My mom is my hero; she always has been. Her work for our Alaska Native communities through the lens of public health has directly impacted local, state, and federal policies. Her publications have been cited hundreds of times across her tenure with the state of Alaska and Southcentral Foundation. She has worked tirelessly to secure grant funding for crucial research encompassing some of Alaska’s most vulnerable populations.
Originally born in California, she worked her way from the streets of Stockton to the classrooms of Stanford, where she met my dad. Upon her graduation, my parents headed up to Alaska and had me. I couldn’t have been born to a better family. Before my birth, my mom dedicated herself to my health, changing her diet and forcing herself away from known health risks. Upon my birth, she provided for me in the best ways possible. She carefully looked over my diet, my sleeping habits, and my environment. As a child she was the first to help me practice my hand-eye coordination. The one who stressed the importance of reading every day. In my faintest memories I can still remember her bringing me to the library every week, the two of us choosing a new book for me to read. As I entered elementary school, I remember her playing Lego Star Wars with me before working on our homework together – me with my basic arithmetic and her with her master’s homework. She often served as a role model for me in this way, subtly promoting a positive view of academia that has served me well throughout school. Her ability to work full time, pursue a master’s (and later, a doctoral) degree, and raise my sister and I while maintaining a loving and fruitful marriage has amazed me and inspired me. I can't choose an area of my life where she hasn't guided me. When I heard she had the opportunity to come to D.C. and see me, I felt proud to show her where I worked. I wanted to have lunch with her in the Dirksen cafeteria. To have her meet some of my coworkers – the same people I rave about weekly to my family during our weekly FaceTime calls. But what I was most proud of was the chance to show her the Capitol for the first time. To see in her eyes the same wonder I feel every moment working here in D.C. When she finally did come, I showed her all I could of the Capitol. We were on a tight schedule, but I made sure she saw as much as possible: the Crypt, the Hall of Statues, the Rotunda, and plenty more. It wasn't lost on me how special the moment was. For the first time, I could show my mom my work. A place I was proud to go every day and proud to leave every evening. A place where I felt like my work mattered. A place where I felt accepted. Where my interests were other people's interests, not just an interesting talking point. A place where I could show my mom what her support and love has led to. Where I could treat her just as she has treated me all these years. Where I could show her off as my Alaskan of the week.
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On the bank of the Nushagak River, New Stuyahok mirrors many Alaskan communities. It’s only accessible by air and boat. Unlike my home, Anchorage, “New Stu” is surrounded by pure wilderness. A Google search shows the community surrounded by miles of river, tundra, and small coniferous trees as far as the eye can see. Houses dot the landscape, held together by unpaved roads and well-worn paths. Two hundred eighty-one miles from Anchorage and 3,630 miles from Washington, D.C., it’s fair to say that day to day life in New Stuyahok looks substantially different than the life of any Washingtonian. That’s probably why I was all the more impressed when on Wednesday afternoon, I was able to sit in on a group of students meeting with Senator Sullivan, all of whom traveled to D.C. from New Stuyahok.
The students, who all seemed to be around high school age, were shy at first. But encouraged by their vice principal and the Senator, each began to come out of their shell, particularly when the topic of home was brought up. Tentatively, the students talked about their pastimes, their enjoyment of subsistence hunting and fishing—bringing out the Senator’s own love for his time at his family’s fish camp in the Interior. From here the conversation moved to the Senator’s job, and the importance of his time in Washington even as his heart resides at home in Alaska. Even as Senator Sullivan talked, my attention lingered on the students. I loved watching their sideways glances. Their hidden laughter. Their not-so-hidden shyness. I loved all of this because it all was authentic. There was no hidden agenda. No “ask” on their lips. Just a genuine curiosity at the room around them, and the Senator in front of them. And with it, a tentativeness upon approaching everything he represented – the power, the position, the connections, the responsibilities. The students were like flowers exposed to a sun they were unfamiliar with. They were receptive to his warmth, but they were also unsure what opening up should look like. As the conversation went on and they seemed to grow more confident in the presence of the Senator, the students seemed unsure how to express their newly found confidence. Unsure to what extent they could appropriately be themselves in front of someone so powerful, their sudden proximity to power silenced the students. It was a feeling I was familiar with, a feeling I suppose common to all people exposed to such a foreign environment. A place so distant from everything familiar— so far from home. After all, home is familiar. Picturing things from the students’ perspective, I can only imagine how far home seemed. Home did not reside in the concrete and pavement, nor in the marble and sandstone of the lifeless buildings now surrounding them. Home resided with each other, with family, with their community, their elders. Home could be felt in the sidelong glance and in the quiet smirk, with the tilt of the head and the phrase left unsaid. And though their shared mannerisms followed them everywhere, they were still left with the insecurity of the new situation in front of them. The process of opening up—of finding a place that I can feel comfortable doing so, a place familiar to me—is one I’m still looking for. Their insecurity is like mine. I’m not on my first trip outside of Alaska, but this is my first job in the Senate. While I may be more familiar with the marble, sandstone, and relative abrasiveness of life in Washington, working in the Senate is a whole different world. For most of the students though, this was the first time they had been away from home.[HS(1] Washington held no tangible piece of home outside of the artifacts hanging behind glass at the National Museum of the American Indian. Opening up in the midst of the culture shock, I should have realized, probably presented a challenge. Personally, I’ve always found the best way to break through one’s insecurities is to head straight for them. To own them, accept them, and when needed, push through them. In their meeting with the Senator, the students stepped up. Starting the meeting in silence, they ended it in laughter and pull ups on the Senator’s pull-up bar, typically used by the Senator to keep in shape for his service in the U.S. Marines. Despite any potential fear they felt or anxiety they held, the students were themselves by the end of the meeting. They joked, they asked questions, and they were curious. I couldn’t imagine a difference in how they finished the meeting and how they would leave from school at the end of the day. I left the meeting chuckling, but I also left the meeting all the more determined to continue opening up - maybe not to the level of doing pull-ups in the Senator’s office, but in my own way. Learning from the experienced staff around me, and charging forward in finishing the tasks assigned to me. Making the most out of each opportunity placed before me, and opening up to the sun and working to grow. If my month working in Sen. Sullivan’s office has taught me anything, it’s that you never know what to expect on any given day of the week. One minute you’re sitting up at the front talking to a constituent about the drab D.C. winter weather, the next you’re running down the hall as fast as you can while wearing a suit in order to get something to the cloakroom before it closes. I’ve loved it.
That being said, some surprises hit you more directly than others. For me, this happened Thursday afternoon, right as I was coming back from an optional intern training at the Library of Congress’ Madison Building. I was opening the main door to the office when I noticed we were hosting a group of constituents. This wasn’t all that surprising, as it is our frequent pleasure to host constituents at the front until the staffer they wish to speak with is ready to receive them. However, with this group, I thought I recognized one of the individuals in the delegation. Shaking my head for a moment and sifting through the rolodex of individuals I’ve worked with in the past, I’m sure I gave the entire group a bit of a quizzical look as I decided to hedge my guess and ask the gentleman before me if he was who I thought he might be—my old Indian Education Counselor, Mr. Michael Jerue. Tentatively, I asked the gentleman before me if he might have worked at Begich Middle School around 2013-2014, around the time of my eighth-grade year. Lighting up with a great smile and a bellowing laugh, Mr. Jerue said jokingly that he had and still works at Begich. I identified myself to him as a former student of his, sharing with him an old memory I have of him teaching my classmates and I about his time fishing with his family out near their smokehouse in St. Mary, Alaska. Then, beaming back at him, I proudly told him how much of an impact he made on me; how grateful I was for his influence at an uncertain time in my life; how I hoped he knew how important students and former students saw his work; and what I hoped he might be able to say to the next cohort of younger Native students growing up on the poorer side of Anchorage that it is possible for them, too, to work with someone like Senator Sullivan. They can make it to Washington, D.C. and work for one of the most respected politicians in Alaska. They can be something more than they might ever have believed. Being a kid from Alaska doesn’t have to mean they are solely a kid from Alaska. Seeing Mr. Jerue, for me, allowed me to glimpse back into my past; back to when I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life; when my greatest care was scoring the last basket on my miniature hoop hanging over my bedroom door before the song playing on my iHome ended; when getting McDonalds was a special event and my only access to the internet was on my family’s shared laptop; where high school loomed and college beckoned, neither coming with much of a guide for an eager student with a curious mind. Though I did not work much with Mr. Jerue during my final year at Begich, seeing him reminded me of a very different time in my life. The memory makes me all the more grateful and proud to inhabit my current position. As I move forward, I’m resolved to do all I can to set a good example for those behind me back home—for the future generations coming forward. Just as I want my sister to know, I also want them to know: you can do anything. You can be anyone. You’re not just a kid from Alaska. You’re amazing. Mr. Jerue, thank you for helping me learn that. Over the course of the past week, with impeachment building to its inevitable head and the State of the Union ever on the horizon, I found myself not in the office, but rather at the Alaska Federation of Natives’ Winter Conference. Sitting in the outermost row of seats, I was tasked with taking down notes on the conference’s events. All around me, I felt confidence. Solidity. Solemnity. The air of those around me filled with an intrinsic knowledge of belonging at the center tables; in the room where it happens, and where the sausage gets made.
My goal in all of this, aside from taking the best notes possible, was keeping my head down. I felt like a mosquito in a four man tent: grateful to be inside, unsure of my place, and hoping to not get swatted away. For in front of me, I saw Alaska’s elite. Individuals whose influence, oversight, and power control the levers to my state’s continued well-being. Around the central table, with their names and titles in front of them, sat April Ferguson of the Bristol Bay Native Corporation, Ben Stevens, the Chief of Staff for Governor Dunleavy, Lt. Gen. Thomas Bussiere, Commander of the Alaska Region of the North American Aerospace Defense Command, and before the impeachment hearings gaveled in, our esteemed congressional delegation, just to name a few. Needless to say, I was taking notes furiously. I was also marking down questions. Naturally curious, and knowing my place among those around me, I waited for natural breaks in the conference to write down questions I had— all subject to future research privately later. For the NASA and SpaceX presentations, I had questions about latency periods and telecommunications advances. Following the Conoco and Exxon presentations, I had questions about zoning laws and land use agreements. And after Ben Stevens’ presentation, I wanted to know more about the state’s education funding. In truth, I felt I learned more in a few days than I had over years of my previous schooling. Learning directly from those deciding the policies affecting hundreds of thousands back home and across the nation, I had a ring-side view to the center of Alaskan decision-making. I couldn’t be more thrilled. If anything, the past week showed me a blueprint to action through organization. Thanks to Ben Mallott, Nicole Borromeo, Will Mayo, Julie Kitka, and others, who I’m sure helped in coordinating the conference, Alaskans of all types were able to voice their concerns, affairs, and priorities in the hopes of bettering the state together. Moving forward, I’m grateful to Sen. Sullivan’s office and the Alaska Federation of Natives for giving me the opportunity to listen and learn of the intangibles I could never learn in school, from those whose teachings cannot be written or codified in any textbook. |
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Photo used under Creative Commons from Mike Juvrud