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After the Snowbird, Comes the Whale: Introduction and index.

The 2018 Fortnightly Serial.

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Introduction and index.

THIS IS AN open-ended text that I continue to write; as of January 2018, I am about half way through. I first went to Alaska in summer 1973 when I visited Tikigaq on the northwest coast of the state and recorded a series of short stories for an education programme run by the Alaska State Museum. When these had been translated from the original Inupiaq, I returned to the village in spring 1975, and spent four months in Fairbanks, where I studied Inupiaq and met Asatchaq, born 1891, who was convalescing in a care home. In December 1975, I returned to Tikigaq with Asatchaq and for the next five years, until his death in 1980, worked on narratives and ethno-historical lore that he and his contemporaries recorded.

Some of these materials have been published in these books:

The Things that were Said of Them, University of California Press, 1990

Ancient Land:Sacred Whale, Bloomsbury 1993, Farrar Strauss and Giroux, and Harvill Press (paperback, 2000)

Ultimate Americans, University of Alaska Press, 2008.

NOTE: In The Fortnightly’s online template, illustrations are thumbnails with captions or onward text links embedded. To enlarge an illustration, click on it. To read a caption, hover over the illustration. To play an embedded video in a larger size, click twice.

The first two of these volumes are about pre-contact Tikigaq. The third is a history of Inupiaq relations with Euro-Americans at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

The present text is, I hope, largely focused on place and people. At first, before I started work in the village, I imagined that I would be entering a world of the prehistoric. But when I realized that Native Alaskans had known Euro-Americans since the 1880s, I came to accept and to study culture change. Much of the present text is about the double nature of Inupiaq life and its relationship with modernising America. Some of this is implicitly expressed in the day to day narrative. But perhaps the most explicit analysis of double mindedness is expressed by Mrs Charlotte, the hundred-year-old missionary widow whose conversation I have reconstructed in the passage preceding an account (in process) of the Trans-Alaska oil pipeline construction.

In contrast, nonetheless, to descriptions of cultural transition, Asatchaq initiated, during the first year of our work, a recitation of a long series of traditional stories and an account of this process will form the centre of present writing.

—Tom Lowenstein, January 2018.

Editorial note: This serial originally comprised four main parts. The present (January 2018) version has sixteen instalments to enable serialisation. The publication schedule is shown below. A print version will follow.

Index.

Part One.

One.
Night visitors and telling stories.

Publication: 15 January 2018.

HE KNOWS I know his name is Tulugaq, but still I call this mighty individual Sharva, who visits me these late spring evenings. A specialist in kungfu manoeuvres reproduced from Bruce Lee movies, small hours, visio­nary conversation, Sharva’s passage through the village keeps the girls awake and some in terror as he guns his machine to the edge of my storm-shed and opens the throttle in a final bellow. Then in the after-blast, he strides through the snow, my outer door groans and his glove smacks the lintel. ⇒ To the text.

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Two

Secular and Sacred: The Phenomenon of Removal.

Publication: 1 February 2018.

IT HAPPENED HERE,’ said Asatchaq after his first recording. It was January 1976 and he had just recited Tikigaq’s creation story. ‘I’ll show you in the spring,’ he said, ‘the wound hole where Tulunigraq harpooned the animal.’

The wound, he told me,was a hollow on the north side near his present cabin where the Raven Man harpooned the sea beast whose body then transformed to Tikigaq.

I took Asatchaq that summer to the spot he had identified. This was the first of two excursions that we made together. It was bumpy for his wheel chair and we didn’t get far across the tundra. ‘Stop here,’ he shouted at the place intended…

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Three

The Golden Period.

Publication: 15 February 2018.

AN ERA OF relative social harmony from about 1910 lasted until the mid-1960s. But between 1900 and 1906, the worst but happily the final epidemics hit the village. In June 1901 Dr Driggs reported:

‘The past season has been a very busy one, there being an unusual amount of sickness. A little over one-sixth of the population have died. Heavy as the death rate has been, it does not begin to compare with other places where whole villages were nearly depopulated.’

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Four

Aftermath.

Publication: 1 March 2018.

DAISY’S DEATH HAS so shocked the village that both churches are holding extra meetings every evening. I have attended two of these. First with the Episcopalians and then at the Assemblies, listening to prayers, hymns and confessions from grief-racked women taking on the burden of the crisis. They unpack sins they think have led to alcohol and drug use, rape and fighting. They throw down knives and ulus that they use for cooking as though to purge themselves of things they think they’ve done and to punish themselves for secret wrong doing.

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Five

Jabbertown.

Publication: 15 March 2018.

THE SOUTH BEACH evokes thoughts of journeys in two opposite directions. It’s a barren shoreline. There are nothing but stones and sea or sea ice, with Cape Thompson thirty miles away on the horizon.

To travel this strip is to retrace Ukunniq’s path that led him to the shaman woman he would fight and marry. The journey also led the young initiate through visionary meetings with birds, animals and amuletic objects that he wrested from the spirits that confronted him.

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Six

Snowbird and Crane.

Publication: 1 April 2018.

THE SNOWBIRD FABLE and the krauncha story are parallel in theme, virtually the same in structure and identical in presentation of a love-death drama. Erotic pairing in both narratives is violated by a hunter and the happiness of partnership is followed by the dirge of the survivor. At the core of each story lies a love-death sorrow, so quick in conversion of one into the other they are almost coexistent…

barbed rule
Part Two.

One.

Night visitors and telling stories.

Publication: 15 April 2018.

September 5 1975

I SWING THROUGH the doors of the Care Home with the casual self-assurance of a thirty-five year-old with no anxiety about his legs and who doesn’t expect to lose his balance. An octogenarian whose legs and hips, by contrast, have been worn out on the sea- or river-ice and by transporting heavy animals, observes the mobile arrogance of a younger man with blazing and reflective recollection and sees deep, through cataracts and semi-blindness, as if by x-ray, into working joints and ligaments.

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Two.

Niguvana

Publication: 1 May 2018.

OUR MEETINGS CONTINUE through the autumn. In my happiness at having found him, I forget the things that people in the village told me. They’ve warned me that he’s different. When I press for examples, what comes through is ‘Funny about money,’ and ‘Girl friends, maybe…’

I’ve suddenly acquired an Alaska State grant and this makes money less a problem. Last year, the museum where I worked paid $6 per hour for storytelling sessions. That month in the village was harmonious. The old people were charming, the youngsters funny. Everyone was friendly. Then I worked last winter in the school eliciting some children’s pictures. Sent them south to Juneau to be published in a booklet…

barbed rule

Part Three.

One:

The Mind’s Division between Memory

and the Demands of the Present

Publication 15 May 2018.

I SPEND MOST mornings in the campus library where instead of studying ethnographies that might provide a context to my field work, I evade the challenge, browse Virgil’s Aeneid which I’d last read in the 1950s and ponder a line I’d written out from Monsieur Teste a teacher had dictated to us. ‘Que peut un homme?’ the teacher read out, qua spelling exercise — while the question, whether or not I got the words right, continued to haunt me.

It was autumn in Fairbanks. In three or four months, I‘d be back in Tikigaq and assumed with optimistic vagueness that the pressure of necessity would give my work some shape once started…


Tom Lowenstein was born near London in 1941 and educated at Cambridge. He has worked since the mid-1960s as a teacher. Between 1973 and 1989 he recorded materials deriving from intermittent residence in an Inupiaq (north Alaskan Eskimo) village and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1979. His previous publications include three books of poetry: Filibustering in Samsara (The Many Press), Ancestors and Species: New and Selected Ethnographic Poetry (Shearsman Books), and Conversation with Murasaki (Shearsman Books). His three studies of Point Hope are The Things that Were Said of Them (University of California Press 1990), Ancient Land: Sacred Whale (Bloomsbury, Farrar Strauss and Harvill, 1993-2001) and Ultimate Americans: Point Hope, Alaska 1826-1909 (University of Alaska Press, 2009).

An archive of his previous work appearing in the Fortnightly is here.

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