HCN has covered the lands, wildlife and communities of the Western U. His teacher looked at me. I was surprised Henning had said the word to his teacher. Crawford and I took a minute then and went through the pronunciation of the new-to-him word. Kakik for snot. Aarigaa when something brings a feeling of peace and joy in our chest and belly. Migiaq for throw-up. Kilamik if someone needs to hurry.
But now, living in Anchorage, daily use of our simple phrases has become a small way for us to root ourselves in identity in a new place. Where many languages are spoken.
Where we are the minority. Living in Anchorage, daily use of our simple phrases has become a small way for us to root ourselves in identity in a new place. Perhaps like the trees in Unalakleet, my home community, near the house we built there. Maybe a few branches break off and spruce cones scatter across the crusted snow, but the trees themselves stand strong. The last seven months, since we moved to Anchorage, have felt somewhat like a strong wind. I feel my roots deepening. When our souls just need a taste of home.
Feeling a little bit nervous in my stomach. And then taking a deep breath and feeling the strength of life flow through my backbone as I look at them with a smile behind my eyes, and maybe see them smile back. And I work to relax the muscles in my belly to breathe deep. Breathe from the ground beneath my feet and into my lungs.
I feel my strong legs and take my Native body and my plastic credit card out of that shop to purchase a wedding gift elsewhere.
