they begin. 

The stage is filled with brightly colored robes: vibrant red and purple boasting native patterns, wonderful masks and moccasins. The best guy is holding a halibut staff and has a crazy cool white robe with what looks like white bear skin, maybe? Wolf skin? I don’t know! 

And the natives do several dances. They give a short introduction before each piece. 

The dancers are all different ages. There is a young girl whose voice opens and trumpets out unapologetic notes, wales the rhythmic lines of the tribal song. I don’t know what any of them mean. There is a woman who is on stage right, beating a drum to create the beat. She looks the coolest, honestly. She holds the power of the rhythm in her arms. 

I watched Ann watch the event. I watched Joe watch the event, chiming in with plosive sounds from his  mouth at random times that I didn’t expect: “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo.” And the Mayor would announce “ANN SAXMAN” sandwiched between Tlingit words.

This wasn’t a polished performance. It was an invitation to music, it was a symbolic salute to the lives and tradition of the native culture. I watched the dancers, as casual as Wednesday night church used to be, go through the motions. 

I always noticed how they did not do any face-pulling (that’s an actory word for- they didn’t put on dramatic expressions for show). They were relaxed, focused on the task of singing, dancing, making music in these beautifully ornate costumes.

But the sad feeling that stuck in my craw was the lack of respect I felt in my own life.

I was up close to an ancient tradition of the native community, one that they were sharing with Ann Saxman and everyone witnessing it. I don’t feel like I have an equivalent in my own life. I’ve essentially left the church, it’s been the right decision for me up until now but it means that I’ve lost hold of a tradition, the deepest tradition in my life. Maybe we joined hands around Nana’s body and solemnly spoke scripture because that’s the tradition of my family and we had to acknowledge it and respect it. We had to acknowledge her death and respect it. And respect that things like death are beyond are measure of control.

I think of my own Nana’s hands, clasped in prayer daily, her many rosaries scattered throughout her belongings. One hanging on her bedside lamp, accessible to her. Nana hated to miss Mass. For the last few Christmases, I made sure to take her to Christmas Eve Mass while my family went to their Christmas Eve Service. I’ll cherish the memory of her sitting there, forever. Nana was an anxious person but I knew the church was her greatest solace, her deepest peace. The rhythm of the pews coming down and going up, the chanting responses to the Priest. One Christmas Eve, I looked over at her delicate hands at church and was moved to tears. I guess I just felt lucky to be sitting next to her, experiencing her tradition from a distance and loving her dedication.

While the church/religion is no longer my tradition, I see how the body of religion provides a structure for people to abide by and reside under. Death is one of the most apt moments to rely on these traditions, we are hurting and your love one is gone. There is so much mystery around it, and sadness, and fear. This is the exact occasion for religion to swoop in like a strong eagle and offer hope, answers, comfort.

I hope I can stumble into a tradition as respectful and rooted as the dance and music of the natives. It wasn’t polished or perfected, but it was natural and real.

Before the penultimate dance, the orator said “This is to honor the eagle, the ravens and birds that master the sky.” I watched the young boy shoot down an eagle and do a victory dance around him once the bird was killed, moccasins padding across the wooden floor.

For the last dance, the dancers slowly excited the stage one by one, the rhythm of the drumming tirelessly greeting our ears until the last dancer exited the stage.