It’s fun to note the plants that are returning to life after winter – of course there are tulips, daffodil and crocus, but there are also many plants that until last fall had been completely unknown to me. This spring I have identified skunk cabbage in its early form – tall, spiky, bright yellow flowers which will unfold into green leaves that will eventually grow to be two to three feet in length. And I see salmonberry bushes, with their small fuchsia flowers, and the tiny green leaves of the huckleberry, and I can identify Devil’s Club growing in the National Park, and of course, there are probably millions of ferns and hostas beginning to sprout in the forest. I’m told that there is nothing like the scent of Sitka roses when they first come into bloom (there are thousands of Sitka rose bushes in Sitka); however, they will not come into bloom until after I leave here at the end of May, so I will miss that aromatic adventure.
On Friday afternoon, there had been a small parade in Sitka. Four Native students from the alternative high school, under the tutelage of Tommy Joseph, an experienced Native woodcarver, created a beautiful totem pole in the workshop at Sitka National Park. The totem pole was moved from the park to the lawn of the high school on Friday afternoon, and when they went past my library, I ran out to take some photos. The totem pole had been laid onto a series of wooden boards which were lifted and carried by forty young people. Native drummers followed, and they chanted songs as the totem pole was carried down the street.
Chief Carver Tommy JosephYesterday I went to the totem pole raising ceremony at Pacific High School. PHS is an alternative high school – a small, box-like building that is just down the street, a little past the mid-point between the College and downtown. The ceremony began with an “investiture.” Special vests had been made for the carvers, and they were given to the young people who put them on - they were theirs to keep. Then the naming ceremony was held. The elders of the tribe were called forth, and one elder had money in his hand. He said that we would all take part in naming the totem pole, and we were to repeat his words as he held the money on the totem pole. We repeated the words three times: “I name you….” The next event was the tossing of coins into the hole in the ground. Tribal leaders and the student carvers were each given a coin. We were told that the coins (which had the likeness of Sacagawea on them) were representative of the theme of the construction of the totem pole – that being the healing of the next generation. They stated that “we can stop child abuse” and “we can stop sexual abuse.”
Next, Tommy Joseph organized the raising of the pole. There were two main lines which were to bring the pole forward – he said that all of the children and young people of Sitka were to man those lines. I saw kids of all ages – from tiny little girls in dresses to groups of teen-aged boys –some kids were Native, and many were white. It was the responsibility of the adults present to man the side lines – ropes that extended from each side of the pole. And Tommy got several men with shovels at the ready so that the hole could be filled in as soon as the pole was in place. I noticed that one of the men was Randy, the minister at the Presbyterian Church. A large structure made of long tree limbs had been erected in front of the hole to designate the pole’s stopping point, and at Tommy’s word, all of the young people began to pull the totem pole forward. As the pole was raised, the drummers and singers chanted their songs. It was really something to see. As the pole was being raised, I happened to look up, and there, high in the sky, were three ravens and an eagle slowly circling above us, moving with an intentionality that showed they were a distinct part of the event.
The top of the pole has two figures: one raven and one eagle, each representing the moieties in Tlingit society. Like other totem poles, this pole tells a story, and this story, written by the students, tells the story of a boy who had experienced child abuse at the hands of his father, and how he and his father were healed. The pole isn’t intended to tell the entire story, but rather to remind the storyteller of the characters and events that took place in the story. 
It’s interesting to note that, in Tlingit culture, the term “low man on the totem pole” has a completely different connotation. In their culture, the lowest figure on the totem pole is the base of the pole which supports all of the other figures shown on it, so it is considered to be the most important. Many years ago, when a totem pole was being built to tell the story of Baranof, [the Russian who invaded Sitka in 1804], the whites insisted that Baronof be placed at the top of the pole. As the story goes, the Natives said “oh you want him at the top? No problem.” As it turns out, that pole [which stands downtown across from the Pioneer Home] is what is known as a “ridicule” pole, and the person at the top of a ridicule pole is always the object of ridicule.
After the pole-raising, I went to Little Tokyo (a sushi bar) and ordered a bento box. Japanese cuisine has become some of my favorite food since moving to Sitka, and I must say that I’m getting almost good at using chopsticks! At Little Tokyo I ran into Hank, who moved to Sitka from the south. He is a great guitar player - blues and jazz - and he’s giving me guitar lessons. He asks if we can move this afternoon’s lesson up, and we agree that I’ll stop by after I’ve had lunch. During the lesson he tells me that he’s already thinking about where we’ll play a gig together. I’m a little taken aback by this and so don’t say anything at first. As the lesson continues I try to sound casual when I ask him where he thinks we’ll play, and he says he’ll have me come over to his regular Friday night gig at the hotel lounge and bar and have me play a couple of songs with him.
I’m taking a writing workshop, and I have some homework to complete, and so after my guitar lesson I decide to go and sit at the Back Door Coffee House to do my writing. (In addition, I want to stay up late to go and see some friends whose band, “The Glorious Youth Parade,” is playing late tonight at the Pioneer Bar, so I decide to have a double-mocha – something I wouldn’t otherwise dare to drink this late in the afternoon.) My writing workshop is with Patricia Kleindeinst, the latest writer-in residence with the Island Institute, based in Sitka. Patricia is working on a book about immigrants and their gardens (The Earth Knows my Name), which is scheduled to be published a year from now. (In addition, she has done her doctoral dissertation on Virginia Woolf, one of my favorite writers, and I've enjoyed hearing what she has to say about that.)
At the Back Door, I run into Mary - an English professor at SJ - someone who is very well-loved and respected by her students. She is very bright and passionate about literature and we have great conversations about reading, writing, and life. We launch into a discussion which leads us to the topic of Virginia Woolf. Mary tells me that she was originally going to do her dissertation on Virginia Woolf, but that she became a medievalist instead. I tell her about Patricia’s work, and when I ask her about the link between Woolf and the medieval world, she tells me how, other than her atheism, Virginia Woolf had a “completely medievalist mind.” We talk extensively about Virginia Woolf and then about Chaucer – or rather Mary talks, and I listen. She explains the dissertation work she did on Canterbury Tales, and presents some of her arguments, which I find to be very interesting.
Next I take Carrie’s truck to the airport to pick her up – she is returning home after a 10-day vacation in Arizona. When we get home, Connie asks Carrie and me if we have dinner plans – “no” – and she asks if she can cook us dinner – “yes!” I’m ordinarily in bed by 10 and not used to going out at 9 pm, but I’m determined to make it to the P Bar tonight.
It’s 8 pm by the time we finish dinner, and I convince Carrie to forget her long day’s journey home, and she agrees to go out with me to the P Bar. The P Bar is a Sitka institution. It’s down on Katlian Street – the street which originally contained a lot of the original Native housing. The P Bar is just down the street from the Sheetka Kwan Na Kahidi Community House (“the house for ALL of the people of Sitka” – the site of the Monthly Grinds, among other events.)
There are old wooden houses that line one side of the street, and on the other side are fishermen’s warehouses and fish processing plants next to the docks. I’m told that when fishermen come in after a good catch, as much as $100,000 flows through the P Bar in one night, and that it’s really wild. The walls of the bar are entirely filled with photographs of boats – the boats of the owners who have frequented the bar over the years. One photo is particularly arresting – it’s a shot of a nude man on a boat, and he is reeling in a huge fish.
The bar is smoke-filled and noisy, but I need to experience it so that I can say I’ve done it all in Sitka. Tonight is a good night to be at the P Bar, because I love the band that is playing. Band members include Ken Fate, the manager of KCAW public radio station which is mostly manned and programmed by volunteers. (One night at the Counter Inaugural Ball Ken told me, “when you go home, take over the radio station – public radio belongs to the people!”) And Gary Gouker, the owner of a machine tooling service, is on his harmonica. And I see the writer, John Straley, in the crowd. I assume that he’s soaking up more local color for his next Sitka-based mystery novel.
Carrie and I find a booth and after a while, a couple of young guys come over and ask “do you girls mind if we join you?” I turn to Carrie and mouth the word “girls” and she laughs and pats my hand. Both of the guys are named Brian, (one is here from Washington to work on the Allen Marine boats – the other is from Haines, Alaska), and they are hugely funny and entertaining. One Brian takes out his cigs and asks if I mind if he smokes, and I wave him off, smiling and saying “no, of course not!”
At one point, somebody rings the large brass bell that hangs over one end of the bar and the whole bar roars out a cheer, because that means that somebody is buying a drink for every person in the bar. By this time I’m preparing to leave; however, I wait to collect my “rain check” – a round, black token, the size of a poker chip. I’m told I can cash it in at any time; however, I plan to keep it as a souvenir, and I put it in my pocket when I leave the bar for home.
As I walk through the town, I see that there is someone attending the door at St. Michael’s Orthodox Cathedral, and I see Leonard, one of the Volunteers in Mission at the College, cross the street and enter. I remember that it is Russian Orthodox Easter, and I stop and debate. I would love to visit the church, but it seems a little incongruous with my experience at the P Bar, and I don’t wish to minimize the worship service, simply putting it on par with another tourist experience. But my desire to see something of a Russian Orthodox Easter overrides these concerns. I decide that I can visit the church with the appropriate attitude, and so I go in.
I have visited St. Michael’s before – very briefly for Saturday evening vespers – and usually there have been only a handful of people present. But tonight, I calculate there must be about 50 people at the service. With the exception of a very small number, everyone there appears to be of Native descent, and most are dressed in their finest clothing. There are no chairs or pews in a Russian Orthodox church, and everyone stands in silent, patient attention, including very tiny little boys dressed in suits and ties. The church is beautiful – filled with candles and icons and lovely chanting (the entire service is sung – the singing is led by the priest and a small group of men and women off to the side, at the front). And there is a lot of opening and closing of doors (which are actually wall panels decorated with iconic pictures), and going in and out on the part of the priest and his assistants. Their movements are clearly choreographed to the lessons and Gospels that are being sung.
I stand in back by the entrance. A man approaches me and hands me a $10 bill. He has a Russian accent, and I recognize him to be a driver of one of the local taxi services. He whispers that he cannot stay – he has to work – and will I take care of the money? I nod yes, because I don’t want to get into a long discussion about how I’m not staying either. Besides, I know where the collection basket is kept, so I sidle through a row of men on the other side of the aisle (still at the back of the church, and in a dark corner), and I put the money in the basket on top of a wooden cabinet. At this point I’m standing right next to Leonard, and I tell him what I’m doing there. Next, a woman comes up and says that a tissue is very badly needed. I tell her that there may be some inside the wooden cabinet (I had observed this on my previous visit too). I rummage around in the cabinet. There are no Kleenex, but I find a role of Bounty, and tear her off a piece. I whisper to Leonard that I don’t know why I’ve been designated as the helper tonight, and he says, for one thing, I’m standing in the place where the person who collects the money usually stands, and, he says, did I notice that only men are standing on this side?
I quietly move back to my original place at the other side of aisle and watch the beautiful service. After about a half hour or more, it is apparent that they are getting ready for a processional outside the church. Leonard and I follow the crowd as it makes its way, chanting and singing, with crosses and banners at the front of the procession, and as we go outside, the beautiful bells and chimes in the church tower are pealing loudly through the streets of the town.
St. Michael’s sits on a little island in the center of town, and traffic usually makes its way around the church to get anywhere downtown. But now the Sitka Police are blocking traffic from the intersections around the church, and a few people are idling their cars, waiting for the procession to pass. After we have processed all the way around the church, the crowd stands outside the front doors, waiting for their ceremonial entrance back into the church. It is now a few minutes past midnight, according to the clock in the church tower, and it is Sunday morning – Russian Orthodox Easter. Leonard and I are standing on the curb across the street from the church. He is a specialist in Russian language and culture, and he says that the service will last about two hours, and then they will have a feast, and then they will go home for a little while to rest, and then come back early in the morning for matins. At this point, the traffic begins to enter the street, and I see the familiar yellow and black taxi, and the driver who had handed me the $10 bill passes by.
Although Leonard says he is going to go back into the church, I decide that I need to head for home. I make my way through the town. Not a soul is on the sidewalk; virtually no traffic passes by. As I make my way past the college and along the lonely street that leads past the ocean to my house, the only sound I hear is the surf rolling in from the Pacific. I make my way into the unlocked house and up to my bed, exhausted. What a wonderful day this has been, but for all of its unique offerings, this was, after all, just another day in Sitka.
May 1, 2005
