I can still see them, and hear the timeless rhythm of their singing and drumming. The men's voices rising and falling as they hit upon flat, wide, handheld drums. Bom, bom, bom ... Bom, bom, bom Š Bom, bom, bom ...
Now, as ever, dance remains at the heart of the Yup'ik culture.
No roads lead to Emmonak. In the winter, people travel by snowmobile. In the summer, they use the rivers to travel to one another's villages. When I stepped off the plane late last month, I wasn't sure what to expect.
I was on assignment for an international magazine to write about violence against Native women. Even then, it was possible to find light in the dark. My guide was Lynn Hootch, a Yup'ik sister born and raised in the Yukon Delta region, which lies parallel to the Bering Sea.
After a long day of interviews, she invited me to join her at the community hall for a night of singing and dancing.
The Emmonak villagers call themselves Kuigpagmuit or “people from the Yukon River.” This winter, the people are meeting at the community hall four nights each week in preparation for an annual potlach celebration, which takes place in February.
The potlach provides a platform for the Kuigpagmuit to dance for and share with neighboring villages. The people will give away material goods, fish and other harvested foods to visiting guests. In the Wade Hampton region of Alaska, Natives make up about
94 percent of the 8,000 residents. In this land, the people rely on harvests of wild food - including salmon, whale, seals, caribou and berries - amounting to nearly 700 pounds per person.
Hunting, trapping, fishing and gathering accounts for about 44 percent of villagers' economic income. The potlachs allow them to share harvested food. The generosity is a quality I've seen among indigenous people all across North America.
But it's a practice that has long confounded outsiders.
“In accordance with their Eskimo philosophy, no one ever hordes anything,” said the Rev. Ferdinand Drevis in 1918. “If one has more than the other, he is supposed to share. So they do not see why we should have a supply of water and wood on hand to last for months when they have none. We have to convince them that with our mode of living, we need more water and wood than they do.
“The people have already given up their masked dances, however they continue to hold their potlachs Š although we discourage the extravagances of giving. In their estimation, I am considered rich. But I'm not willing to part with any of my belongings just for the glory of giving.”
Christian forces in the area eventually blotted out many village potlach festivals and other dances in the Yukon Delta. But the dances in Emmonak have remained. As I sat in the community hall and watched, Lynn could see I liked the sound of the drums.
She invited me to dance with her and the other women. Lynn tried to encourage me. “You can say you danced with the Eskimos,” she said.
I asked her if they really called themselves Eskimos. Yes, she said.
I guess it's kind of like us Lower 48 tribes collectively calling ourselves Indians. Even though it's a general term that doesn't describe our diversity - ranging from the Navajo and Lakota to the Ojibwe and Seminole - it works.
Although I wanted to, I didn't dance with the Eskimos.
I was too shy. It's not like dancing in a powwow arena where dancers make up their own moves. When the Eskimo women dance, each takes her place and they move in unison, as if walking in each other's footsteps, or as if shooting the same bear or rowing in same canoe up the Yukon River.
Instead, it felt good just to watch the Eskimos dance.
Reach columnist Jodi Rave at 800-366-7186 or jodi.rave@lee.net
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julia wrote on Oct 16, 2008 7:42 PM:
julia kelly "